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.