A week later we were riding the upper trail back of the Chimney Pot,
King and I. "The old man is pretty sick of it," he said. "He'd sell out
if he could. He don't know what's the next move."
The sun went down beyond Sentinel Butte. It was dusk as we reached the
turn that led to Dumont's place, and a deep-toned rolling howl came
from the river flat below, followed by a number of higher-pitched howls
in answering chorus. We could see nothing, but we listened hard. The
song was repeated, the hunting-cry of the Wolves. It faded, the night
was stirred by another, the sharp bark and the short howl, the signal
"close in"; a bellow came up, very short, for it was cut short.
And King as he touched his Horse said grimly: "That's him, he is out
with the pack, an' thar goes another Beef."