show that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, and had
absolute confidence in himself. Calone's farm was on a small
tributary of the Currumpaw, in a picturesque ca¤on, and among the
rocks of this very ca¤on, within a thousand yards of the house, Old
Lobo and his mate selected their den and raised their family that
season. There they lived all summer and killed Joe's cattle, sheep,
and dogs, but laughed at all his poisons and traps and rested
securely among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while Joe
vainly racked his brain for some method of smoking them out, or
of reaching them with dynamite. But they escaped entirely
unscathed, and continued their ravages as before. "There's where
he lived all last summer," said Joe, pointing to the face of the cliff,
"and I couldn't do a thing with him. I was like a fool to him."

II

This history, gathered so far from the cowboys, I found hard to
believe until, in the fall of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the
wily marauder, and at length came to know him more thoroughly
than anyone else. Some years before, in the Bingo days, I had been
a wolf-hunter, but my occupations since then had been of another
sort, chaining me to stool and desk. I was much in need of a
change, and when a friend, who was also a ranch-owner on the
Currumpaw, asked me to come to New Mexico and try if I could
do anything with this predatory pack, I accepted the invitation and,
eager to make the acquaintance of its king, was as soon as possible
among the mesas of that region. I spent some time riding about to
learn the country. and at intervals my guide would point to the
skeleton of a cow to which the hide still adhered, and remark,
"That's some of his work."