If she had worn her revolver, a light, beautifully mounted thirty-two which Dan had given her, Kate would have shot the wolf and gone on across his body; for she had learned from Whistling Dan to shoot quickly as one points a finger and straight by instinct.

Even as she stood there barehanded she looked about her desperately for a weapon, seeing the daylight and the promise of escape beyond and only this dumb beast between her and freedom.
Once before, many a year before, she had gone like this, with empty hands, and subdued Black Bart simply through the power of quiet courage and the human eye.

She determined to try again.
"Stand there quietly, Joan.

Don't move until I tell you." She made a firm step towards Bart.
"Manner, he'll bite!" "Hush, Joan.

Don't speak!" At her forward movement the wolf-dog flattened his belly to the rock, and she saw his forepaws, large, almost, as the hands of a man, dig and work for a purchase from which he could throw himself at her throat.
"Steady, Bart!" His silence was more terrible than a snarl; yet she stretched out her hand and made another step.