"Cato," he said, "attempt to run now, and, by God! I'll save the dogs the trouble of grappling your living carcass! Come here! Up that tree with you!" pointing to a swamp magnolia.

"Don't move as long as I can stand here, and when I'm down--but not till then--save yourself--the best you can." He half helped, half dragged, the now passive African to the solitary tree; as the bay of a single hound came nearer, the negro convulsively scrambled from Courtland's knee and shoulder to the fork of branches a dozen feet from the ground.

Courtland drew his revolver, and, stepping back a few yards into the open, awaited the attack.
It came unexpectedly from behind.

A sudden yelp of panting cruelty and frenzied anticipation at Courtland's back caused him to change front quickly, and the dripping fangs and snaky boa-like neck of a gray weird shadow passed him.

With an awful supernaturalness of instinct, it kept on in an unerring line to the fateful tree.