Baree's teeth had sunk deep, and there was a troubled look in the factor's face.

It was July--a bad month for bites.

From his kit he got a small flask of whisky and turned a bit of the raw liquor on the wound, cursing Baree as it burned into his flesh.
Baree's half-shut eyes were fixed on him steadily.

He knew that at last he had met the deadliest of all his enemies.

And yet he was not afraid.
The club in Bush McTaggart's hand had not killed his spirit.