The Dark Cub had learned the rudiments of Wolf life: that the way
to fight Dogs is to run, and to fight as you run, never grapple,
but snap, snap, snap, and make for the rough country where Horses
cannot bring their riders.

He learned not to bother about the Coyotes that follow for the
pickings when you hunt; you cannot catch them and they do you no
harm.

He knew he must not waste time dashing after Birds that alight on
the ground; and that he must keep away from the little black and
white Animal with the bushy tail. It is not very good to eat, and
it is very, very bad to smell.

Poison! Oh, he never forgot that smell from the day when the den
was cleared of all his foster-brothers.

He now knew that the first move in attacking Sheep was to scatter
them; a lone Sheep is a foolish and easy prey; that the way to
round up a band of Cattle was to frighten a Calf.

He learned that he must always attack a Steer behind, a Sheep in
front, and a Horse in the middle, that is, on the flank, and
never, never attack a man at all, never even face him. But an
important lesson was added to these, one in which the mother
consciously taught him of a secret foe.


V

THE LESSON ON TRAPS

A Calf had died in branding-time and now, two weeks later, was in
its best state for perfect taste, not too fresh, not
over-ripe--that is, in a Wolf's opinion -and the wind carried
this information afar. The Yellow Wolf and Duskymane were out for
supper, though not yet knowing where, when the tidings of veal
arrived, and they trotted up the wind. The Calf was in an open
place, and plain to be seen in the moonlight. A Dog would have
trotted right up to the carcass, an  old-time Wolf might have
done so, but constant war had developed constant vigilance in the
Yellow Wolf, and trusting nothing and no one but her nose, she
slacked her speed to a walk. On coming in easy view she stopped,
and for long swung her nose, submitting the wind to the closest
possible chemical analysis. She tried it with her finest tests,
blew all the membranes clean again and tried it once more; and
this was the report of the trusty nostrils, yes, the unanimous
report. First, rich and racy smell of Calf, seventy per cent.;
smells of grass, bugs, wood, flowers, trees, sand, and other
uninteresting negations, fifteen per cent.; smell of her Cub and
herself, positive but ignorable, ten per cent.; smell of human
tracks, two per cent.; smell of smoke, one per cent.; of sweaty
leather smell, one per cent.; of human body-scent (not
discernible in some samples), one-half per cent.; smell of iron,
a trace.

The old Wolf crouched a little but sniffed hard with swinging
nose; the young Wolf imitatively did the same. She backed off to
a greater distance; the Cub stood. She gave a low whine; he
followed unwillingly. She circled around the tempting carcass; a
new smell was recorded--Coyote trail-scent, soon followed by
Coyote body-scent. Yes, there they were sneaking along a near
ridge, and now as she passed to one side the samples changed, the
wind had lost nearly every trace of Calf; miscellaneous,
commonplace, and uninteresting smells were there instead. The
human track-scent was as before, the trace of leather was gone,
but fully one-half per cent, of iron-odor, and body smell of man
raised to nearly two per cent.

Fully alarmed, she conveyed her fear to the Cub, by her rigid
pose, her air intent, and her slightly bristling mane.

She continued her round. At one time on a high place the human
body scent was doubly strong, then as she dropped it faded. Then
the wind brought the full calf-odor with several track-scents of
Coyotes and sundry Birds. Her suspicions were lulling as in a
smalling circle she neared the tempting feast from the windward
side. She had even advanced straight toward it for a few steps
when the sweaty leather sang loud and strong again, and smoke and
iron mingled like two strands of a parti-colored yarn. Centring
all her attention on this, she advanced within two leaps of the
Calf. There on the ground was a scrap of leather, telling also of
a human touch, close at hand the Calf, and now the iron and smoke
on the full vast smell of Calf were like a snake trail across the
trail of a whole Beef herd. It was so slight that the Cub, with
the appetite and impatience of youth, pressed up against his
mother's shoulder to go past and eat without delay. She seized
him by the neck and flung him back. A stone struck by his feet
rolled forward and stopped with a peculiar clink. The danger
smell was greatly increased at this, and the Yellow Wolf backed
slowly from the feast, the Cub unwillingly following.

As he looked wistfully he saw the Coyotes drawing nearer, mindful
chiefly to avoid the Wolves. He watched their really cautious
advance; it seemed like heedless rushing compared with his
mother's approach. The Calf smell rolled forth in exquisite and
overpowering excellence now, for they were tearing the
meat, when a sharp clank was heard and a yelp from a Coyote. At
the same time the quiet night was shocked with a roar and a flash
of fire. Heavy shots spattered Calf and Coyotes, and yelping like
beaten Dogs they scattered, excepting one that was killed and a
second struggling in the trap set here by the ever-active
wolvers. The air was charged with the hateful smells redoubled
now, and horrid smells additional. The Yellow Wolf glided down a
hollow and led her Cub away in flight, but, as they went, they
saw a man rush from the bank near where the mother's nose had
warned her of the human scent. They saw him kill the caught
Coyote and set the traps for more.



VI

THE BEGUILING OF THE YELLOW WOLF

The life game is a hard game, for we may win ten thousand times,
and if we fail but once our gain is gone. How many hundred times
had the Yellow Wolf scorned the traps; how many Cubs she had
trained to do the same! Of all the dangers to her life she best
knew traps.

October had come; the Cub was now much taller than the mother.
The wolver had seen them once--a Yellow Wolf followed by another,
whose long, awkward legs, big, soft feet, thin neck, and skimpy
tail proclaimed him this year's Cub. The record of the dust and
sand said that the old one had lost a right front toe, and that
the young one was of giant size.

It was the wolver that thought to turn the carcass of the Calf to
profit, but he was disappointed in getting Coyotes instead of
Wolves. It was the beginning of the trapping season, for this
month fur is prime. A young trapper often fastens the bait on the
trap; an experienced one does not. A good trapper will even put
the bait at one place and the trap ten or twenty feet away, but
at a spot that the Wolf is likely to cross in circling. A
favorite plan is to hide three or four traps around an open
place, and scatter some scraps of meat in the middle. The traps
are buried out of sight after being smoked to hide the taint of
hands and iron. Sometimes no bait is used except a little piece
of cotton or a tuft of feathers that may catch the Wolf's eye or
pique its curiosity and tempt it to circle on the fateful,
treacherous ground. A good trapper varies his methods continually
so that the Wolves cannot learn his ways. Their only safeguards
are perpetual vigilance and distrust of all smells that are known
to be of man.

The wolver, with a load of the strongest steel traps, had begun
his autumn work on the 'Cottonwood.'

An old Buffalo trail crossing the river followed a little draw
that climbed the hills to the level upland. All animals use these
trails, Wolves and Foxes as well as Cattle and Deer: they are the
main thoroughfares. A cottonwood stump not far from where it
plunged to the gravelly stream was marked with Wolf signs that
told the wolver of its use. Here was an excellent place for
traps, not on the trail, for Cattle were here in numbers, but
twenty yards away on a level, sandy spot he set four traps in a
twelve-foot square. Near each he scattered two or three scraps of
meat; three or four white feathers on a spear of grass in the
middle completed the setting. No human eye, few animal noses,
could have detected the hidden danger of that sandy ground, when
the sun and wind and the sand itself had dissipated the man-track
taint.

The Yellow Wolf had seen and passed, and taught her giant son to
pass, such traps a thousand times before.

The Cattle came to water in the heat of the day. They strung down
the Buffalo path as once the Buffalo did. The little Vesper-birds
flitted before them, the Cowbirds rode on them, and the
Prairie-dogs chattered at them, just as they once did at the
Buffalo.

Down from the gray-green mesa with its green-gray rocks, they
marched with imposing solemnity, importance, and directness of
purpose. Some frolicsome Calves, playing along-side the trail,
grew sober and walked behind their mothers as the river flat was
reached. The old Cow that headed the procession sniffed
suspiciously as she passed the "trap set," but it was far away,
otherwise she would have pawed and bellowed over the scraps of
bloody beef till every trap was sprung and harmless.

But she led to the river. After all had drunk their fill they lay
down on the nearest bank till late afternoon. Then their unheard
dinner-gong aroused them, and started them on the backward march
to where the richest pastures grew.

One or two small birds had picked at the scraps of meat, some
blue-bottle flies buzzed about, but the sinking sun saw the sandy
mask untouched.

A brown Marsh Hawk came skimming over the river flat as the sun
began his color play. Blackbirds dashed into thickets, and easily
avoided his clumsy pounce. It was too early for the Mice, but, as
he skimmed the ground, his keen eye caught the flutter of
feathers by the trap and turned his flight. The feathers in their
uninteresting emptiness were exposed before he was near, but now
he saw the scraps of meat. Guileless of cunning, he alighted and
was devouring a second lump when--clank--the dust was flirted
high and the Marsh Hawk was held by his toes, struggling vainly
in the jaws of a powerful wolf-trap. He was not much hurt. His
ample wings winnowed from time to time, in efforts to be free,
but he was helpless, even as a Sparrow might be in a rat-trap,
and when the sun had played his fierce chromatic scale, his
swan-song sung, and died as he dies only in the blazing west, and
the shades had fallen on the melodramatic scene of the Mouse in
the elephant-trap, there was a deep, rich sound on the high flat
butte, answered by another, neither very long, neither repeated,
and both instinctive rather than necessary. One was the
muster-call of an ordinary Wolf, the other the answer of a very
big male, not a pair in this case, but mother and son -
Yellow Wolf and Duskymane. They came trotting together down the
Buffalo trail. They paused at the telephone box on the hill and
again at the old cottonwood root, and were making for the river
when the Hawk in the trap fluttered his wings. The old Wolf
turned toward him,-a wounded bird on the ground surely, and she
rushed forward. Sun and sand soon burn all trail-scents; there
was nothing to warn her. She sprang on the flopping bird and a
chop of her jaws ended his troubles, but a horrid sound--the
gritting of her teeth on steel--told her of peril. She dropped
the Hawk and sprang backward from the dangerous ground, but
landed in the second trap. High on her foot its death-grip
closed, and leaping with all her strength, to escape, she set her
fore foot in another of the lurking grips of steel. Never had a
trap been so baited before. Never was she so unsuspicious. Never
was catch more sure. Fear and fury filled the old Wolf's heart;
she tugged and strained, she chewed the chains, she snarled and
foamed. One trap with its buried log, she might have dragged;
with two, she was helpless. Struggle as she might, it only worked
those relentless jaws more deeply into her feet. She snapped
wildly at the air; she tore the dead Hawk into shreds; she roared
the short, barking roar of a crazy Wolf. She bit at the traps, at
her cub, at herself. She tore her legs that were held; she gnawed
in frenzy at her flank, she chopped off her tail in her madness;
she splintered all her teeth on the steel, and filled her
bleeding, foaming jaws with clay and sand.

She struggled till she fell, and writhed about or lay like dead,
till strong enough to rise and grind the chains again with her
teeth.

And so the night passed by.

And Duskymane? Where was he? The feeling of the time when his
foster-mother had come home poisoned, now returned; but he was
even more afraid of her. She seemed filled with fighting hate. He
held away and whined a little; he slunk off and came back when
she lay still, only to retreat again, as she sprang forward,
raging at him, and then renewed her efforts at the traps. He did
not understand it, but he knew this much, she was in terrible
trouble, and the cause seemed to be the same as that which had
scared them the night they had ventured near the Calf.

Duskymane hung about all night, fearing to go near, not knowing
what to do, and helpless as his mother.

At dawn the next day a sheepherder seeking lost Sheep discovered
her from a neighboring hill. A signal mirror called the wolver
from his camp. Duskymane saw the new danger. He was a mere Cub,
though so tall; he could not face the man, and fled at his
approach.

The wolver rode up to the sorry, tattered, bleeding She-wolf in
the trap. He raised his rifle and soon the struggling stopped.

The wolver read the trail and the signs about, and remembering
those he had read before, he divined that this was the Wolf with
the great Cub--the She-wolf of Sentinel Butte.

Duskymane heard the "crack" as he scurried off into cover. He
could scarcely know what it meant, but he never saw his kind old
foster-mother again. Thenceforth he must face the world alone.


VII

THE YOUNG WOLF WINS A PLACE AND FAME

Instinct is no doubt a Wolf's first and best guide, but gifted
parents are a great start in life. The dusky-maned cub had had a
mother of rare excellence and he reaped the advantage of all her
cleverness. He had inherited an exquisite nose and had absolute
confidence in its admonitions. Mankind has difficulty in
recognizing the power of nostrils. A Gray-wolf can glance over
the morning wind as a man does over his newspaper, and get all
the latest news. He can swing over the ground and have the
minutest information of every living creature that has walked
there within many hours. His nose even tells which way it ran,
and in a word renders a statement of every animal that recently
crossed his trail, whence it came, and whither it went.

That power had Duskymane in the highest degree; his broad, moist
nose was evidence of it to all who are judges of such things.
Added to this, his frame was of unusual power and endurance, and
last, he had early learned a deep distrust of everything strange,
and, call it what we will, shyness, wariness or suspicion, it was
worth more to him than all his cleverness. It was this as much as
his physical powers that made a success of his life. Might is
right in   wolf-land, and Duskymane and his mother had been
driven out of Sentinel Butte. But it was a very delectable land
and he kept drifting back to his native mountain. One or two big
Wolves there resented his coming. They drove him off several
times, yet each time he returned he was better able to face them;
and before he was eighteen months old he had defeated all rivals
and established himself again on his native ground; where he
lived like a robber baron, levying tribute on the rich lands
about him and finding safety in the rocky fastness.

Wolver Ryder often hunted in that country, and before long, he
came across a five-and-one-half-inch track, the foot-print of a
giant Wolf. Roughly reckoned, twenty to twenty-five pounds of
weight or six inches of stature is a fair allowance for each inch
of a Wolf's foot; this Wolf therefore stood thirty-three inches
at the shoulder and weighed about one hundred and forty pounds,
by far the largest Wolf he had ever met. King had lived in Goat
country, and now in Goat language he exclaimed: "You bet, ain't
that an old Billy?" Thus by trivial chance it was that Duskymane
was known to his foe, as 'Badlands Billy.'

Ryder was familiar with the muster-call of the Wolves, the long,
smooth cry, but Billy's had a singular feature, a slurring that
was always distinctive. Ryder had heard this before, in the
Cottonwood CaГ±on, and when at length he got a sight of the big
Wolf with the black mane, it struck him that this was also the
Cub of the old Yellow fury that he had trapped.

These were among the things he told me as we sat by the fire at
night. I knew of the early days when any one could trap or poison
Wolves, of the passing of those days, with the passing of the
simple Wolves; of the new race of Wolves with new cunning that
were defying the methods of the ranchmen, and increasing steadily
in numbers. Now the wolver told me of the various ventures that
Penroof had made with different kinds of Hounds; of Foxhounds too
thin-skinned to fight; of Greyhounds that were useless when the
animal was out of sight; of Danes too heavy for the rough
country, and, last, of the composite pack with some of all kinds,
including at times a Bull-terrier to lead them in the final
fight.

He told of hunts after Coyotes, which usually were successful
because the Coyotes sought the plains, and were easily caught by
the Greyhounds. He told of killing some small Gray-wolves with
this very pack, usually at the cost of the one that led them; but
above all he dwelt on the wonderful prowess of "that thar cussed
old Black Wolf of Sentinel Butte," and related the many attempts
to run him down or corner him--an unbroken array of failures. For
the big Wolf, with exasperating persistence, continued to live on
the finest stock of the Penroof brand, and each year was teaching
more Wolves how to do the same with perfect impunity.

I listened even as gold-hunters listen to stories of treasure
trove, for these were the things of my world. These things indeed
were uppermost in all our minds, for the Penroof pack was lying
around our camp-fire now. We were out after Badlands Billy.


VIII

THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT AND THE BIG
TRACK IN THE MORNING

One night late in September after the last streak of light was
gone from the west and the Coyotes had begun their yapping
chorus, a deep, booming sound was heard. King took out his pipe,
turned his head and said: "That's him--that's old Billy. He's
been watching us all day from some high place, and now when the
guns are useless he's here to have a little fun with us."

Two or three Dogs arose, with bristling manes, for they clearly
recognized that this was no Coyote. They rushed out into the
night, but did not go far; their brawling sounds were suddenly
varied by loud yelps, and they came running back to the shelter
of the fire. One was so badly cut in the shoulder that he was
useless for the rest of the hunt. Another was hurt in the
flank--it seemed the less serious wound, and yet next morning the
hunters buried that second Dog.

The men were furious. They vowed speedy vengeance, and at dawn
were off on the trail. The Coyotes yelped their dawning song, but
they melted into the hills when the light was strong. The hunters
searched about for the big Wolf's track, hoping that the Hounds
would be able to take it up and find him, but they either could
not or would not.

They found a Coyote, however, and within a few hundred yards they
killed him. It was a victory, I suppose, for Coyotes kill Calves
and Sheep, but somehow I felt the common thought of all: "Mighty
brave Dogs for a little Coyote, but they could not face the big
Wolf last night."

Young Penroof, as though in answer to one of the unput questions,
said:

"Say, boys, I believe old Billy had a hull bunch of Wolves with
him last night."

"Didn't see but one track," said King gruffly.

In this way the whole of October slipped by; all day hard riding
after doubtful trails, following the Dogs, who either could not
keep the big trail or feared to do so, and again and again we had
news of damage done by the Wolf; sometimes a cowboy would report
it to us; and sometimes we found the carcasses ourselves. A few
of these we poisoned, though it is considered a very dangerous
thing to do while running Dogs. The end of the month found us a
weather-beaten, dispirited lot of men, with a worn-out lot of
Horses, and a foot-sore pack, reduced in numbers from ten to
seven. So far we had killed only one Gray-wolf and three Coyotes;
Badlands Billy had killed at least a dozen Cows and Dogs at fifty
dollars a head. Some of the boys decided to give it up and go
home, so King took advantage of their going, to send a letter,
asking for reГ«nforcements including all the spare Dogs at the
ranch.

During the two days' wait we rested our Horses, shot some game,
and prepared for a harder hunt. Late on the second day the new
Dogs arrived--eight beauties--and raised the working pack to
fifteen.

The weather now turned much cooler, and in the morning, to the
joy of the wolvers, the ground was white with snow. This surely
meant success. With cool weather for the Dogs and Horses to run;
with the big Wolf not far away, for he had been heard the night
before; and with tracking snow, so that once found he could not
baffle us,--escape for him was impossible.
 
We were up at dawn, but before we could get away, three men came
riding into camp. They were the Penroof boys back again. The
change of weather had changed their minds; they knew that with
snow we might have luck.

"Remember now," said King, as all were mounting, "we don't want
any but Badlands Billy this trip. Get him an' we kin bust up the
hull combination. It is a five-and-a-half-inch track."

And each measured off on his quirt handle, or on his glove, the
exact five and a half inches that was to be used in testing the
tracks he might find.

Not more than an hour elapsed before we got a signal from the
rider who had gone westward. One shot: that means "attention," a
pause while counting ten, then two shots: that means "come on."

King gathered the Dogs and rode direct to the distant figure on
the hill. All hearts beat high with hope, and we were not
disappointed. Some small Wolf tracks had been found, but here at
last was the big track, nearly six inches long. Young Penroof
wanted to yell and set out at full gallop. It was like hunting a
Lion; it was like finding happiness long deferred. The hunter
knows nothing more inspiring than the clean-cut line of fresh
tracks that is leading to a wonderful animal, he has long been
hunting in vain. How King's eye gleamed as he gloated over the
sign!


IX

RUN DOWN AT LAST

It was the roughest of all rough riding. It was a far longer hunt
than we had expected, and was full of little incidents, for that
endless line of marks was a minute history of all that the big
Wolf had done the night before. Here he had circled at the
telephone box and looked for news; there he had paused to examine
an old skull; here he had shied off and swung cautiously up wind
to examine something that proved to be an old tin can; there at
length he had mounted a low hill and sat down, probably giving
the muster-howl, for two Wolves had come to him from different
directions, and they then had descended to the river flat where
the Cattle would seek shelter during the storm. Here all three
had visited a Buffalo skull; there they trotted in line; and
yonder they separated, going three different ways, to
meet--yes--here--oh, what a sight, a fine Cow ripped open, left
dead and uneaten. Not to their taste, it seems, for see! within a
mile is another killed by them. Not six hours ago, they had
feasted. Here their trails scatter again, but not far, and the
snow tells plainly how each had lain down to sleep. The Hounds'
manes bristled as they sniffed those places. King had held the
Dogs well in hand, but now they were greatly excited. We came to
a hill whereon the Wolves had turned and faced our way, then fled
at full speed,--so said the trail,--and now it was clear that
they had watched us from that hill, and were not far away.

The pack kept well together, because the Greyhounds, seeing no
quarry, were merely puttering about among the other Dogs, or
running back with the Horses. We went as fast as we could, for
the Wolves were speeding. Up mesas and down coulees we rode,
sticking closely to the Dogs, though it was the roughest country
that could be picked. One gully after another, an hour and
another hour, and still the threefold track went bounding on;
another hour and no change, but interminable climbing, sliding,
struggling, through brush and over boulders, guided by the
far-away yelping of the Dogs.

Now the chase led downward to the low valley of the river, where
there was scarcely any snow. Jumping and scrambling down hills,
recklessly leaping dangerous gullies and slippery rocks, we felt
that we could not hold out much longer; when on the lowest,
dryest level the pack split, some went up, some went down, and
others straight on. Oh, how King did swear! He knew at once what
it meant. The Wolves had scattered, and so had divided the pack.
Three Dogs after a Wolf would have no chance, four could not kill
him, two would certainly be killed. And yet this was the first
encouraging sign we had seen, for it meant that the Wolves were
hard pressed. We spurred ahead to stop the Dogs, to pick for them
the only trail. But that was not so easy. Without snow here and
with countless Dog tracks, we were foiled. All we could do was to
let the Dogs choose, but keep them to a single choice. Away we
went as before, hoping, yet fearing that we were not on the right
track. The Dogs ran well, very fast indeed. This was a bad sign,
King said, but we could not get sight of the track because the
Dogs overran it before we came.

After a two-mile run the chase led upward again in snow country;
the Wolf was sighted, but to our disgust, we were on the track of
the smallest one.

"I thought so," growled young Penroof. "Dogs was altogether too
keen for a serious proposition. Kind o' surprised it ain't turned
out a Jack-rabbit."

Within another mile he had turned to bay in a willow thicket. We
heard him howl the long-drawn howl for help, and before we could
reach the place King saw the Dogs recoil and scatter. A minute
later there sped from the far side of the thicket a small
Gray-wolf and a Black One of very much greater size.

"By golly, if he didn't yell for help, and Billy come back to
help him; that's great!" exclaimed the wolver. And my heart went
out to the brave old Wolf that refused to escape by abandoning
his friend.

The next hour was a hard repetition of the gully riding, but it
was on the highlands where there was snow, and when again the
pack was split, we strained every power and succeeded in keeping
them on the big " five-fifty track," that already was wearing for
me the glamour of romance.

Evidently the Dogs preferred either of the others, but we got
them going at last. Another half hour's hard work and far ahead,
as I rose to a broad flat plain, I had my first glimpse of the
Big Black Wolf of Sentinel Butte.

"Hurrah! Badlands Billy! Hurrah! Badlands Billy!" I shouted in
salute, and the others took up the cry.

We were on his track at last, thanks to himself. The Dogs joined
in with a louder baying, the Greyhounds yelped and made straight
for him, and the Horses sniffed and sprang more gamely as they
caught the thrill. The only silent one was the black-maned Wolf,
and as I marked his size and power, and above all his long and
massive jaws, I knew why the Dogs preferred some other trail.

With head and tail low he was bounding over the snow. His tongue
was lolling long; plainly he was hard pressed. The wolvers' hands
flew to their revolvers, though he was three hundred yards ahead;
they were out for blood, not sport. But an instant later he had
sunk from view in the nearest sheltered caГ±on.

Now which way would he go, up or down the caГ±on? Up was toward
his mountain, down was better cover. King and I thought "up," so
pressed westward along the ridge. But the others rode eastward,
watching for a chance to shoot.

Soon we had ridden out of hearing. We were wrong--the Wolf had
gone down, but we heard no shooting. The caГ±on was crossable
here; we reached the other side and then turned back at a gallop,
scanning the snow for a trail, the hills for a moving form, or
the wind for a sound of life.

"Squeak, squeak," went our saddle leathers, "puff-puff" our
Horses, and their feet "ka-ka-lump, ka-ka-lump."


X

WHEN BILLY WENT BACK TO HIS MOUNTAIN

We were back opposite to where the Wolf had plunged, but saw no
sign. We rode at an easy gallop, on eastward, a mile, and still
on, when King gasped out, "Look at that!" A dark spot was moving
on the snow ahead. We put on speed. Another dark spot appeared,
and another, but they were not going fast. In five minutes we
were near them, to find--three of our own Greyhounds. They had
lost sight of the game, and with that their interest waned. Now
they were seeking us. We saw nothing there of the chase or of the
other hunters. But hastening to the next ridge we stumbled on the
trail we sought and followed as hard as though in view. Another
caГ±on came in our path, and as we rode and looked for a place to
cross, a wild din of Hounds came from its brushy depth. The
clamor grew and passed up the middle.

We raced along the rim, hoping to see the game. The Dogs appeared
near the farther side, not in a pack, but a long, straggling
line. In five minutes more they rose to the edge, and ahead of
them was the great Black Wolf. He was loping as before, head and
tail low. Power was plain in every limb, and double power in his
jaws and neck, but I thought his bounds were shorter now, and
that they had lost their spring. The Dogs slowly reached the
upper level, and sighting him they broke into a feeble cry; they,
too, were nearly spent. The Greyhounds saw the chase, and leaving
us they scrambled down the caГ±on and up the other side at
impetuous speed that would surely break them down, while we rode,
vainly seeking means of crossing.

How the wolver raved to see the pack lead off in the climax of
the chase, and himself held up behind. But he rode and wrathed
and still rode, up to where the caГ±on dwindled--rough land and a
hard ride. As we neared the great flat mountain, the feeble cry
of the pack was heard again from the south, then toward the high
Butte's side, and just a trifle louder now. We reined in on a
hillock and scanned the snow. A moving speck appeared, then
others, not bunched, but in a straggling train, and at times
there was a far faint cry. They were headed toward us, coming on,
yes! coming, but so slowly, for not one was really running now.
There was the grim old Cow-killer limping over the ground, and
far behind a Greyhound, and another, and farther still, the other
Dogs in order of their speed, slowly, gamely, dragging themselves
on that pursuit. Many hours of hardest toil had done their work.
The Wolf had vainly sought to fling them off. Now was his hour of
doom, for he was spent; they still had some reserve. Straight to
us for a time they came, skirting the base of the mountain,
crawling.

We could not cross to join them, so held our breath and gazed
with ravenous eyes. They were nearer now, the wind brought feeble
notes from the Hounds. The big Wolf turned to the steep ascent,
up a well-known trail, it seemed, for he made no slip. My heart
went with him, for he had come back to rescue his friend, and a
momentary thrill of pity came over us both, as we saw him glance
around and drag himself up the sloping way, to die on his
mountain. There was no escape for him, beset by fifteen Dogs with
men to back them. He was not walking, but tottering upward; the
Dogs behind in line, were now doing a little better, were nearing
him. We could hear them gasping; we scarcely heard them bay--they
had no breath for that; upward the grim procession went, circling
a spur of the Butte and along a ledge that climbed and narrowed,
then dropped for a few yards to a shelf that reared above the
canon. The foremost Dogs were closing, fearless of a foe so
nearly spent.

Here in the narrowest place, where one wrong step meant death,
the great Wolf turned and faced them. With fore-feet braced, with
head low and tail a little raised, his dusky mane a-bristling,
his glittering tusks laid bare, but uttering no sound that we
could hear, he faced the crew. His legs were weak with toil, but
his neck, his jaws, and his heart were strong, and--now all you
who love the Dogs had better close the book--on--up and
down--fifteen to one, they came, the swiftest first, and how it
was done, the eye could scarcely see, but even as a stream of
water pours on a rock to be splashed in broken Jets aside, that
stream of

Dogs came pouring down the path, in single file perforce, and
Duskymane received them as they came. A feeble spring, a
counter-lunge, a gash, and "Fango's down," has lost his foothold
and is gone. Dander and Coalie close and try to clinch; a rush, a
heave, and they are fallen from that narrow path. Blue-spot then,
backed by mighty Oscar and fearless Tige--but the Wolf is next
the rock and the flash of combat clears to show him there alone,
the big Dogs gone; the rest close in, the hindmost force the
foremost on--down-to their death. Slash, chop and heave, from the
swiftest to the biggest, to the last, down--down--he sent them
whirling from the ledge to the gaping gulch below, where rocks
and snags of trunks were sharp to do their work.
 
In fifty seconds it was done. The rock had splashed the stream
aside--the Penroof pack was all wiped out; and Badlands Billy
stood there, alone again on his mountain.

A moment he waited to look for more to come. There were no more,
the pack was dead; but waiting he got his breath, then raising
his voice for the first time in that fatal scene, he feebly gave
a long yell of triumph, and scaling the next low bank, was
screened from view in a caГ±on of Sentinel Butte.

We stared like men of stone. The guns in our hands were
forgotten. It was all so quick, so final. We made no move till
the Wolf was gone. It was not far to the place: we went on foot
to see if any had escaped. Not one was left alive. We could do
nothing--we could say nothing.


XI

THE HOWL AT SUNSET

A week later we were riding the upper trail back of the Chimney
Pot, King and I. "The old man is pretty sick of it," he said.
"He'd sell out if he could. He don't know what's the next move."

The sun went down beyond Sentinel Butte. It was dusk as we
reached the turn that led to Dumont's place, and a deep-toned
rolling howl came from the river flat below, followed by a number
of higher-pitched howls in answering chorus. We could see
nothing, but we listened hard. The song was repeated, the
hunting-cry of the Wolves. It faded, the night was stirred by
another, the sharp bark and the short howl, the signal "close
in"; a bellow came up, very short, for it was cut short.

And King as he touched his Horse said grimly: "That's him, he is
out with the pack, an' thar goes another Beef."



THE BOY AND THE LYNX

I

THE BOY

He was barely fifteen, a lover of sport and uncommonly keen, even
for a beginner. Flocks of Wild Pigeons had been coming all day
across the blue Lake of Cayggeonull, and perching in line on the
dead limbs of the great rampikes that stood as monuments of fire,
around the little clearing in the forest, they afforded tempting
marks; but he followed them for hours in vain. They seemed to
know the exact range of the old-fashioned shotgun and rose on
noisy wings each time before he was near enough to fire. At
length a small flock scattered among the low green trees that
grew about the spring, near the log shanty, and taking advantage
of the cover, Thorburn went in gently. He caught sight of a
single Pigeon close to him, took a long aim and fired. A sharp
crack resounded at almost the same time and the bird fell dead.
Thorburn rushed to seize the prize just as a tall young man
stepped into view and picked it up.

"Hello, Corney! you got my bird!"

"Your burrud! Sure yours flew away thayre. I saw them settle
hayer and thought I'd make sure of wan with the rifle."

A careful examination showed that a rifle-ball as well as a
charge of shot had struck the Pigeon. The gunners had fired on
the same bird. Both enjoyed the joke, though it had its serious
side, for food as well as ammunition was scarce in that backwoods
home.

Corney, a superb specimen of a six-foot Irish-Canadian in early
manhood, now led away to the log shanty where the very scarcity
of luxuries and the roughness of their lives were sources of
merriment. For the Colts, though born and bred in the backwoods
of Canada, had lost nothing of the spirit that makes the Irish
blood a world-wide synonym of heartiness and wit. 

Corney was the eldest son of a large family. The old folks lived
at Petersay, twenty-five miles to the southward. He had taken up
a "claim" to carve his own home out of the woods at Fenebonk, and
his grown sisters, Margat, staid and reliable, and Loo, bright
and witty, were keeping house for him. Thorburn Alder was
visiting them. He had just recovered from a severe illness and
had been sent to rough it in the woods in hope of winning some of
the vigor of his hosts. Their home was of unhewn logs, unfloored,
and roofed with sods, which bore a luxuriant crop of grass and
weeds. The primitive woods around were broken in two places: one
where the roughest of roads led southward to Petersay; the other
where the sparkling lake rolled on a pebbly shore and gave a
glimpse of their nearest neighbor's house-- four miles across the
water.

Their daily round had little change. Corney was up at daybreak to
light the fire, call his sisters, and feed the horses while they
prepared breakfast. At six the meal was over and Corney went to
his work. At noon, which Margat knew by the shadow of a certain
rampike falling on the spring, a clear notification to draw fresh
water for the table, Loo would hang a white rag on a pole, and
Corney, seeing the signal, would return from summer fallow or
hayfield, grimy, swarthy, and ruddy, a picture of manly vigor and
honest toil. Thor might be away all day, but at night, when they
again assembled at the table, he would come from lake or distant
ridge and eat a supper like the dinner and breakfast, for meals
as well as days were exact repeats: pork, bread, potatoes, and
tea, with occasionally eggs supplied by a dozen hens around the
little log stable, with, rarely, a variation of wild meat, for
Thor was not a hunter and Corney had little time for anything but
the farm.


II

THE LYNX

A huge four-foot basswood had gone the way of all trees. Death
had been generous--had sent the three warnings: it was the
biggest of its kind, its children were grown up, it was hollow.
The wintry blast that sent it down had broken it across and
revealed a great hole where should have been its heart. A long
wooden cavern in the middle of a sunny opening, it now lay, and
presented an ideal home for a Lynx when she sought a sheltered
nesting-place for her coming brood.

Old was she and gaunt, for this was a year of hard times for the
Lynxes. A Rabbit plague the autumn before had swept away their
main support; a winter of deep snow and sudden crusts had killed
off nearly all the Partridges; a long wet spring had destroyed
the few growing coveys and had kept the ponds and streams so full
that Fish and Frogs were safe from their armed paws, and this
mother Lynx fared no better than her kind.

The little ones--half starved before they came--were a double
drain, for they took the time she might have spent in hunting.

The Northern Hare is the favorite food of the Lynx, and in some
years she could have killed fifty in one day, but never one did
she see this season. The plague had done its work too well.

One day she caught a Red-squirrel which had run into a hollow log
that proved a trap. Another day a fetid Blacksnake was her only
food. A day was missed, and the little ones whined piteously for
their natural food and failing drink. One day she saw a large
black animal of unpleasant but familiar smell. Swiftly and
silently she sprang to make attack. She struck it once on the
nose, but the Porcupine doubled his head under, his tail flew up,
and the mother Lynx was speared in a dozen places with the little
stinging javelins. She drew them all with her teeth, for she had
"learned Porcupine" years before, and only the hard push of want
would have made her strike one now.

A Frog was all she caught that day. On the next, as she ranged
the farthest woods in a long, hard hunt, she heard a singular
calling voice. It was new to her. She approached it cautiously,
up wind, got many new odors and some more strange sounds in
coming. The loud, clear, rolling call was repeated as the mother
Lynx came to an opening in the forest. In the middle of it were
two enormous muskrat or beaver-houses, far bigger than the
biggest she ever before had seen. They were made partly of logs
and situated, not in a pond, but on a dry knoll. Walking about
them were a number of Partridges, that is, birds like Partridges,
only larger and of various colors, red, yellow, and white.

She quivered with the excitement that in a man would have been
called buck-fever. Food--food--abundance of food, and the old
huntress sank to earth. Her breast was on the ground, her elbows
above her back, as she made stalk, her shrewdest, subtlest stalk;
one of those Partridges she must have at any price; no trick now
must go untried, no error in this hunt; if it took hours--all day
--she must approach with certainty to win before the quarry took
to flight.

Only a few bounds it was from wood shelter to the great
rat-house, but she was an hour in crawling that small space. From
stump to brush, from log to bunch of grass she sneaked, a
flattened form, and the Partridges saw her not. They fed about,
the biggest uttering the ringing call that first had fallen on
her ear.

Once they seemed to sense their peril, but a long await dispelled
the fear. Now they were almost in reach, and she trembled with
all the eagerness of the hunting heart and the hungry maw. Her
eye centred on a white one not quite the nearest, but the color
seemed to hold her gaze.

There was an open space around the rat-house; outside that were
tall weeds, and stumps were scattered everywhere. The white bird
wandered behind these weeds, the red one of the loud voice flew
to the top of the rat-mound and sang as before. The mother Lynx
sank lower yet. It seemed an alarm note; but no, the white one
still was there; she could see its feathers gleaming through the
weeds. An open space now lay about. The huntress, flattened like
an empty skin, trailed slow and silent on the ground behind a log
no thicker than her neck; if she could reach that tuft of brush
she could get unseen to the weeds and then would be near enough
to spring. She could smell them now--the rich and potent smell of
life, of flesh and blood, that set her limbs a-tingle and her
eyes a-glow.

The Partridges still scratched and fed; another flew to the high
top, but the white one remained. Five more slow-gliding, silent
steps, and the Lynx was behind the weeds, the white bird shining
through; she gauged the distance, tried the footing, swung her
hind legs to clear some fallen brush, then leaped direct with all
her force, and the white one never knew the death it died, for
the fateful gray shadow dropped, the swift and deadly did their
work, and before the other birds could realize the foe or fly,
the Lynx was gone, with the white bird squirming in her jaws.

Uttering an unnecessary growl of inborn ferocity and joy she
bounded into the forest, and bee-like sped for home. The last
quiver had gone from the warm body of the victim when she heard
the sound of heavy feet ahead. She leaped on a log. The wings of
her prey were muffling her eyes, so she laid the bird down and
held it safely with one paw. The sound drew nearer, the bushes
bent, and a Boy stepped into view. The old Lynx knew and hated
his kind. She had watched them at night, had followed them, had
been hunted and hurt by them. For a moment they stood face to
face. The huntress growled a warning that was also a challenge
and a defiance, picked up the bird and bounded from the log into
the sheltering bushes. It was a mile or two to the den, but she
stayed not to eat till the sunlit opening and the big basswood
came to view; then a low "prr-prr" called forth the little ones
to revel with their mother in a plenteous meal of the choicest
food.


III

THE HOME OF THE LYNX

At first Thor, being town-bred, was timid about venturing into
the woods beyond the sound of Corney's axe; but day by day he
went farther, guiding himself, not by unreliable moss on trees,
but by sun, compass, and landscape features. His purpose was to
learn about the wild animals rather than to kill them; but the
naturalist is close kin to the sportsman, and the gun was his
constant companion. In the clearing, the only animal of any size
was a fat Woodchuck; it had a hole under a stump some hundred
yards from the shanty. On sunny mornings it used to lie basking
on the stump, but eternal vigilance is the price of every good
thing in the woods. The Woodchuck was always alert and Thor tried
in vain to shoot or even to trap him.

"Hyar," said Corney one morning, "time we had some fresh meat."
He took down his rifle, an old-fashioned brass-mounted
small-bore, and loading with care that showed the true rifleman,
he steadied the weapon against the door-jamb and fired. The
Woodchuck fell backward and lay still. Thor raced to the place
and returned in triumph with the animal, shouting: "Plumb through
the head--one hundred and twenty yards."

Corney controlled the gratified smile that wrestled with the
corners of his mouth, but his bright eyes shone a trifle brighter
for the moment.

It was no mere killing for killing's sake, for the Woodchuck was
spreading a belt of destruction in the crop around his den. Its
flesh supplied the family with more than one good meal and Corney
showed Thor how to use the skin. First the pelt was wrapped in
hardwood ashes for twenty-four hours. This brought the hair off.
Then the skin was soaked for three days in soft soap and worked
by hand, as it dried, till it came out a white strong leather.

Thor's wanderings extended farther in search of the things which
always came as surprises however much he was looking for them.
Many days were blanks and others would be crowded with incidents,
for unexpectedness is above all the peculiar feature of hunting,
and its lasting charm. One day he had gone far beyond the ridge
in a new direction and passed through an open glade where lay the
broken trunk of a huge basswood. The size impressed it on his
memory. He swung past the glade to make for the lake, a mile to
the west, and twenty minutes later he started back as his eye
rested on a huge black animal in the crotch of a hemlock, some
thirty feet from the ground. A Bear! At last, this was the test
of nerve he had half expected all summer; had been wondering how
that mystery "himself" would act under this very trial. He stood
still; his right hand dived into his pocket and, bringing out
three or four buckshot, which he carried for emergency, he
dropped them on top of the birdshot already in the gun, then
rammed a wad to hold them down.

The Bear had not moved and the boy could not see its head, but
now he studied it carefully. It was not such a large one--no, it
was a small one, yes, very small--a cub. A cub! That meant a
mother Bear at hand, and Thor looked about with some fear, but
seeing no signs of any except the little one, he levelled the gun
and fired.

Then to his surprise down crashed the animal quite dead; it was
not a Bear, but a large Porcupine. As it lay there he examined it
with wonder and regret, for. he had no wish to kill such a
harmless creature. On its grotesque face he found two or three
long scratches which proved that he had not been its only enemy.
As he turned away he noticed some blood on his trousers, then saw
that his left hand was bleeding. He had wounded himself quite
severely on the quills of the animal without knowing it. He was
sorry to leave the specimen there, and Loo, when she learned of
it, said it was a shame not to skin it when she "needed
a fur-lined cape for the winter."

On another day Thor had gone without a gun, as he meant only to
gather some curious plants he had seen. They were close to the
clearing; he knew the place by a fallen elm. As he came to it he
heard a peculiar sound. Then on the log his eye caught two moving
things. He lifted a bough and got a clear view. They were the
head and tail of an enormous Lynx. It had seen him and was
glaring and grumbling; and under its foot on the log was a white
bird that a second glance showed to be one of their own precious
hens. How fierce and cruel the brute looked! How Thor hated it!
and fairly gnashed his teeth with disgust that now, when his
greatest chance was come, he for once was without his gun. He was
in not a little fear, too, and stood wondering what to do. The
Lynx growled louder; its stumpy tail twitched viciously for a
minute, then it picked up its victim, and leaping from the log
was lost to view.

As it was a very rainy summer, the ground was soft everywhere,
and the young hunter was led to follow tracks that would have
defied an expert in dryer times. One day he came on piglike
footprints in the woods. He followed them with little difficulty,
for they were new, and a heavy rain two hours before had washed
out all other trails. After about half a mile they led him to an
open ravine, and as he reached its brow he saw across it a flash
of white; then his keen young eyes made out the forms of a Deer
and a spotted Fawn gazing at him curiously. Though on their trail
he was not a little startled. He gazed at them open-mouthed. The
mother turned and raised the danger flag, her white tail, and
bounded lightly away, to be followed by the youngster, clearing
low trunks with an effortless leap, or bending down with catlike
suppleness when they came to a log upraised so that they might
pass below.