KNIFE AND FANG.
Several days had passed since the fight at Helen Mowbray's house, and
Ted Strong and the broncho boys were again at the Bubbly Well Ranch.
The remains of Helen Mowbray had been laid to rest near the major's
ranch house in a little lot surrounded by a low fence, and her treasure
was safely stored away in the safe in the major's bedroom.
The period of their visit to the ranch house was past, but still they
stayed to help the major to get word of his brother Frederic Caruthers,
alias Fancy Farnsworth, alleged to be the worst man in Arizona.
Where he might be none knew, of course, but Ted was of the opinion that
he was still somewhere in Arizona, and not far away, either.
He could not have told why he believed so, but he had one of his
"hunches" to that effect, and believed it as surely as if he knew it for
a fact.
Ted had seen his hunches turn out true so often that he did not attempt
now to distrust them.
Somehow, he felt that everything was to come out all right some day, and
that he would find Farnsworth, or Frederic Caruthers, to be more exact,
and Ted always reproached himself when he thought of the young fellow by
his false name.
One morning Ted awoke before the dawn, sitting upright in bed, listening
for a sound, but heard nothing unusual.
This was one of Ted's habits--to be aroused by some unknown sense in the
night when danger threatened.
Hearing nothing, he got out of bed, and sat on its edge and listened
again.
"Wonder what waked me?" he muttered to himself. He was not in the least
sleepy, as he would have been if he had wakened naturally.
"I don't think I was dreaming," he continued to mumble to himself. "And
it wasn't a noise. Must have been a hunch. Guess I'll get up and see if
there's anything wrong about here."
He slipped swiftly into his clothes, and sauntered through the living
room.
It was just beginning to get light outside, and the windows were gray,
while all else in the room was still dark.
He opened the door and stepped out into the chill morning.
Then he heard a noise, but so faint that it couldn't have been that
which had disturbed him from his sound sleep, he thought.
But as the sound came nearer on the clear, thin morning air, and he
recognized it and realized its significance, he knew that it was this
fine, almost indistinguishable sound that had penetrated in some
mysterious manner to his inner ear and called him from his sleep.
It was the cry of a hungry and angry wolf.
At last he located the sound off to the east, but as yet he could see
nothing, for it was not yet light enough, and a thin mist, like a
mirage, hung over the surface of the sandy prairie and obscured the
view.
For a long time he stood listening to the long-drawn and savage howl,
thinned out by the distance and mist, but he knew that it was coming
nearer, and that the animal that was making it was not only hungry, but
that it was a master wolf. It was none of the gaunt, half-starved,
cowardly brutes that follow in the pack and take what the master wolf
leaves of the scraps of the murdered calf or sick cow or sheep which the
leaders of the pack have pulled down.
He had heard before the yells of these kings of the packs of savage
prairie wolves, and they were masterful indeed, and could easily be
distinguished above the feebler pipings of the wolf rabble.
Suddenly the sun came up and the mists disappeared as by magic, and it
was light.
Ted looked steadily toward the place from which the howls had come when
it was dark, and saw a spot against the earth.
It was either a pony or a cow, and it was in trouble, for it came on
very uncertainly, running sideways, stopping for a moment to kick, then
running on again.
Ted immediately saw what was the matter. It was being pursued by the
wolves he had heard.
The wolves were running with it, perhaps had been chasing it all night,
and were snapping it its heels, trying to hamstring it.
He thought it was a small, lean cow from this distance, and wondered at
its courage, and if it would last until it got close enough to where
there were human beings to be safe from further pursuit.
At first he thought of going inside and putting on his coat and boots
and getting his arms and starting out toward it on his pony. But this
was too much trouble, and he stood watching the tragedy of the plain,
hoping for the plucky animal that was doing its best to outrun and
outwit the wolves, for they were close enough now for him to see that
there were four of the gray devils of the prairie.
But only one of them was worthy of a second look--a great, gray brute
much larger than his mates and twice as courageous.
Ted thought it strange that the wolf king was not doing as the others
did; that is, running up behind their victim and making a slash at his
legs with their razorlike fangs, then retreating with a whining howl
when they felt the heels of the poor brute they were tormenting.
No, the big wolf was leaping high into the air from the side, evidently
trying to reach something that was fastened to the pony's back--for now
Ted was able to distinguish what it was.
It was a bay pony, rather small, and almost all in with fatigue.
Something baggy was tied to its back, which resembled a bundle of old
clothes.
Once, as he watched, Ted saw the pony go to its knees, actually tired
out and weak.
But it was up again, and struggling bravely on again.
"Plucky little beggar," muttered Ted, in admiration. "Wish I had taken
my first hunch and ridden out to help it. By Jove, it's not too late
yet!"
Without going into the house Ted jumped to the ground and ran out to
meet the pony and its enemies.
It did not occur to him that he was not armed until he was halfway to
them. Then he felt in his pocket and found his big-bladed knife.
Taking this out, he sprang open the big blade and carried it loosely.
He had stooped and picked up a large stone, which he carried in his
hand.
When he came close enough he hurled the stone at the wolves, and a dull
thud, followed by a shrill, dog-like howl of pain, told him that he had
countered on the rib plate of one of the nasty brutes. Then he let out a
wild yell, and three of the wolves turned and fled.
Not so the king of the pack.
He stopped for a moment and stared at Ted with his pale-green eyes.
Then, with a long howl of defiance, he sprang again at the pony, which
had picked up courage at hearing a human voice and was coming on more
briskly.
Suddenly Ted recognized the pony.
It was the major's Christmas gift, and Ted once more gave voice to an
exultant yell, which only served to increase the fury of the wolf's
attack at whatever was fastened to the pony's back.
Ted knew that Fred Caruthers, as he tried always to call the young
brother of the major, would send the pony back some day, and now his
faith had been rewarded.
When he became aware of the identity of the pony he ran faster, and was
soon within a few feet of it.
He naturally expected that the wolf would now beat a retreat, as wolves
met singly and in this fashion generally turn tail and split the wind
for home when attacked by man.
But the big wolf simply turned his attention from the pony to the boy,
and stood as if carved out of gray granite, his head held high in the
air, and his eyes blazing like two pale-green lights.
"By Jove, I think the brute is going to stand and fight!" said Ted to
himself.
Taking advantage of the situation, the pony trotted past Ted, who
scarcely gave it a look, and went on to the corral back of the house.
"So it's going to be a fight," said Ted, advancing cautiously toward the
wolf. "All right, old chap; I'll give you something to think about, if I
do not leave you on the ground entirely incapable of thinking. I wish
I'd gone after my Winchester now. That would have made it too short,
though. Come on, now. All I have is a short knife blade against four
sharp fangs, and you are as brave as the devil himself."
The wolf had not stirred except that his nose was constantly working as
he sniffed the air for Ted.
Ted knew that a wolf that will stand and fight a man by himself is
possessed of more than ordinary courage and brains, and, therefore, he
was on the lookout for the tricks of the fight.
It was well that he was so versed, for before he was quite ready for it
the wolf, without a sound, leaped straight through the air at his
throat. He had just time to dodge aside, and make a vicious swipe with
his knife.
But his blade did not touch the wolf, whose leap carried him several
feet past Ted. Had the wolf succeeded in striking Ted, they would
inevitably have gone down together, and Ted would have had none the best
of it.
But the battle between Ted, the skilled huntsman and wolf exterminator,
and the wily wolf, whose scarred hide told of many battles with bull and
dog, wild cat and man, serpent of the desert, and the eagles of the
mountains, when, in his dire hunger, he had raided their families.
The wolf slid a few feet, then swung himself around like a top and came
at Ted again.
Ted was wiser this time, and dodged just out of the way. At the same
time he gave a vicious side lunge with the knife, and he felt it enter
the wolf's hide. There was a ripping sound, and he knew he had added a
scar to the brute's large collection.
The wolf was now thoroughly angry, and snarled its fury as it wheeled
once more to the attack.
Ted turned to meet it as it rushed toward him, but as he did so he heard
a shout from the ranch house and turned his head in that direction for
an instant.
But that instant was the critical one, and before he could get around
again to face the wolf it was upon him.
Ted felt it strike his chest a mighty blow with its head, and staggered
backward.
It suddenly came to him that if he got under the wolf its teeth surely
would get to his throat, and that one snap of those saber-sharp teeth
would settle the business for him.
He tried to protect his throat with his left arm as he felt himself
toppling, but could not get it up far enough because the wolf's body and
head interposed.
But he was slashing away with his knife in a frenzy of despair, and,
apparently, was doing some execution, for every time he struck the wolf
let out a little whine of angry pain.
But the wolf had all the best of it now, and as Ted's foot slipped on
some pieces of dry grass he went down with the heavy brute on top of
him.
He could feel it nuzzling at his neck for a toothhold on his throat, but
he kept his chin pressed close to his neck, and, although the wolf
chewed his shirt to pieces, it had found no room to get its teeth into
the boy's flesh.
Ted had no time now to play with the knife. It was not up to him to
conquer the wolf now, but to keep it from taking his life.
Had his revolver been with him he could have ended the fight with a
couple of shots, even if the brute seemed to have a dozen lives, for he
knew that had any one of the knife thrusts which he had planted in the
wolf's body been given to an ordinary specimen of the species the fight
would have been over long since.
The wolf was standing on him, and its weight crushed him.
All he could do in self-defense was to try to get the wolf by the throat
with his bare hands and to choke it.
But the hair about its throat was a thick, almost impenetrable mass of
heavy, thick-growing bristles, on which Ted's hands had apparently no
effect at all.
Ted was in a pretty tight place, and he fully realized it.
The wolf was working hard to get at his windpipe, and the teeth were
getting closer and closer to the vital spot.
Ted's arm, where he tried in vain to get it between himself and the
wolf, was gashed in a dozen places, and the blood was all over him. His
clothes had long since been torn into shreds.
The wolf was getting tired also, as well it might, for, probably it had
been running all night, and had been long without food, so that it was
no discredit to its enormous strength that it was weak and weary.
But neither was Ted as strong as usual, for the ball which had creased
his rib had cost him lots of blood.
In the hearts of both of them, however, there was strength enough, and
it was that which kept them fighting long after both of them were tired
and winded.
The wolf knew, as well as did Ted, that if it ever got to his throat
there would be strength enough for it; the strength that comes from
blood.
Ted was wishing that some one would come.
He had heard a cry. Why didn't whoever had called out come at once?
He couldn't last more than a minute longer, and the strong, murky smell
of the beast was turning him faint, as the wolf seemed to be gaining in
strength and savagery.
Presently he knew the reason. He felt that his side was wet.
His wound had opened again, and he was bleeding.
The wolf had smelled his blood, and it had renewed its strength and
courage, while it weakened and took the life out of Ted.
Suddenly there was a crash of hoofs on the sod. Stella's clear voice
rang out, and the swish of a quirt came through the air.
That was all Ted remembered, except that he felt relieved of the weight
of the wolf, which was running like a streak of gray lightning toward
the hills.
His eyes opened, and he saw Stella bending over him, and managed to
stagger to his feet, congratulating himself as his hand went to his
throat that he had at least saved it from the white fangs of his enemy.