“Yes, it’s true,” she said. “He’s the most loving, faithful dog I ever knew. That lobo howl he gives when he goes off alone and reverts to the wolf—it’s the most savage sound in the world; it fairly drips with death. Those two strains you speak of—instead of flowing in a dull blend, each has been strengthened, sharpened by the clash until each extreme has built up a powerful individuality of its own.”
“There!” said Moran. “You’ve analyzed it. Those words are a complete summing up of the soul of Flash—at least so far as mortal mind is capable of understanding the soul of a dog.”
Moran handed his glasses to the girl.
“I won’t be gone long,” he said. “I’m going after something I want you to see.” I’ve had my eye on it for several days.” Flash followed him down the game trail into the canyon. Moran stooped occasionally and picked up something which he dropped into his hat. He had long since killed an elk for meat and brought the slender store of canned goods from his cache; but she had craved something fresh—and he was gathering the first of the delicious wild strawberries of the season. Flash scoured the adjacent slopes in search of small game.
