But that dread directness of scent was Courtland's opportunity.

His revolver flashed out in an aim as unerring.

The brute, pierced through neck and brain, dashed on against the tree in his impetus, and then rolled over against it in a quivering bulk.

Again another bay coming from the same direction told Courtland that his pursuers had outflanked him, and the whole pack were crossing the swamp.

But he was prepared; again the same weird shadow, as spectral and monstrous as a dream, dashed out into the brief light of the open, but this time it was stopped, and rolled over convulsively before it had crossed.