There was a droop to his neck and shoulders that spoke no longer of the unconquerable fighting spirit that had been a part of him for nearly a score of years.
No longer was he lord of the wilderness about him; no longer was there defiance in the poise of his splendid head, or the flash of eager fire in his bloodshot eyes.

His breath came with a gasping sound that was growing more and more distinct.

A hunter would have known what it meant.
The stiletto-point of the younger bull's antler had gone home, and the old bull's lungs were failing him.

More than once Gray Wolf had heard that sound in the early days of her hunting with the pack, and she understood.

Slowly she began to circle about the wounded monarch at a distance of about twenty yards.