es as well as by all the dogs in the neighborhood, and at length,
with the aid of a telescope, I made a number of observations that helped
me to an understanding of the matter and enabled me to enter more fully
into Bingo's private life.

The post was by common agreement a registry of the canine tribes. Their
exquisite sense of smell enabled each individual to tell at once by the
track and trace what other had recently been at the post. When the snow
came much more was revealed. I then discovered that this post was but
one of a system that covered the country; that, in short, the entire
region was laid out in signal stations at convenient intervals. These
were marked by any conspicuous post, stone, buffalo skull, or other
object that chanced to be in the desired locality, and extensive
observation showed that it was a very complete system for getting and
giving the news.

Each dog or wolf makes a point of calling at those stations that are
near his line of travel to learn who has recently been there, just as a
man calls at his club on returning to town and looks up the register.

I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff, examine the ground about,
then growl, and with bristling mane and glowing eyes, scratch fiercely
and contemptuously with his hind feet, finally walking off very stiffly,
glancing back from time to time. All of which, being interpreted, said:

"Grrrh! woof! there's that dirty cur of McCarthy's. Woof! I'll 'tend to
him tonight. Woof! woof!" On another occasion, after the preliminaries,
he became keenly interested and studied a coyote's track that came and
went, saying to himself, as I afterward learned:

"A coyote track coming from the north, smelling of dead cow. Indeed?
Pollworth's old Brindle must be dead at last. This is worth looking
into."

At other times he would wag his tail, trot about the vicinity and come
again and again to make his own visit more evident, perhaps for the
benefit of his brother Bill just back from Brandon! So that it was not
by chance that one night Bill turned up at Bingo's home and was taken
to the hills, where a delicious dead horse afforded a chance to suitably
celebrate the reunion.

At other times he would be suddenly aroused by the news, take up the
trail, and race to the next station for later information.

Sometimes his inspection produced only an air of grave attention, as
though he said to himself, "Dear me, who the deuce is this?" or "It
seems to me I met