Badlands Billy 
nowed from time to time, in efforts to be free, 
but he was helpless, even as a Sparrow might 
be in a rat-trap, and when the sun had played 
his fierce chromatic scale, his swan-song sung, 
and died as he dies only in the blazing west, 
and the shades had fallen on the melodramatic 
scene of the Mouse in the elephant-trap, there 
was a deep, rich sound on the high flat butte, 
answered by another, neither very long, neither 
repeated, and both instinctive rather than nec- 
essary. One was the muster-call of an ordinary 
Wolf, the other the answer of a very big male, 
not a pair in this case, but mother and son— 
Yellow Wolf and Duskymane. They came trot- 
ting together down the Buffalo trail. They 
paused at the telephone box on the hill and 
again at the old cottonwood root, and were 
making for the river when the Hawk in the 
trap fluttered his wings. The old Wolf turned 
toward him,—a wounded bird on the ground 
surely, and she rushed forward. Sun and sand 
soon burn all trail-scents; there was nothing to 
warn her. She sprang on the flopping bird 
and a chop of her jaws ended his troubles, but 
a horrid sound—the gritting of her teeth on 
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