drawn out ovo-o0 ; 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 
