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."