[Illustration]

The old Coyote quit the trail very soon, for nothing that man has made
is friendly. She skirted along a low ridge, then across a little hollow
where grew a few buffalo-bushes, and, after a careful sniff at a very
stale human trail-scent, she crossed another near ridge on whose sunny
side was the home of her brood. Again she cautiously circled, peered
about, and sniffed, but, finding no sign of danger, went down to
the doorway and uttered a low _woof-woof._ Out of the den, beside a
sage-bush, there poured a procession of little Coyotes, merrily tumbling
over one another. Then, barking little barks and growling little puppy
growls, they fell upon the feast that their mother had brought, and
gobbled and tussled while she looked on and enjoyed their joy.

Wolver Jake, the cow-boy, had awakened from his chilly sleep about
sunrise, in time to catch a glimpse of the Coyote passing over the
ridge. As soon as she was out of sight he got on his feet and went
to the edge, there to witness the interesting scene of the family
breakfasting and frisking about within a few yards of him, utterly
unconscious of any danger.

But the only appeal the scene had to him lay in the fact that the county
had set a price on every one of these Coyotes' lives. So he got out
his big .45 navy revolver, and notwithstanding his shaky condition, he
managed somehow to get a sight on the mother as she was caressing one of
the little ones that had finished its breakfast, and shot her dead on
the spot.

The terrified cubs fled into the den, and Jake, failing to kill another
with his revolver, came forward, blocked up the hole with stones,