The day before the next meet a man of diamonds saw Irish
Mickey--by chance. A cigar was all that visibly passed, but it
had a green wrapper that was slipped off before lighting. Then a
word: "If you wuz slipper to-morrow and it so came about that
Dignam's Minkie gets done, wall,--it means another cigar."

"Faix, an' if I wuz slipper I could load the dice so Minkie would
flyer score a p'int, but her runnin' mate would have the same bad
luck."

"That so?" The diamond man looked interested. "All right--fix it
so; it means two cigars."

Slipper Slyman had always dealt on the square, had scorned many
approaches--that was well known. Most believed in him, but there
were some malcontents, and when a man with many gold seals
approached the Steward and formulated charges, serious and
well-backed, they must perforce suspend the slipper pending an
inquiry, and thus Mickey Doo reigned in his stead.

Mickey was poor and not over-scrupulous. Here was a chance to
make a year's pay in a minute, nothing wrong about it, no harm to
the Dog or the Rabbit either.

One Jack-rabbit is much like another. Everybody knows that; it
was simply a question of choosing your Jack.

The preliminaries were over. Fifty Jacks had been run and killed.
Mickey had done his work satisfactorily; a fair slip had been
given to every leash. He was still in command as slipper. Now
came the final for the cup--the cup and the large stakes.


VII

There were the slim and elegant Dogs awaiting their turn. Minkie
and her rival were first. Everything had been fair so far, and
who can say that what followed was unfair? Mickey could turn out
which Jack he pleased.

"Number three!" he called to his partner.

Out leaped the Little Warhorse,--black and white his great ears,
easy and low his five-foot bounds; gazing wildly at the unwonted
crowd about the Park, he leaped high in one surprising spy-hop.

"Hrrrrr!" shouted the slipper, and his partner rattled a stick on
the fence. The Warhorse's bounds increased to eight or nine feet.

"Hrrrrrr!" and they were ten or twelve feet. At thirty yards the
Hounds were slipped--an even slip; some thought it could have
been done at twenty yards.

"Hrrrrrr! Hrrrrrrr!" and the Warhorse was doing fourteen-foot
leaps, not a spy-hop among them.

"Hrrrrr! "wonderful Dogs! how they sailed; but drifting ahead of
them, like a white sea-bird or flying scud, was the Warhorse.
Away past the Grand Stand. And the Dogs--were they closing the
gap of start? Closing! It was lengthening! In less time than it
takes to tell it, that black-and-white thistledown had drifted
away through the Haven door,--the door so like that good old
hen-hole,--and the Grey-hounds pulled up amidst a roar of
derision and cheers for the Little Warhorse. How Mickey did
laugh! How Dignam did swear! How the newspaper men did
scribble--scribble--scribble!

Next day there was a paragraph in all the papers: "WONDERFUL FEAT
OF A JACKRABBIT. The Little Warhorse, as he has been styled,
completely skunked two of the most famous Dogs on the turf," etc.

There was a fierce wrangle among the dog-men. This was a tie,
since neither had scored, and Minkie and her rival were allowed
to run again; but that half-mile had been too hot, and they had
no show for the cup.

Mickey met "Diamonds" next day, by chance.

"Have a cigar, Mickey."

"Oi will thot, sor. Faix, thim's so foine; I'd loike two--thank
ye, sor."


VIII

From that time the Little Warhorse became the pride of the Irish
boy. Slipper Slyman had been honorably reinstated and Mickey
reduced to the rank of Jack-starter, but that merely helped to
turn his sympathies from the Dogs to the Rabbits, or rather to
the Warhorse, for of all the five hundred that were brought in
from the drive he alone had won renown. There were several that
crossed the Park to run again another day, but he alone had
crossed the course without getting even a turn. Twice a week the
meets took place; forty or fifty Jacks were killed each time, and
the five hundred in the pen had been nearly all eaten of the
arena.

The Warhorse had run each day, and as often had made the Haven.
Mickey became wildly enthusiastic about his favorite's powers. He
begot a positive affection for the clean-limbed racer, and
stoutly maintained against all that it was a positive honor to a
Dog to be disgraced by such a Jack.

It is so seldom that a Rabbit crosses the track at all, that when
Jack did it six times without having to dodge, the papers took
note of it, and after each meet there appeared a notice: "The
Little Warhorse crossed again today;  old-timers say it shows how
our Dogs are deteriorating."

After the sixth time the rabbit-keepers grew enthusiastic, and
Mickey, commander-in-chief of the brigade, became intemperate in
his admiration. "Be jabers, he has a right to be torned loose. He
has won his freedom loike ivery Amerikin done," he added, by way
of appeal to the patriotism of the Steward of the race, who was,
of course, the real owner of the Jacks.

"All right, Mick; if he gets across thirteen times you can ship
him back to his native land," was the reply.

"Shure now, an' won't you make it tin, sor?"

"No, no; I need him to take the conceit out of some of the new
Dogs that are coming."

"Thirteen toimes and he is free, sor; it's a bargain."

A new lot of Rabbits arrived about this time, and one of these
was colored much like Little Warhorse. He had no such speed, but
to prevent mistakes Mickey caught his favorite by driving him
into one of the padded shipping-boxes, and proceeded with the
gate-keeper's punch to earmark him. The punch was sharp; a clear
star was cut out of the thin flap, when Mickey exclaimed: "Faix,
an' Oi'll punch for ivery toime ye cross the coorse." So he cut
six stars in a row. "Thayer now, Warrhorrse, shure it's a free
Rabbit ye'll be when ye have yer thirteen stars like our flag of
liberty hed when we got free."

Within a week the Warhorse had vanquished the new Greyhounds and
had stars enough to go round the right ear and begin on the left.
In a week more the thirteen runs were completed, six stars in the
left ear and seven in the right, and the newspapers had new
material.

"Whoop!" How Mickey hoorayed! "An' it's a free Jack ye are,
Warrhorrse! Thirteen always wuz a lucky number. I never knowed it
to fail."


IX

"Yes, I know I did," said the Steward. "But I want to give him
one more run. I have a bet on him against a new Dog here. It
won't hurt him now; he can do it. Oh, well. Here now, Mickey,
don't you get sassy. One run more this afternoon. The Dogs run
two or three times a day; why not the Jack?"

"They're not shtakin' thayre loives, sor."

"Oh, you get out."

Many more Rabbits had been added to the pen,--big and small,
peaceful and warlike,--and one big Buck of savage instincts,
seeing Jack Warhorse's hurried dash into the Haven that morning,
took advantage of the moment to attack him.

At another time Jack would have thumped his skull, as he once did
the Cat's, and settled the affair in a minute; but now it took
several minutes, during which he himself got roughly handled; so
when the afternoon came he was suffering from one or two bruises
and stiffening wounds; not serious, indeed, but enough to lower
his speed.

The start was much like those of previous runs. The Warhorse
steaming away low and lightly, his ears up and the breezes
whistling through his thirteen stars.

Minkie with Fango, the new Dog, bounded in eager pursuit, but, to
the surprise of the starters, the gap grew smaller. The Warhorse
was losing ground, and right before the Grand Stand old Minkie
turned him, and a cheer went up from the dog-men, for all knew
the runners. Within fifty yards Fango scored a turn, and the race
was right back to the start. There stood Slyman and Mickey. The
Rabbit dodged, the Greyhounds plunged; Jack could not get away,
and just as the final snap seemed near, the Warhorse leaped
straight for Mickey, and in an instant was hidden in his arms,
while the starter's feet flew out in energetic kicks to repel the
furious Dogs. It is not likely that the Jack knew Mickey for a
friend; he only yielded to the old instinct to fly from a certain
enemy to a neutral or a possible friend, and, as luck would have
it, he had wisely leaped and well. A cheer went up from the
benches as Mickey hurried back with his favorite. But the dog-men
protested "it wasn't a fair run--they wanted it finished." They
appealed to the Steward. He had backed the Jack against Fango. He
was sore now, and ordered a new race.

An hour's rest was the best Mickey could get for him. Then he
went as before, with Fango and Minkie in pursuit. He seemed less
stiff now--he ran more like himself; but a little past the Stand
he was turned by Fango and again by Minkie, and back and across,
and here and there, leaping frantically and barely eluding his
foes. For several minutes it lasted. Mickey could see that Jack's
ears were sinking. The new Dog leaped. Jack dodged almost under
him to escape, and back only to meet the second Dog; and now both
ears were flat on his back. But the Hounds were suffering too.
Their tongues were lolling out; their jaws and heaving sides were
splashed with foam. The Warhorse's ears went up again. His
courage seemed to revive in their distress. He made a straight
dash for the Haven; but the straight dash was just what the
Hounds could do, and within a hundred yards he was turned again,
to begin another desperate game of zigzag. Then the dog-men saw
danger for their Dogs, and two new ones were slipped--two fresh
Hounds; surely they could end the race. But they did not. The
first two were vanquished--gasping--out of it, but the next two
were racing near. The Warhorse put forth all his strength. He
left the first two far behind--was nearly to the Haven when the
second two came up.

Nothing but dodging could save him now. His ears were sinking,
his heart was pattering on his ribs, but his spirit was strong.
He flung himself in wildest zigzags. The Hounds tumbled over each
other. Again and again they thought they had him. One of them
snapped off the end of his long black tail, yet he escaped; but
he could not get to the Haven. The luck was against him. He was
forced nearer to the Grand Stand. A thousand ladies were
watching. The time limit was up. The second Dogs were suffering,
when Mickey came running, yelling like a
madman--words--imprecations--crazy sounds:

"Ye blackguard hoodlums! Ye dhirty, cowardly bastes!" and he
rushed furiously at the Dogs, intent to do them bodily harm.

Officers came running and shouting, and Mickey, shrieking hatred
and defiance, was dragged from the field, reviling Dogs and men
with every horrid, insulting name he could think of or invent.

"Fair play! Whayer's yer fair play, ye liars, ye dhirty cheats,
ye bloody cowards!" And they drove him from the arena. The last
he saw of it was the four foaming Dogs feebly dodging after a
weak and worn-out Jack-rabbit, and the judge on his Horse
beckoning to the man with the gun.

The gate closed behind him, and Mickey heard a bang-bang, an
unusual uproar mixed with yelps of Dogs, and he knew that Little
Jack Warhorse had been served with finish No. 4.

All his life he had loved Dogs, but his sense of fair play was
outraged. He could not get in, nor see in from where he was. He
raced along the lane to the Haven, where he might get a good
view, and arrived in time to see--Little Jack Warhorse with his
half-masted ears limp into the Haven; and he realized at once
that the man with the gun had missed, had hit the wrong runner,
for there was the crowd at the Stand watching two men who were
carrying a wounded Greyhound, while a veterinary surgeon was
ministering to another that was panting on the ground.

Mickey looked about, seized a little shipping-box, put it at the
angle of the Haven, carefully drove the tired thing into it,
closed the lid, then, with the box under his arm, he scaled the
fence unseen in the confusion and was gone.

'It didn't matter; he had lost his job anyway.' He tramped away
from the city. He took the train at the nearest station and
travelled some hours, and now he was in Rabbit country again. The
sun had long gone down; the night with its stars was over the
plain when among the farms, the Osage and alfalfa, Mickey
Doo opened the box and gently put the Warhorse out.

Grinning as he did so, he said: "Shure an' it's ould Oireland
thot's proud to set the thirteen stars at liberty wance moore."

For a moment the Little Warhorse gazed in doubt, then took three
or four long leaps and a spy-hop to get his bearings. Now
spreading his national colors and his honor-marked ears, he
bounded into his hard-won freedom, strong as ever, and melted
into the night of his native plain.

He has been seen many times in Kaskado, and there have been many
Rabbit drives in that region, but he seems to know some means of
baffling them now, for, in all the thousands that have been
trapped and corralled, they have never since seen the
star-spangled ears of Little jack Warhorse.


SNAP

THE STORY OF A BULL-TERRIER

I

It was dusk on Hallowe'en when first I saw him. Early in the
morning I had received a telegram from my college chum Jack:
"Lest we forget. Am sending you a remarkable pup. Be polite to
him; it's safer." It would have been just like Jack to have sent
an infernal machine or a Skunk rampant and called it a pup, so I
awaited the hamper with curiosity. When it arrived I saw it was
marked "Dangerous," and there came from within a high-pitched
snarl at every slight provocation. On peering through the wire
netting I saw it was not a baby Tiger but a small white
Bull-terrier. He snapped at me and at any one or anything that
seemed too abrupt or too near for proper respect, and his
snarling growl was unpleasantly frequent. Dogs have two growls:
one deep-rumbled, and chesty; that is polite warning--the retort
courteous; the other mouthy and much higher in pitch: this is the
last word before actual onslaught. The Terrier's growls were all
of the latter kind. I was a dog-man and thought I knew all about
Dogs, so, dismissing the porter, I got out my all-round
jackknife--toothpick--nailhammer-hatchet-toolbox-fire-shovel, a
specialty of our firm, and lifted the netting. Oh, yes, I knew
all about Dogs. The little fury had been growling out a
whole-souled growl for every tap of the tool, and when I turned
the box on its side, he made a dash straight for my legs. Had not
his foot gone through the wire netting and held him, I might have
been hurt, for his heart was evidently in his work; but I stepped
on the table out of reach and tried to reason with him. I have
always believed in talking to animals. I maintain that they
gather something of our intention at least, even if they do not
understand our words; but the Dog evidently put me down for a
hypocrite and scorned my approaches. At first he took his post
under the table and kept up a circular watch for a leg trying to
get down. I felt sure I could have controlled him with my eye,
but I could not bring it to bear where I was, or rather where he
was; thus I was left a prisoner. I am a very cool person, I
flatter myself; in fact, I represent a hardware firm, and, in
coolness, we are not excelled by any but perhaps the nosy
gentlemen that sell wearing-apparel. I got out a cigar and smoked
tailor-style on the table, while my little tyrant below kept
watch for legs. I got out the telegram and read it: "Remarkable
pup. Be polite to him; it's safer." I think it was my coolness
rather than my politeness that did it, for in half an hour the
growling ceased. In an hour he no longer jumped at a newspaper
cautiously pushed over the edge to test his humor; possibly the
irritation of the cage was wearing off, and by the time I had lit
my third cigar, he waddled out to the fire and lay down; not
ignoring me, however, I had no reason to complain of that kind of
contempt. He kept one eye on me, and I kept both eyes, not on
him, but on his stumpy tail. If that tail should swing sidewise
once I should feel I was winning; but it did not swing. I got a
book and put in time on that table till my legs were cramped and
the fire burned low. About 10 P.M. it was chilly, and at
half-past ten the fire was out. My Hallowe'en present got up,
yawned and stretched, then walked under my bed, where he found a
fur rug. By stepping lightly from the table to the dresser, and
then on to the mantel-shelf, I also reached bed, and, very
quietly undressing, got in without provoking any criticism from
my master. I had not yet fallen asleep when I heard a slight
scrambling and felt "thump-thump" on the bed, then over my feet
and legs; Snap evidently had found it too cool down below, and
proposed to have the best my house afforded.

He curled up on my feet in such a way that I was very
uncomfortable and tried to readjust matters, but the slightest
wriggle of my toe was enough to make him snap at it so fiercely
that nothing but thick woollen bedclothes saved me from being
maimed for life.

I was an hour moving my feet--a hair's-breadth at a time--till
they were so that I could sleep in comfort; and I was awakened
several times during the night by angry snarls from the Dog--I
suppose because I dared to move a toe without his approval,
though once I believe he did it simply because I was snoring.

In the morning I was ready to get up before Snap was. You see, I
call him   Snap-Ginger-snap in full. Some Dogs are hard to name,
and some do not seem to need it--they name themselves.

I was ready to rise at seven. Snap was not ready till eight, so
we rose at eight. He had little to say to the man who made the
fire. He allowed me to dress without doing it on the table. As I
left the room to get breakfast, I remarked:

"Snap, my friend, some men would whip you into a different way,
but I think I know a better plan. The doctors nowadays favor the
'no-breakfast cure.' I shall try that."

It seemed cruel, but I left him without food all day. It cost me
something to repaint the door where he scratched it, but at night
he was quite ready to accept a little food at my hands.

In a week we were very good friends. He would sleep on my bed now
and allow me to move my feet without snapping at them, intent to
do me serious bodily harm. The no-breakfast cure had worked
wonders; in three months we were--well, simply man and Dog, and
he amply justified the telegram he came with.

He seemed to be without fear. If a small Dog came near, he would
take not the slightest notice; if a medium-sized Dog, he would
stick his stub of a tail rigidly up in the air, then walk around
him, scratching contemptuously with his hind feet, and looking at
the sky, the distance, the ground, anything but the Dog, and
noting his presence only by frequent high-pitched growls. If the
stranger did not move on at once, the battle began, and then the
stranger usually moved on very rapidly. Snap sometimes got
worsted, but no amount of sad experience could ever inspire him
with a grain of caution. Once, while riding in a cab during the
Dog Show, Snap caught sight of an elephantine St. Bernard taking
an airing. Its size aroused such enthusiasm in the Pup's little
breast that he leaped from the cab window to do battle, and broke
his leg.

Evidently fear had been left out of his make-up and its place
supplied with an extra amount of ginger, which was the reason of
his full name. He differed from all other Dogs I have ever known.
For example, if a boy threw a stone at him, he ran, not away, but
toward the boy, and if the crime was repeated, Snap took the law
into his own hands; thus he was at least respected by all. Only
myself and the porter at the office seemed to realize his good
points, and we only were admitted to the high honor of personal
friendship, an honor which I appreciated more as months went on,
and by midsummer not Carnegie, Vanderbilt, and Astor together
could have raised money enough to buy a quarter of a share in my
little Dog Snap.


II

Though not a regular traveller, I was ordered out on the road in
the autumn, and then Snap and the landlady were left together,
with unfortunate developments. Contempt on his part--fear on
hers; and hate on both.

I was placing a lot of barb-wire in the northern tier of States.
My letters were forwarded once a week, and I got several
complaints from the landlady about Snap.

Arrived at Mendoza, in North Dakota, I found a fine market for
wire. Of course my dealings were with the big storekeepers, but I
went about among the ranchmen to get their practical views on the
different styles, and thus I met the Penroof Brothers'
Cow-outfit.

One cannot be long in Cow country now without hearing a great
deal about the depredations of the ever wily and destructive
Gray-wolf. The day has gone by when they can be poisoned
wholesale, and they are a serious drain on the rancher's profits.
The Penroof Brothers, like most live cattle-men, had given up all
attempts at poisoning and trapping, and were trying various
breeds of Dogs as Wolf-hunters, hoping to get a little sport out
of the necessary work of destroying the pests.

Foxhounds had failed--they were too soft for fighting; Great
Danes were too clumsy, and Greyhounds could not follow the game
unless they could see it. Each breed had some fatal defect, but
the cow-men hoped to succeed with a mixed pack, and the day when
I was invited to join in a Mendoza Wolf-hunt, I was amused by the
variety of Dogs that followed. There were several mongrels, but
there were also a few highly bred Dogs--in particular, some
Russian Wolfhounds that must have cost a lot of money.

Hilton Penroof, the oldest boy, "The Master of Hounds," was
unusually proud of them, and expected them to do great things.

"Greyhounds are too thin-skinned to fight a Wolf, Danes are too
slow, but you'll see the fur fly when the Russians take a hand."

Thus the Greyhounds were there as runners, the Danes as heavy
backers, and the Russians to do the important fighting. There
were also two or three Foxhounds, whose fine noses were relied on
to follow the trail if the game got out of view.

It was a fine sight as we rode away among the Badland Buttes that
October day. The air was bright and crisp, and though so late,
there was neither snow nor frost. The Horses were fresh, and once
or twice showed me how a Cow-pony tries to get rid of his rider.

The Dogs were keen for sport, and we did start one or two gray
spots in the plain that Hilton said were Wolves or Coyotes. The
Dogs trailed away at full cry, but at night, beyond the fact that
one of the Greyhounds had a wound on his shoulder, there was
nothing to show that any of them had been on a Wolf-hunt.

It's my opinion yer fancy Russians is no good, Hilt," said
Garvin, the younger brother. "I'll back that little black Dane
against the lot, mongrel an' all as he is."

"I don't unnerstan' it," growled Hilton. "There ain't a Coyote,
let alone a Gray-wolf, kin run away from them Greyhounds; them
Foxhounds kin folly a trail three days old, an' the Danes could
lick a Grizzly."

"I reckon," said the father, "they kin run, an' they kin track,
an' they kin lick a Grizzly, maybe, but the fac' is they don't
want to tackle a Gray-wolf. The hull darn pack is scairt--an' I
wish we had our money out o' them."

Thus the men grumbled and discussed as I drove away and left
them.

There seemed only one solution of the failure. The Hounds were
swift and strong, but a Gray-wolf seems to terrorize all Dogs.
They have not the nerve to face him, and so, each time he gets
away, and my thoughts flew back to the fearless little Dog that
had shared my bed for the last year. How I wished he was out
here, then these lubberly giants of Hounds would find a leader
whose nerve would not fail at the moment of trial.

At Baroka, my next stop, I got a batch of mail including two
letters from the landlady; the first to say that "that beast of a
Dog was acting up scandalous in my room," and the other still
more forcible, demanding his immediate removal.
"Why not have him expressed to Mendoza?" I thought. "It's only
twenty hours; they'll be glad to have him. I can take him home
with me when I go through."


III

My next meeting with Gingersnap was not as different from the
first as one might have expected. He jumped on me, made much
vigorous pretense to bite, and growled frequently, but it was a
deep-chested growl and his stump waggled hard.

The Penroofs had had a number of Wolf-hunts since I was with
them, and were much disgusted at having no better success than
before. The Dogs could find a Wolf nearly every time they went
out, but they could not kill him, and the men were not near
enough at the finish to learn why.

Old Penroof was satisfied that "thar wasn't one of the hull
miserable gang that had the grit of a Jack-rabbit."

We were off at dawn the next day--the same procession of fine
Horses and superb riders; the big blue Dogs, the yellow Dogs, the
spotted Dogs, as before; but there was a new feature, a little
white Dog that stayed close by me, and not only any Dogs, but
Horses that came too near were apt to get a surprise from his
teeth. I think he quarrelled with every man, Horse, and Dog in
the country, with the exception of a Bull-terrier belonging to
the Mendoza hotel man. She was the only one smaller than himself,
and they seemed very good friends.

I shall never forget the view of the hunt I had that day. We were
on one of those large, flat-headed buttes that give a kingdom to
the eye, when Hilton, who had been scanning the vast country with
glasses, exclaimed: "I see him. There he goes, toward Skull
Creek. Guess it's a Coyote."

Now the first thing is to get the Greyhounds to see the prey--not
an easy matter, as they cannot use the glasses, and the ground
was covered with sage-brush higher than the Dogs' heads.

But Hilton called, "Hu, hu, Dander," and leaned aside from his
saddle, holding out his foot at the same time. With one agile
bound Dander leaped to the saddle and there stood balancing on
the Horse while Hilton kept pointing. "There he is, Dander; sic
him--see him down there." The Dog gazed earnestly where his
master pointed, then seeming to see, he sprang to the ground with
a slight yelp and sped away. The other Dogs followed after, in an
ever-lengthening procession, and we rode as hard as we could
behind them, but losing time, for the ground was cut with
gullies, spotted with badger-holes, and covered with rocks and
sage that made full speed too hazardous.

We all fell behind, and I was last, of course, being least
accustomed to the saddle. We got several glimpses of the Dogs
flying over the level plain or dropping from sight in gullies to
reappear at the other side. Dander, the Greyhound, was the
recognized leader, and as we mounted another ridge we got sight
of the whole chase--a Coyote at full speed, the Dogs a quarter of
a mile behind, but gaining. When next we saw them the Coyote was
dead, and the Dogs sitting around panting, all but two of the
Foxhounds and Gingersnap.

"Too late for the fracas," remarked Hilton, glancing at these
last Foxhounds. Then he proudly petted Dander. "Didn't need yer
purp after all, ye see."

"Takes a heap of nerve for ten big Dogs to face one little
Coyote," remarked the father, sarcastically. "Wait till we run
onto a Gray."

Next day we were out again, for I made up my mind to see it to a
finish.

From a high point we caught sight of a moving speck of gray. A
moving white speck stands for Antelope, a red speck for Fox, a
gray speck for either Gray-wolf or Coyote, and which of these is
determined by its tail. If the glass shows the tail down, it is a
Coyote; if up, it is the hated Gray-wolf.

Dander was shown the game as before and led the motley mixed
procession--as he had before--Greyhounds, Wolfhounds, Foxhounds,
Danes, Bull-terrier, horsemen. We got a momentary view of the
pursuit; a Gray-wolf it surely was, loping away ahead of the
Dogs. Somehow I thought the first Dogs were not running so fast
now as they had after the Coyote. But no one knew the finish of
the hunt. The Dogs came back to us one by one, and we saw no more
of that Wolf.

Sarcastic remarks and recrimination were now freely indulged in
by the hunters.

"Pah--scairt, plumb scairt," was the father's disgusted comment
on the pack. 
"They could catch up easy enough, but when he turned on them,
they lighted out for home--pah!"

"Where's that thar onsurpassable, fearless, scaired-o'-nort
Tarrier?" asked Hilton, scornfully.
 
"I don't know," said I. "I am inclined to think he never saw the
Wolf; but if he ever does, I'll bet he sails in for death or
glory."

That night several Cows were killed close to the ranch, and we
were spurred on to another hunt.

It opened much like the last. Late in the afternoon we sighted a
gray fellow with tail up, not half a mile off. Hilton called
Dander up on the saddle. I acted on the idea and called Snap to
mine. His legs were so short that he had to leap several times
before he made it, scrambling up at last with my foot as a
half-way station. I pointed and "sic-ed" for a minute before he
saw the game, and then he started out after the Greyhounds,
already gone, with energy that was full of promise.

The chase this time led us, not to the rough brakes along the
river, but toward the high open country, for reasons that
appeared later. We were close together as we rose to the upland
and sighted the chase half a mile off, just as Dander came up
with the Wolf and snapped at his haunch. The Gray-wolf turned
round to fight, and we had a fine view. The Dogs came up by twos
and threes, barking at him in a ring, till last the little white
one rushed up. He wasted no time barking, but rushed straight at
the Wolf's throat and missed it, yet seemed to get him by the
nose; then the ten big Dogs closed in, and in two minutes the
Wolf was dead. We had ridden hard to be in at the finish, and
though our view was distant, we saw at least that Snap had lived
up to the telegram, as well as to my promises for him.

Now it was my turn to crow, and I did not lose the chance. Snap
had shown them how, and at last the Mendoza pack had killed a
Gray-wolf without help from the men.

There were two things to mar the victory somewhat: first, it was
a young Wolf, a mere Cub, hence his foolish choice of country;
second, Snap was wounded--the Wolf had given him a bad cut in the
shoulder.

As we rode in proud procession home, I saw he limped a little.
"Here," I cried, "come up, Snap." He tried once or twice to jump
to the saddle, but could not. "Here, Hilton, lift him up to me."

"Thanks; I'll let you handle your own rattlesnakes," was the
reply, for all knew now that it was not safe to meddle with his
person. "Here, Snap, take hold," I said, and held my quirt to
him. He seized it, and by that I lifted him to the front of my
saddle and so carried him home. I cared for him as though he had
been a baby. He had shown those Cattle-men how to fill the weak
place in their pack; the Foxhounds may be good and the Greyhounds
swift and the Russians and Danes fighters, but they are no use at
all without the crowning moral force of grit, that none can
supply so well as a Bull-terrier. On that day the Cattlemen
learned how to manage the Wolf question, as you will find if ever
you are at Mendoza; for every successful Wolf pack there has with
it a Bull-terrier, preferably of the Snap-Mendoza breed.


IV

Next day was Hallowe'en, the anniversary of Snap's advent. The
weather was clear, bright, not too cold, and there was no snow on
the ground. The men usually celebrated the day with a hunt of
some sort, and now, of course, Wolves were the one object. To the
disappointment of all, Snap was in bad shape with his wound. He
slept, as usual, at my feet, and bloody stains now marked the
place. He was not in condition to fight, but we were bound to
have a Wolf-hunt, so he was beguiled to an outhouse and locked
up, while we went off, I, at least, with a sense of impending
disaster. I knew we should fail without my Dog, but I did not
realize how bad a failure it was to be.

Afar among the buttes of Skull Creek we had roamed when a white
ball appeared bounding through the sage-brush, and in a minute
more Snap came, growling and stump-waggling, up to my Horse's
side. I could not send him back; he would take no such orders,
not even from me. His wound was looking bad, so I called him,
held down the quirt, and jumped him to my saddle.

"There," I thought, "I'll keep you safe till we get home." 'Yes,
I thought; but I reckoned not with Snap. The voice of Hilton,
"Hu, hu," announced that he had sighted a Wolf. Dander and Riley,
his rival, both sprang to the point of observation, with the
result that they collided and fell together, sprawling, in the
sage. But Snap, gazing hard, had sighted the Wolf, not so very
far off, and before I knew it, he leaped from the saddle and
bounded zigzag, high, low, in and under the sage, straight for
the enemy, leading the whole pack for a few minutes. Not far, of
course. The great Greyhounds sighted the moving speck, and the
usual procession strung out on the plain. It promised to be a
fine hunt, for the Wolf had less than half a mile start and all
the Dogs were fully interested.

"They 'ye turned up Grizzly Gully," cried Garvin. "This way, and
we can head them off."

So we turned and rode hard around the north side of Hulmer's
Butte, while the chase seemed to go round the south.

We galloped to the top of Cedar Ridge and were about to ride
down, when Hilton shouted, "By George, here he is! We're right
onto him." He leaped from his Horse, dropped the bridle, and ran
forward. I did the same. A great Gray-wolf came lumbering across
an open plain toward us. His head was low, his tail out level,
and fifty yards behind him was Dander, sailing like a Hawk over
the ground, going twice as fast as the Wolf. In a minute the
Hound was alongside and snapped, but bounded back, as the Wolf
turned on him. They were just below us now and not fifty feet
away. Garvin drew his revolver, but in a fateful moment Hilton
interfered: " No; no; let's see it out." In a few seconds the
next Greyhound arrived, then the rest in order of swiftness. Each
came up full of fight and fury, determined to go right in and
tear the Gray-wolf to pieces; but each in turn swerved aside, and
leaped and barked around at a safe distance. After a minute or so
the Russians appeared--fine big Dogs they were.  Their distant
intention no doubt was to dash right at the old Wolf; but his
fearless front, his sinewy frame and death-dealing jaws, awed
them long before they were near him, and they also joined the
ring, while the desperado in the middle faced this way and that,
ready for any or all.

Now the Danes came up, huge-limbed creatures, any one of them as
heavy as the Wolf.  I heard their heavy breathing tighten into a
threatening sound as they plunged ahead; eager to tear the foe to
pieces; but when they saw him there, grim fearless, mighty of
jaw, tireless of limb, ready to die if need be, but sure of this,
he would not die alone--well, those great Danes--all three of
them--were stricken, as the rest had been, with a sudden
bashfulness: Yes, they would go right in presently--not now, but
as soon as they had got their breath; they were not afraid of a
Wolf, oh, no.  I could read their courage in their voices.  They
knew perfectly well that the first Dog to go in was going to get
hurt, but never mind that--presently; they would bark a little
more to get up enthusiasm.

And as the ten big Dogs were leaping round the silent Wolf at
bay, there was a rustling in the sage at the far side of place;
then a snow-white rubber ball, it seemed, came bounding, but grew
into a little Bull-terrier, and Snap, slowest of the pack, and
last, came panting hard, so hard he seemed gasping.  Over the
level open he made, straight to the changing ring around the
Cattle-killer whom none dared face.  Did he hesitate? Not for an
instant; through the ring of the yelping pack, straight for the
old despot of range, right for his throat he sprang; and the
Gray-wolf struck with his twenty scimitars. But the little one,
if fooled at all, sprang again, and then what came I hardly knew.
There was a whirling mass of Dogs. I thought I saw the little
White One clinched on the Gray-wolf's nose. The pack was all
around; we could not help them now.  But they did not need us;
they had a leader of dauntless mettle, and when in a little while
the final scene was done, there on the ground lay the Gray-wolf,
a giant of his kind, and clinched on his nose was the little
white Dog.

We were standing around within fifteen feet, ready to help, but
had no chance till were not needed.

The Wolf was dead, and I hallooed to Snap, but he did not move. 
I bent over him. "Snap--Snap, it's all over; you've killed him."
But the Dog was very still, and now I saw two deep wounds in his
body.  I tried to lift him. "Let go, old fellow; it's all over."
He growled feebly, and at last go of the Wolf. The rough
cattle-men were kneeling around him now; old Penroof's voice was
trembling as he muttered, "I wouldn't had him hurt for twenty
steers."  I lifted him in my arms, called to him and stroked his
head.  He snarled a little, a farewell as it proved, for he
licked my hand as he did so, then never snarled again.

That was a sad ride home for me. There was the skin of a
monstrous Wolf, but no other hint of triumph.  We buried the
fearless one on a butte back of the
Ranch-house.  Penroof, as he stood by, was heard to grumble: "By
jingo, that was grit--cl'ar grit!  Ye can't raise Cattle without
grit."


THE WINNIPEG WOLF

I

It was during the great blizzard of 1882 that I first met the
Winnipeg Wolf. I had left St. Paul in the middle of March to
cross the prairies to Winnipeg, expecting to be there in
twenty-four hours, but the Storm King had planned it otherwise
and sent a heavy-laden eastern blast. The snow came down in a
furious, steady torrent, hour after hour. Never before had I seen
such a storm. All the world was lost in snow--snow, snow,
snow--whirling, biting, stinging, drifting snow--and the puffing,
monstrous engine was compelled to stop at the command of those
tiny feathery crystals of spotless purity.

Many strong hands with shovels came to the delicately curled
snowdrifts that barred our way, and in an hour the engine could
pass--only to stick in another drift yet farther on. It was
dreary work--day after day, night after night, sticking in the
drifts, digging ourselves out, and still the snow went whirling
and playing about us.

"Twenty-two hours to Emerson," said the official; but nearly two
weeks of digging passed before we did reach Emerson, and the
poplar country where the thickets stop all drifting of the snow.
Thenceforth the train went swiftly, the poplar woods grew more
thickly--we passed for miles through solid forests, then perhaps
through an open space. As we neared St. Boniface, the eastern
outskirts of Winnipeg, we dashed across a little glade fifty
yards wide, and there in the middle was a group that stirred me
to the very soul.

In plain view was a great rabble of Dogs, large and small, black,
white, and yellow, wriggling and heaving this way and that way in
a rude ring; to one side was a little yellow Dog stretched and
quiet in the snow; on the outer part of the ring was a huge black
Dog bounding about and barking, but keeping ever behind the
moving mob. And in the midst, the centre and cause of it all, was
a great, grim, Wolf.

Wolf? He looked like a Lion. There he stood, all
alone--resolute-calm- with bristling mane, and legs braced
firmly, glancing this way and that, to be ready for an attack in
any direction. There was a curl on his lips--it looked like
scorn, but I suppose it was really the fighting snarl of tooth
display. Led by a wolfish-looking Dog that should have been
ashamed, the pack dashed in, for the twentieth time no doubt. But
the great gray form leaped here and there, and chop, chop, chop
went those fearful jaws, no other sound from the lonely warrior;
but a death yelp from more than one of his foes, as those that
were able again sprang back, and left him statuesque as before,
untamed, unmaimed, and contemptuous of them all.

How I wished for the train to stick in a snowdrift now, as so
often before, for all my heart went out to that Gray-wolf; I
longed to go and help him. But the snow-deep glade flashed by,
the poplar trunks shut out the view, and we went on to our
journey's end.

This was all I saw, and it seemed little; but before many days
had passed I knew surely that I had been favored with a view, in
broad daylight, of a rare and wonderful creature, none less than
the Winnipeg Wolf.

His was a strange history--a Wolf that preferred the city to the
country, that passed by the Sheep to kill the Dogs, and that
always hunted alone.

In telling the story of le Garou, as he was called by some,
although I speak of these things as locally familiar, it is very
sure that to many citizens of the town they were quite unknown.
The smug shopkeeper on the main street had scarcely heard of him
until the day after the final scene at the slaughter-house, when
his great carcass was carried to Hine's taxidermist shop and
there mounted, to be exhibited later at the Chicago World's Fair,
and to be destroyed, alas! in the fire that reduced the Mulvey
Grammar School to ashes in 1896.


II

It seems that Fiddler Paul, the handsome ne'er-do-well of the
half-breed world, readier to hunt than to work, was prowling with
his gun along the wooded banks of the Red River by Kildonan, one
day in the June of 1880. He saw a Gray-wo1f come out of a hole in
a bank and fired a chance shot that killed it. Having made sure,
by sending in his Dog, that no other large Wolf was there, he
crawled into the den, and found, to his utter amazement and
delight, eight young Wolves --nine bounties of ten dollars each.
How much is that? A fortune surely. He used a stick vigorously,
and with the assistance of the yellow Cur, all the little ones
were killed but one. There is a superstition about the last of a
brood--it is not lucky to kill it. So Paul set out for town with
the scalp of the old Wolf, the scalps of the seven young, and the
last Cub alive.

The saloon-keeper, who got the dollars for which the scalps were
exchanged, soon got the living Cub. He grew up at the end of a
chain, but developed a chest and jaws that no Hound in town could
match. He was kept in the yard for the amusement of customers,
and this amusement usually took the form of baiting the captive
with Dogs. The young Wolf was bitten and mauled nearly to death
on several occasions, but he recovered, and each month there were
fewer Dogs willing to face him. His life was as hard as it could
be. There was but one gleam of gentleness in it all, and that was
the friendship that grew up between himself and Little Jim, the
son of the saloonkeeper.

Jim was a wilful little rascal with a mind of his own. He took to
the Wolf because it had killed a Dog that had bitten him. He
thenceforth fed the Wolf and made a pet of it, and the Wolf
responded by allowing him to take liberties which no one else
dared venture.

Jim's father was not a model parent. He usually spoiled his son,
but at times would get in a rage and beat him cruelly for some
trifle. The child was quick to learn that he was beaten, not
because he had done wrong, but because he had made his father
angry. If, therefore, he could keep out of the way until that
anger had cooled, he had no further cause for worry. One day,
seeking safety in flight with his father behind him, he dashed
into the Wolf's kennel, and his grizzly chum thus unceremoniously
awakened turned to the door, displayed a double row of ivories,
and plainly said to the father: "Don't you dare to touch him."

If Hogan could have shot the Wolf then and there he would have
done so, but the chances were about equal of killing his son, so
he let them alone and, half an hour later, laughed at the whole
affair. Thenceforth Little Jim made for the Wolf's den whenever
he was in danger, and sometimes the only notice any one had that
the boy had been in mischief was seeing him sneak in behind the
savage captive.

Economy in hired help was a first principle with Hogan. Therefore
his "barkeep" was a Chinaman. He was a timid, harmless creature,
so Paul des Roches did not hesitate to bully him. One day,
finding Hogan out, and the Chinaman alone in charge, Paul,
already tipsy, demanded a drink on credit, and Tung Ling, acting
on standing orders, refused. His artless explanation, "No good,
neber pay," so far from clearing up the difficulty, brought Paul
staggering back of the bar to avenge the insult. The Celestial
might have suffered grievous bodily hurt, but that Little Jim was
at hand and had a long stick, with which he adroitly tripped up
the Fiddler and sent him sprawling. He staggered to his feet
swearing he would have Jim's life. But the child was near the
back door and soon found refuge in the Wolf's kennel.

Seeing that the boy had a protector, Paul got the long stick, and
from a safe distance began to belabor the Wolf, The grizzly
creature raged at the end of the chain, but, though he parried
many cruel blows by seizing the stick in his teeth, he was
suffering severely, when Paul realized that Jim, whose tongue had
not been idle, was fumbling away with nervous fingers to set the
Wolf loose, and soon would succeed. Indeed, it would have been
done already but for the strain that the Wolf kept on the chain.

The thought of being in the yard at the mercy of the huge animal
that he had so enraged, gave the brave Paul a thrill of terror.

Jim's wheedling voice was heard -"Hold on now, Wolfie; back up
just a little, and you shall have him. Now do; there's a good
Wolfie"--that was enough; the Fiddler fled and carefully closed
all doors behind him.

Thus the friendship between Jim and his pet grew stronger, and
the Wolf, as he developed his splendid natural powers, gave daily
evidence also of the mortal hatred he bore to men that smelt of
whiskey and to all Dogs, the causes of his sufferings. This
peculiarity, coupled with his love for the child--and all
children seemed to be included to some extent--grew with his
growth and seemed to prove the ruling force of his life.


III

At this time--that is, the fall of 1881--there were great
complaints among the Qu'Appelle ranchmen that the Wolves were
increasing in their country and committing great depredations
among the stock. Poisoning and trapping had proved failures, and
when a distinguished German visitor appeared at the Club in
Winnipeg and announced that he was bringing some Dogs that could
easily rid the country of Wolves, he was listened to with unusual
interest. For the cattle-men are fond of sport, and the idea of
helping their business by establishing a kennel of Wolfhounds was
very alluring.

The German soon produced as samples of his Dogs, two magnificent
Danes, one white, the other blue with black spots and a singular
white eye that completed an expression of unusual ferocity. Each
of these great creatures weighed nearly two hundred pounds. They
were muscled like Tigers, and the German was readily believed
when he claimed that these two alone were more than a match for
the biggest Wolf. He thus described their method of hunting: "All
you have to do is show them the trail and, even if it is a day
old, away they go on it. They cannot be shaken off. They will
soon find that Wolf, no matter how he doubles and hides. Then
they close on him. He turns to run, the blue Dog takes him by the
haunch and throws him like this," and the German jerked a roll of
bread into the air; "then before he touches the ground the white
Dog has his head, the other his tail, and they pull him apart
like that."

It sounded all right; at any rate every one was eager to put it
to the proof. Several of the residents said there was a fair
chance of finding a Gray-wolf along the Assiniboine, so a hunt
was organized. But they searched in vain for three days and were
giving it up when some one suggested that down at Hogan's saloon
was a Wolf chained up, that they could get for the value of the
bounty, and though little more than a year old he would serve to
show what the Dogs could do.

The value of Hogan's Wolf went up at once when he knew the
importance of the occasion; besides, "he had conscientious
scruples." All his scruples vanished, however, when his views as
to price were met. His first care was to get Little Jim out of
the way by sending him on an errand to his grandma's; then the
Wolf was driven into his box and nailed in. The box was put in a
wagon and taken to the open prairie along the Portage trail.

The Dogs could scarcely be held back, they were so eager for the
fray, as soon as they smelt the Wolf. But several strong men held
their leash, the wagon was drawn half a mile farther, and the
Wolf was turned out with some difficulty. At first he looked
scared and sullen. He tried to get out of sight, but made no
attempt to bite. However, on finding himself free, as well as
hissed and hooted at, he started off at a slinking trot toward
the south, where the land seemed broken. The Dogs were released
at that moment, and, baying furiously, they bounded away after
the young Wolf. The men cheered loudly and rode behind them. From
the very first it was clear that he had no chance. The Dogs were
much swifter; the white one could run like a Greyhound. The
German was wildly enthusiastic as she flew across the prairie,
gaining visibly on the Wolf at every second. Many bets were
offered on the Dogs, but there were no takers. The only bets
accepted were Dog against Dog. The young Wolf went at speed now,
but within a mile the white Dog was right behind him--was closing
in.

The German shouted: "Now watch and see that Wolf go up in the
air."

In a moment the runners were together. Both recoiled, neither
went up in the air, but the white Dog rolled over with a fearful
gash in her shoulder--out of the fight, if not killed. Ten
seconds later the Blue-spot arrived, open-mouthed. This meeting
was as quick and almost as mysterious as the first. The animals
barely touched each other. The gray one bounded aside, his head
out of sight for a moment in the flash of quick movement. Spot
reeled and showed a bleeding flank. Urged on by the men, he
assaulted again, but only to get another wound that taught him to
keep off.