Page:The Cross Pull.pdf/35

 Brent’s gust of reason-shaking hatred cooled into definite purpose and he stepped back.

“You yellow-eyed devil! I’ll start you for hell in slivers the size of a horse hair,” he said.

From long and gloating practice, Brent knew himself a master of what he was about to do.

He sent the long lash curving toward Flash, and with the sudden backward twist of his wrist the pop-lash hissed sharply, then cracked like a rifle as the bare tip reached through the hair and drew blood from the chained wolf dog.

His only answer to the deadly hurt was to spring full length of his chain at Brent.

The man settled to his work. Each report of the whip wrung agony from Flash and brought a thrill of joy to Brent.

With the pride of an expert the man chose a fresh spot for each bite of the whip. Once it would strike blood from the knee joint of the hind leg where the hair was short; next pluck a patch of skin the size of a dime from the tender flank.

Burning agony wrecked Flash’s frame; hot tongues of flame shot through him with every tortured pulse of blood in his veins. His senses were beginning to dull under the ordeal and at last the lash cut a half inch gash at the corner of