It was the roughest of all rough riding. It was a far longer hunt than
we had expected, and was full of little incidents, for that endless
line of marks was a minute history of all that the big Wolf had done
the night before. Here he had circled at the telephone box and looked
for news; there he had paused to examine an old skull; here he had
shied off and swung cautiously up wind to examine something that proved
to be an old tin can; there at length he had mounted a low hill and sat
down, probably giving the muster-howl, for two Wolves had come to him
from different directions, and they then had descended to the river
flat where the Cattle would seek shelter during the storm. Here all
three had visited a Buffalo skull; there they trotted in line; and
yonder they separated, going three different ways, to
meet--yes--here--oh, what a sight, a fine Cow ripped open, left dead
and uneaten. Not to their taste, it seems, for see! within a mile is
another killed by them. Not six hours ago, they had feasted. Here their
trails scatter again, but not far, and the snow tells plainly how each
had lain down to sleep. The Hounds' manes bristled as they sniffed
those places. King had held the Dogs well in hand, but now they were
greatly excited. We came to a hill whereon the Wolves had turned and
faced our way, then fled at full speed,--so said the trail,--and now it
was clear that they had watched us from that hill, and were not far
away.
The pack kept well together, because the Greyhounds, seeing no quarry,
were merely puttering about among the other Dogs, or running back with
the Horses. We went as fast as we could, for the Wolves were speeding.
Up mesas and down coulees we rode, sticking closely to the Dogs, though
it was the roughest country that could be picked. One gully after
another, an hour and another hour, and still the threefold track went
bounding on; another hour and no change, but interminable climbing,
sliding, struggling, through brush and over boulders, guided by the
far-away yelping of the Dogs.
Now the chase led downward to the low valley of the river, where there
was scarcely any snow. Jumping and scrambling down hills, recklessly
leaping dangerous gullies and slippery rocks, we felt that we could not
hold out much longer; when on the lowest, dryest level the pack split,
some went up, some went down, and others straight on. Oh, how King did
swear! He knew at once what it meant. The Wolves had scattered, and so
had divided the pack. Three Dogs after a Wolf would have no chance,
four could not kill him, two would certainly be killed. And yet this
was the first encouraging sign we had seen, for it meant that the
Wolves were hard pressed. We spurred ahead to stop the Dogs, to pick
for them the only trail. But that was not so easy. Without snow here
and with countless Dog tracks, we were foiled. All we could do was to
let the Dogs choose, but keep them to a single choice. Away we went as
before, hoping, yet fearing that we were not on the right track. The
Dogs ran well, very fast indeed. This was a bad sign, King said, but we
could not get sight of the track because the Dogs overran it before we
came.
After a two-mile run the chase led upward again in snow country; the
Wolf was sighted, but to our disgust, we were on the track of the
smallest one.
"I thought so," growled young Penroof. "Dogs was altogether too keen
for a serious proposition. Kind o' surprised it ain't turned out a
Jack-rabbit."
Within another mile he had turned to bay in a willow thicket. We heard
him howl the long-drawn howl for help, and before we could reach the
place King saw the Dogs recoil and scatter. A minute later there sped
from the far side of the thicket a small Gray-wolf and a Black One of
very much greater size.
"By golly, if he didn't yell for help, and Billy come back to help him;
that's great!" exclaimed the wolver. And my heart went out to the brave
old Wolf that refused to escape by abandoning his friend.
The next hour was a hard repetition of the gully riding, but it was on
the highlands where there was snow, and when again the pack was split,
we strained every power and succeeded in keeping them on the big
"five-fifty track," that already was wearing for me the glamour of
romance.
Evidently the Dogs preferred either of the others, but we got them
going at last. Another half hour's hard work and far ahead, as I rose
to a broad flat plain, I had my first glimpse of the Big Black Wolf of
Sentinel Butte.
"Hurrah! Badlands Billy! Hurrah! Badlands Billy!" I shouted in salute,
and the others took up the cry.
We were on his track at last, thanks to himself. The Dogs joined in
with a louder baying, the Greyhounds yelped and made straight for him,
and the Horses sniffed and sprang more gamely as they caught the
thrill. The only silent one was the black-maned Wolf, and as I marked
his size and power, and above all his long and massive jaws, I knew why
the Dogs preferred some other trail.
With head and tail low he was bounding over the snow. His tongue was
lolling long; plainly he was hard pressed. The wolvers' hands flew to
their revolvers, though he was three hundred yards ahead; they were out
for blood, not sport. But an instant later he had sunk from view in the
nearest sheltered cañon.
Now which way would he go, up or down the cañon? Up was toward his
mountain, down was better cover. King and I thought "up," so pressed
westward along the ridge. But the others rode eastward, watching for a
chance to shoot.
Soon we had ridden out of hearing. We were wrong--the Wolf had gone
down, but we heard no shooting. The cañon was crossable here; we
reached the other side and then turned back at a gallop, scanning the
snow for a trail, the hills for a moving form, or the wind for a sound
of life.
"Squeak, squeak," went our saddle leathers, "puff-puff" our Horses, and
their feet "ka-ka-lump, ka-ka-lump."
X