We were back opposite to where the Wolf had plunged, but saw no sign.
We rode at an easy gallop, on eastward, a mile, and still on, when King
gasped out, "Look at that!" A dark spot was moving on the snow ahead.
We put on speed. Another dark spot appeared, and another, but they were
not going fast. In five minutes we were near them, to find--three of
our own Greyhounds. They had lost sight of the game, and with that
their interest waned. Now they were seeking us. We saw nothing there of
the chase or of the other hunters. But hastening to the next ridge we
stumbled on the trail we sought and followed as hard as though in view.
Another cañon came in our path, and as we rode and looked for a place
to cross, a wild din of Hounds came from its brushy depth. The clamor
grew and passed up the middle.
We raced along the rim, hoping to see the game. The Dogs appeared near
the farther side, not in a pack, but a long, straggling line. In five
minutes more they rose to the edge, and ahead of them was the great
Black Wolf. He was loping as before, head and tail low. Power was plain
in every limb, and double power in his jaws and neck, but I thought his
bounds were shorter now, and that they had lost their spring. The Dogs
slowly reached the upper level, and sighting him they broke into a
feeble cry; they, too, were nearly spent. The Greyhounds saw the chase,
and leaving us they scrambled down the cañon and up the other side at
impetuous speed that would surely break them down, while we rode,
vainly seeking means of crossing.
How the wolver raved to see the pack lead off in the climax of the
chase, and himself held up behind. But he rode and wrathed and still
rode, up to where the cañon dwindled--rough land and a hard ride. As we
neared the great flat mountain, the feeble cry of the pack was heard
again from the south, then toward the high Butte's side, and just a
trifle louder now. We reined in on a hillock and scanned the snow. A
moving speck appeared, then others, not bunched, but in a straggling
train, and at times there was a far faint cry. They were headed toward
us, coming on, yes! coming, but so slowly, for not one was really
running now. There was the grim old Cow-killer limping over the ground,
and far behind a Greyhound, and another, and farther still, the other
Dogs in order of their speed, slowly, gamely, dragging themselves on
that pursuit. Many hours of hardest toil had done their work. The Wolf
had vainly sought to fling them off. Now was his hour of doom, for he
was spent; they still had some reserve. Straight to us for a time they
came, skirting the base of the mountain, crawling.
We could not cross to join them, so held our breath and gazed with
ravenous eyes. They were nearer now, the wind brought feeble notes from
the Hounds. The big Wolf turned to the steep ascent, up a well-known
trail, it seemed, for he made no slip. My heart went with him, for he
had come back to rescue his friend, and a momentary thrill of pity came
over us both, as we saw him glance around and drag himself up the
sloping way, to die on his mountain. There was no escape for him, beset
by fifteen Dogs with men to back them. He was not walking, but
tottering upward; the Dogs behind in line, were now doing a little
better, were nearing him. We could hear them gasping; we scarcely heard
them bay--they had no breath for that; upward the grim procession went,
circling a spur of the Butte and along a ledge that climbed and
narrowed, then dropped for a few yards to a shelf that reared above the
cañon. The foremost Dogs were closing, fearless of a foe so nearly
spent.
Here in the narrowest place, where one wrong step meant death, the
great Wolf turned and faced them. With fore-feet braced, with head low
and tail a little raised, his dusky mane a-bristling, his glittering
tusks laid bare, but uttering no sound that we could hear, he faced the
crew. His legs were weak with toil, but his neck, his jaws, and his
heart were strong, and--now all you who love the Dogs had better close
the book--on--up and down--fifteen to one, they came, the swiftest
first, and how it was done, the eye could scarcely see, but even as a
stream of water pours on a rock to be splashed in broken Jets aside,
that stream of Dogs came pouring down the path, in single file
perforce, and Duskymane received them as they came. A feeble spring, a
counter-lunge, a gash, and "Fango's down," has lost his foothold and is
gone. Dander and Coalie close and try to clinch; a rush, a heave, and
they are fallen from that narrow path. Blue-spot then, backed by mighty
Oscar and fearless Tige--but the Wolf is next the rock and the flash of
combat clears to show him there alone, the big Dogs gone; the rest
close in, the hindmost force the foremost on--down-to their death.
Slash, chop and heave, from the swiftest to the biggest, to the last,
down--down--he sent them whirling from the ledge to the gaping gulch
below, where rocks and snags of trunks were sharp to do their work.
In fifty seconds it was done. The rock had splashed the stream
aside--the Penroof pack was all wiped out; and Badlands Billy stood
there, alone again on his mountain.
A moment he waited to look for more to come. There were no more, the
pack was dead; but waiting he got his breath, then raising his voice
for the first time in that fatal scene, he feebly gave a long yell of
triumph, and scaling the next low bank, was screened from view in a
cañon of Sentinel Butte.
We stared like men of stone. The guns in our hands were forgotten. It
was all so quick, so final. We made no move till the Wolf was gone. It
was not far to the place: we went on foot to see if any had escaped.
Not one was left alive. We could do nothing--we could say nothing.