river's bend. The remainder, about two hundred and fifty men under
Lynch, formed a long scattering line from the left entrance of the
horseshoe, extending back until it met the advancing line of Reese's
pickets.

With the river on one side and this cordon of foot and horsemen on the
other, it seemed that nothing could possibly escape. The location of
the quarry was almost assured. This chaparral had been the breeding
refuge of wolves ever since the Cimarron was a cattle country.
Every rider on that range for the past ten years knew it to be the
rendezvous of El Lobo, while the ravages of his nightly raids were in
evidence for forty miles in every direction. It was a common sight,
early in the morning during the winter months, to see twenty and
upward in a band, leisurely returning to their retreat, logy and
insolent after a night's raid. To make doubly sure that they would be
at home to callers, the promoters of this drive gathered a number of
worthless lump-jawed cattle two days in advance, and driving them to
the edge of the grove, shot one occasionally along its borders, thus,
to be hoped, spreading the last feast of the wolves.

* * * * *

By half past ten, Encampment Butte was deserted with the exception of
a few old cowmen, two ladies, wife and sister of a popular cowman, and
the captain, who from this point of vantage surveyed the field with
a glass. Usually a languid and indifferent man, Miller had so set his
heart on making this drive a success that this morning he appeared
alert and aggressive as he rode forward and back across the plateau of
the Butte. The dull, heavy reports of several shotguns caused him to
wheel his horse and cover the beef ford with his glass, and a moment