General Jackson moved forward over the porch.
He growled in response to the menace of the throng
on the sod, and jumped down to their level. A sudden,
dangerous murmur rose:

"The two hundred dollar dog! The joke on
Greenstream!"

He walked alertly forward, his ears pricked up
on his long skull.

"C'mon here, General," Gordon called, suddenly
urgent; "c'mon back here."

The dog hesitated, turned toward his master,
when a heavy stick, whirling out of the press of
men, struck the animal across the upper forelegs.
He fell forward, with a sharp whine, and attempted
vainly to rise. Both legs were broken. He looked
back again at Gordon, and then, growling, strove
to reach their assailants.

Gordon Makimmon started forward with a rasping
oath, but, before he could reach the ground, General
Jackson had propelled himself to the fringe of
humanity. He made a last, convulsive effort to rise,
his jaws snapped... A short, iron bar descended
upon his head.

Gordon's face became instantly, irrevocably, the
shrunken face of an old man.

The clustered men with the dead, mangled body
of the dog before them; the serene, sliding stream
beyond; the towering east range bathed in keen sun-

[[347]]

p346 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p347w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p348

v?