THE WOLF HUNTERS 



familiar music to us that it seldom provoked re- 

 mark, for we had scarcely passed a night since 

 entering the buffalo range that we had not been 

 serenaded by the shrill, discordant notes of the 

 coyote, varied occasionally by the deeper bass of 

 the big, gray buffalo wolves, or "lobos," as the 

 Mexicans call them. 



Next morning Jack and I hurried through the 

 work of watering and changing the animals to 

 fresh grass, while Tom prepared breakfast. We 

 were impatient to be off, and after the meal, tak- 

 ing our rifles in addition to revolvers, we started 

 out to our respective tasks. Jack afoot and I on 

 Black Prince. 



As I approached my wolf baits I disturbed a 

 couple of coyotes — probably late comers that had 

 but recently found the carcass, for they certainly 

 gave no evidence of the effects of strychnine as 

 they loped off on the prairie a little way and there 

 sat on their haunches licking their chops and 

 watching me as though reluctant to leave their 

 feast. 



I tied Prince a few rods away from the bait, of 

 which but little remained, while I walked about 

 through the tall grass, looking up the dead wolves, 

 three of which I noticed lying by the bait before 

 dismounting. On looking about I found five more, 

 at varying distances from the carcass, none of 

 them more than a hundred yards away. Some of 

 them were still warm. 



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