face. He soon came back to the premises behind the
saloon, but when an attempt was made to chain him again, he leaped a
board fence and was finally lost sight of.

Later that same winter old Renaud, the trapper, with his pretty
half-breed daughter, Ninette, came to live in a little log-cabin on the
river bank. He knew nothing about Jimmie Hogan, and he was not a little
puzzled to find Wolf tracks and signs along the river on both sides
between St. Boniface and Fort Garry. He listened with interest and
doubt to tales that the Hudson Bay Company's men told of a great
Gray-wolf that had come to live in the region about, and even to enter
the town at night, and that was in particular attached to the woods
about St. Boniface Church.

On Christmas Eve of that year when the bell tolled again as it had done
for Jimmie, a lone and melancholy howling from the woods almost
convinced Renaud that the stories were true. He knew the
wolf-cries--the howl for help, the love song, the lonely wail, and the
sharp defiance of the Wolves. This was the lonely wail.

The trapper went to the riverside and gave an answering howl. A shadowy
form left the far woods and crossed on the ice to where the man sat,
log-still, on a log. It came up near him, circled past and sniffed,
then its eye glowed; it growled like a Dog that is a little angry, and
glided back into the night.

Thus Renaud knew, and before long many townfolk began to learn, that a
huge Gray-wolf was living in their streets, "a Wolf three times as big
as the one that used to be chained at Hogan's gin-mill." He was the
terror of Dogs, killing them on all possible occasions, and some said,
though it was never proven, that he had devoured more than one
half-breed who was out on a spree.

And this was the Winnipeg Wolf that I had seen that day in the wintry
woods. I had longed to go to his help, thinking the odds so hopelessly
against him, but later knowledge changed the thought. I do not know how
that fight ended, but I do know that he was seen many times afterward
and some of the Dogs were not.

Thus his was the strangest life that ever his kind had known. Free of
all the woods and plains, he elected rather to lead a life of daily
hazard in the town--each week at least some close escape, and every day
a day of daring deeds; finding momentary shelter at times under the
very boardwalk crossings. Hating the men and despising the Dogs, he
fought his daily way and held the hordes of Cu