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 roamed in his quest, and I remarked at
length to one of the boys, "Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was
his mate."

As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home cañon, for his
voice sounded continually nearer. There was an unmistakable note of
sorrow in it now. It was no longer the loud, defiant howl, but a long,
plaintive wail: "Blanca! Blanca!" he seemed to call. And as night came
down, I noticed that he was not far from the place where we had
overtaken her. At length he seemed to find the trail, and when he came
to the spot where we had killed her, his heart-broken wailing was
piteous to hear. It was sadder than I could possibly have believed.
Even the stolid cowboys noticed it, and said they had "never heard a
wolf carry on like that before." He seemed to know exactly what had
taken place, for her blood had stained the place of her death.

Then he took up the trail of the horses and followed it to the
ranch-house. Whether in hopes of finding her there, or in quest of
revenge, I know not, but the latter was what he found, for he surprised
our unfortunate watchdog outside and tore him to little bits within
fifty yards of the door. He evidently came alone this time, for I found
but one trail next morning, and he had galloped about in a reckless