THE WOLF HUNTERS 



One cold, windy day, when a gale was blowing 

 from the northwest. Jack started out alone and 

 afoot — he said it was too cold and windy to ride — 

 to kill a few buffalo wolf baits. 



Crossing the creek below the beaver dam, to 

 look for buffalo in the prairie beyond, he soon 

 passed out of sight, while Tom and I busied our- 

 selves taking up the dried skins and baling them. 

 We heard the report of Jack's carbine occasionally 

 and knew by the direction of the sounds that he 

 was to windward of camp — about northwest. 



After Jack had been out for some time Tom 

 took the field-glass and went up onto the bluff 

 south of our camp, from which he could view the 

 prairie north of the creek. 



He gazed long and intently through the glass in 

 Jack's direction and presently started back to 

 camp on a run. 



I knew that something unusual was up. We 

 had heard no uncommon firing from Jack, but, on 

 seeing Tom hurrying down the hill, my thought 

 was: "Indians about or Jack's in trouble." Drop- 

 ping my work, I rushed down into the dugout, 

 seized both rifles, and, with a few blocks of car- 

 tridges, ran back up onto the bank again, looking 

 first toward Tom and then to the timber north of 

 us. There was no sign or sound of an enemy. 



When the old man arrived, breathless from run- 

 ning, he noted my preparations for war and gasped 

 out as fast as he could catch his breath: 



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