of old. Many a message was lying undelivered in that nest, many a
record-bearing plume had fluttered away from its fastness. But Arnaux
had faced them before, and now he came as before--on, onward, swift,
but not as he had been; the deadly gun had sapped his force, had
lowered his speed. On, on; and the Peregrines, biding their time, went
forth like two bow-bolts; strong and lightning-swift they went against
one weak and wearied.

Why tell of the race that followed? Why paint the despair of a brave
little heart in sight of the home he had craved in vain? in a minute
all was over. The Peregrines screeched in their triumph. Screeching and
sailing, they swung to their eyrie, and the prey in their claws was the
body, the last of the bright little Arnaux. There on the rocks the
beaks and claws of the bandits were red with the life of the hero. Torn
asunder were those matchless wings, and their records were scattered
unnoticed. In sun and in storm they lay till the killers themselves
were killed and their stronghold rifled. And none knew the fate of the
peerless Bird till deep in the dust and rubbish of that pirate-nest the
avenger found, among others of its kind, a silver ring, the sacred
badge of the High Homer, and read upon it the pregnant inscription:
"ARNAUX, 2590 C."

BADLANDS BILLY

The Wolf that Won

I

THE HOWL BY NIGHT

Do you know the three calls of the hunting Wolf:--the long-drawn deep
howl, the muster, that tells of game discovered but too strong for the
finder to manage alone; and the higher ululation that ringing and
swelling is the cry of the pack on a hot scent; and the sharp bark
coupled with a short howl that, seeming least of all, is yet a gong of
doom, for this is the cry "Close in"--this is the finish?

We were riding the Badland Buttes, King and I, with a pack of various
hunting Dogs stringing behind or trotting alongside. The sun had gone
from the sky, and a blood-streak marked the spot where he died, away
over Sentinel Butte. The hills were dim, the valleys dark, when from
the nearest gloom there rolled a long-drawn cry that all men recognize
instinctively--melodious, yet with a tone in it that sends a shudder up
the spine, though now it has lost all menace for mankind. We listened
for a moment. It was the Wolf-hunter who broke silence: "That's
Badlands Billy; ain't it a voice? He's out for his beef to-night."

II

ANCIENT DAYS

In pristine days the Buffalo herds were followed