could get that, now, she would be doing something!--ah! that foreground.
A poor, half-starved range cow with her calf which the round-up had
overlooked in the fall, stood at bay against a steep cut bank. Before
them squatted five great, gaunt wolves intent upon fresh beef for their
supper. But the cow's horns were long, and sharp, and threatening, and
the calf snuggled close to her side, shivering with the cold and the fear
of death. The wolves licked their cruel lips and their eyes gleamed
hungrily--but the eyes of the cow answered them, gleam for gleam.
If it could be put upon canvas just as he had seen it, with the bitter,
biting cold of a frozen chinook showing gray and sinister in the slaty
sky--

"Kid!"

"Huh?" Johnny struggled reluctantly back to Montana.

"Get me the Little Doctor's paint and truck, over on that table,
and slide that easel up here."

Johnny stared, opened his mouth to speak, then wisely closed it and
did as he was bidden. Philosophically he told himself it was Chip's
funeral, if the Little Doctor made a kick.

"All right, kid." Chip tossed the cigarette stub out of the window.
"You can go ahead and read, now. Lock the door first, and don't you
bother me--not on your life."

Then Chip plunged headlong into the Bad Lands, so to speak.

A few dabs of dirty white, here and there, a wholly original