dead ones, an' gets to a rock, where we c'n sit an' study natur' a bit,
before we turns back. An' thinkin' it's safe t' do so, I lets go o'
Bull's halter. An' while I'm studyin' an' takin' a nip from a flask I
happens t' have in my jeans, I forgets Bull for a minit, an' when I
looks up, he's plumb absent.

"I ain't worried none, till I happens t' think we was only 'bout a
quarter mile from that Englishman, Barclay's, place, what has that pack
o' wolf-hounds that he hunts with. Fox-huntin' he calls it, though what
he mostly chases is coyotes. Ain't it funny how when an Englishman comes
t' this country he brings his habits with him, or twists ours aroun' t'
fit his'n?"

"Say," demanded Jim. "Is this a yarn 'bout a bulldog or a lecture on
them foreign habits? 'Cause if it's that last, I--"

"Well, anyway," Bill interrupted hastily, "I looks down th' road, an'
Bull's beatin' it hot foot for that Barclay's place, an' I c'n see what
happens if he meets up with them hounds. So I follers, swift's I can,
spillin' some language to Bull--prayers, an' warnin's an' such. But
before I gets there, I sees that pack o' hounds swarm over th' fence
into th' road, an' purty soon, there is Bull, right in their midst, as
th' feller says.

"For th' rest of th' way I does nothin' but pray, an' see visions of th'
biggest dog fight that ever hit Montana, but I keeps movin' rapid, an'
when I gets on th' spot, there's Bull, right in th' middle of th' pack.
Now all th' tails is waggin', an' that looks purty good, till I comes t'
think that Bull always wags his tail before he goes into battle, 'cause
he loves to fight so. An' all them hounds is sniffin' 'round, right