We set out on the trail, and within a mile discovered that the
hapless wolf was Blanca. Away she went, however, at a gallop,
and although encumbered by the beef-head, which weighed over
fifty pounds, she speedily distanced my companion, who was on
foot. But we overtook her when she reached the rocks, for the
horns of the cow's head became caught and held her fast. She was
the handsomest wolf I had ever seen. Her coat was in perfect
condition and nearly white.

She turned to fight, and, raising her voice in the rallying cry of her
race, sent a long howl rolling over the ca¤on. From far away upon
the mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo. That was her
last call, for now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and
breath were devoted to combat.

Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank
from afterward more than at the time. We each threw a lasso over
the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite
directions until the blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed,
her limbs stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward then we rode,
carrying the dead wolf, and exulting over this, the first death-blow
we had been able to inflict on the Currumpaw pack.

At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode
homeward, we heard the roar of Lobo as he wandered about on the
distant mesas, where he seemed to be searching for Blanca. He had
never really deserted her, but, knowing that he could not save her,
his deep-rooted dread of firearms had been too much for him when
he saw us approaching. All that day we heard him wailing as he