Snap 
two or three Foxhounds, whose fine noses were 
relied on to follow the trail if the game got 
out of view. 
It was a fine sight as we rode away among 
the Badland Buttes that October day. The 
air was bright and crisp, and though so late, 
there was neither snow nor frost. The Horses 
were fresh, and once or twice showed me how 
a Cow-pony tries to get rid of his rider. 
The Dogs were keen for sport, and we did 
start one or two gray spots in the plain that 
Hilton said were Wolves or Coyotes. The 
Dogs trailed away at full cry, but at night, be- 
yond the fact that one of the Greyhounds had 
a wound on his shoulder, there was nothing to 
show that any of them had been on a Wolf-hunt. 
“Tt ’s my opinion yer fancy Russians is no 
good, Hilt,” said Garvin, the younger brother. 
“T ll back that little black Dane against the 
lot, mongrel an’ all as he is.” 
“T don’t unnerstan’ it,” growled Hilton. 
“There ain’t a Coyote, let alone a Gray-wolf, 
kin run away from them Greyhounds; them 
Foxhounds kin folly a trail three days old, 
an’ the Danes could lick a Grizzly.” 
270 
