ote voices
launched into full cry and howled with him. And Collins, the Coyote
Prophet, for the first time in all his experience heard wolf and coyote
howl in unison over the same kill.

Every night thereafter Breed's pack of two ran with him on the hunt and
always there were the dim shapes circling the kill, padding restlessly
through the sage as they waited for the yellow wolf to leave so they
could swarm in and pick the bones.

At first Breed had retired to the edge of the hills to spend his days,
but his habits were changed through long immunity until his days as well
as nights were spent in the open country; but his caution was never
relaxed and he bedded on the crest of some rise of ground which afforded
a clear field of view for miles in all directions. He frequently saw
some of the devilish riders and occasionally one drew uncomfortably near
his retreat, but always veered away before discovering his presence. His
days were untroubled except by the memories of poisoned coyotes which
persisted in his mind. When he slept his dreams often reverted to these
poisoned horrors, and their death rattles sounded in his ears and his
feet twitched in imaginary flight as he sought to put distance between
himself and these haunting demons. Breed knew that poison was some evil
exercised by man, but its workings were shrouded in mystery. Traps he
could understand,--and rifle shots; for although this latter force was
peculiar, yet there was sound. He understood only those things which to
him were real and actual, things communicated through his physical
senses. Poison seemed some sort of intangible magic, an evil spell
wrought by man, and which transformed sound coyotes into diseased fiends
in the space of seconds.

Always he waked snarling from these dreams, and always he was vastly
puzzled by the abrupt change from night death scenes to the daylight
calm of the open range. For dreams too were beyond his comprehension.
They were actual scenes and scents and sounds to him,--then vanished. It
was only natural that his greatest waking terror should stalk through
his dreams, two mysteries combined to haunt him. Also it was inevitable
that these dreams should eventually link up with the personal equation.

Breed slept one day on the crest of a knoll and suddenly it was night
instead of noon, and Cripp and Peg were leaping about him in a frenzy,
their frothing jaws snapping on the empty air in their madness. He faced
them with bar