Badlands Billy 
the snow. His tongue was lolling long; plainly 
he was hard pressed. ‘The wolvers’ hands flew 
to their revolvers, though he was three hundred 
yards ahead; they were out for blood, not 
sport. But an instant later he had sunk from 
view in the nearest sheltered cafion. 
Now which way would he go, up or down 
the canon? Up was toward his mountain, 
down was better cover. King and I thought 
“up,” so pressed westward along the ridge. 
But the others rode eastward, watching for a 
chance to shoot. 
Soon we had ridden out of hearing. We 
were wrong—the Wolf had gone down, but we 
heard no shooting. The canon was crossable 
here; we reached the other side and then 
turned back at a gallop, scanning the snow for 
a trail, the hills for a moving form, or the wind 
for a sound of life. 
‘““Squeak, squeak,”’ went our saddle leathers, 
“ puff—puff ” our Horses, and their feet “ka- 
ka-lump, ka-ka-lump.” 
