drawn out ooo-oo ; then another voice, a 

 soprano, joined in, followed by a bari- 

 tone, and then the star voice of them 

 all — loud, clear, vicious, mournful. For 

 an instant I saw him silhouetted against 

 the rising moon on the hill ridge, head 

 thrown back and muzzle raised, as he 

 gave to the peaceful night his long, 

 howling bark, his " talk at moon " as 

 the Indians put it. The ranchman re- 

 marked that there were " two or three 

 out there," but I knew better. There 

 were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of 

 them ; I am not deaf 



The next morning we were up with 

 the dawn and started by eight to run 

 down Mountain Billy, the grey wolf 

 who lived on the ranchmen of the Bad 

 Lands. Our outfit was as symmetrical 

 as a pine cone — dogs, horses, mess 

 wagon, food, guns, and men. All we 



