ticular path in life mainly because they are in it; they stick all
the closer if they can see anybody else doing the same thing. That was
what the wicked old mule saw, and he may have imagined that the squad or
rather string of bisons ahead of him knew where they were going and what
for. At all events he led his band closely behind them, and they plodded
on in a way that carried them ahead quite rapidly. It carried them into
the pass and through it, mule, ponies and all, and there was no one to
tell them of what had happened there before or what was about to occur.

Something had happened--something that is pretty sure to come to all
bisons, sooner or later. In due season their great bodies reel and fall,
and the wolves and buzzards are fed. But for such things the wolves
would all die, and they have an unerring judgment as to the condition of
an ailing bison. They never attack a healthy bull or cow unless they are
in great force and the animal is alone.

The migration of bisons from the parching plain to better pasture had
been going on for some time, and the coyotes had followed it as a matter
of course. The very day that the old mule halted his runaways at the
spring for all the water they could hold, there should have been a
painter on the great ledge which was followed by the trail in the middle
of the pass. There was a tragedy there worth sketching.

Herd after herd of bisons had gone along that ledge road in clumsy
safety, but right there now, at the curve of the projecting rock, stood
one who could go no farther. A fragment of an arrow still sticking
through one of his hind-legs told what had made him lame in the first
place, and the marks of wolf-teeth explained why he had grown lamer and
lamer until all he could do was to turn his back to the rock and stand
at bay.

Mile after mile of weary walking and painful struggling the poor old
beast had contended with the enemies now swarming around him; they had
assailed him always from behind, and they had altogether crippled him.
His great, terrible head was lowered threateningly, and his deep,
sonorous bellow was thick with pain and fury. The watching coyotes sat
down or walked around, barking, yelping, howling, snapping their teeth
like castanets, sure of a feast to come and hungrily impatient for its
beginning. One, hungrier or bolder than the rest, made a rush too soon,
and the quick horn of the old bison caught him. Up, up he went, whirling
over and over, and