Page:Weird Tales Volume 5 Number 1 (1925-01).djvu/106

Rh "Aie, tehn-yoh-yeh-roh-noh, YAH!"

The bear had tasted blood; but not his fill.

Again they closed; once more the wolf-thing sought to worry at Frank's throat. Again the huge knife rose and fell, blood dripping from its point and edge. And ever, as the murderous work went on, the war whoop of the Mohawk rent the mountain quiet.

Taller by a head than Frank, the wolf-thing began to sink. Slowly it went to its knees, to its side; to its back.

"Aie, aie, YAH!"

Like an executioner's simitar the great knife descended, traversing the bugwolf's throat, a dye of rusty-red staining the fur in its wake.

Once more the blade circled the man-brute's head, and Frank Seabring, product of effete New England, college man and instructor in anthropology, rose and contemplated the scalp of his slain foe.

Tucking the patch of fur in his belt, he seemed to notice Alice for the first time, where she stood ash-white, beside the path. An instant he regarded her wonderingly, then abruptly tore his Norfolk jacket apart, spreading the open edges between his outstretched hands. It was the blanket-holding, the age-old invitation of the Indian brave to his squaw.

And Alice Frasanet, fox-trotting, bridge-playing, tea-drinking Alice Frasanet, laid her fluffy, empty little head against his breast.