He would have staked his very soul--wagered his hopes of paradise against a _babiche_ thread--that what he saw could never have happened between Baree and man.

In utter amazement he lowered his gun.

David, looking down, was smiling into that one, wide-open, bloodshot eye of Baree's, his hand reaching out.

Foot by foot Baree slunk to him on his belly, and when at last he was at David's feet he faced Thoreau again, his terrible teeth snarling, a low, rumbling growl in his throat.

David reached down and touched him, even as he heard the fox breeder make an incoherent sound in his beard.