Wilderness Champion

WILDERNESS CHAMPION by Joseph Wharton Lippincott When Johnny lost the best hound pup of the litter on the trail leading to his ranger’s cabin high in the Alberta peaks, he almost gave up hope of finding it; but in a year there began to be rumors of a huge red hound who traveled in the sinister company of the black leader of the wolves. Then a wilderness adventure brought the hound back to his master, and his dog heritage held; Reddy became a man’s dog and the greatest hunting hound in the whole north country. His fame spread and the reader follows his career with mounting enthusiasm as the scene shifts to Wyoming and Reddy’s encounters with coyotes, mountain lions, and grizzlies; and still farther south to the swamps and sand hills of Florida where the hound at length proves himself champion in fox hound Field Trials. Then follows the dog’s main test—and his master’s—and the dramatic and satisfying climax of the tale, once more in the wilderness among the wolves. This is a great story of a man’s life and a dog’s, bound together by strange ties of love and loyalty. It is a story charged with emotion, yet the author is completely faithful to true dog character and achievement, which he knows well. He has been master of the Huntingdon Valley Hunt and of the Oak Hill Beagles and has made big-game hunting trips into Alaska, Canada, Mexico and many parts of the United States and Europe. Readers of THE WOLF KING will look confidently to this book for a rare treat. It has strong appeal for young people and for dog lovers of all ages. Paul Bransom’s fine drawings add beauty and importance to a distinguished text.

WILDERNESS CHAMPION THE STORY OF A GREAT HOUND by J o s e p h W h a r t o n L i p p i n c o t t

Illustrated by Paul Bransom

J.

B.

LIPPINCOTT

COMPANY

PHIL ADELPHIA • NEW YORK • LONDON

COPYRIGHT 1944, RENEWED 1972 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA trade edition isbn-0-397-30099-9 llb edition isbn-0-397-31320-9

Books by Joseph Wharton Lippincott The Wolf King Animal Neighbors of the Countryside Chisel-Tooth, TThe Beaver The Red Road Pony and others

TO BETSY

Illustrations PAGE

His hopes rose and he went forward to make friends.

19

Grimly they fought in the snow.

34-35

Very much aloof sat the black wolf.

42-43

The caribou’s antlers were still covered with velvet, but he swung them about in furious threats.

51

Only the fact that one front leg was also in the noose saved him.

59

Every hair on his back bristling, teeth bared, he walked deliberately forward. The big bear had been chased and harried until unable to go any farther.

96-97 125

The long notes of his steady baying carried through the glades as he chased the old buck.

134-135

He was across almost in almost no time.

172-173

It was the lond sad call.

183

Contents 1 LOST PUP

9

2 WILDERNESS FRIENDSHIP

15

3 THE FIRST BATTLE

22

4 REDDY GROWS UP

30

5 “I’LL TAME HIM!”

38

6 NOTHING TO FEAR

47

7 SPRIGING THE TRAP

56

8 A PACK HUNTS

66

9 THE CABIN ON THE RIDGE

74

10 WYOMING ADVENTURE

83

11 MOUNTAIN LION

92

12 ONE AGAINST A PACK

102

13 THE CALL TO THE WILD

111

14 THE GRIZZLY

121

15 EVERGLADES ADVENTURE

128

16 THE FOX HOUND FIELD TRIALS

140

17 MAY THE BEST WIN

151

18 THE FIRST LOYALTY

161

19 ON THE TRAIL OF THE KING

168

20 LAST STAND OF THE WOLF

176

21 A MAN AND HIS DOG

186

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CHAPTER ONE

Lost Pup >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE AFTERNOON TRAIN HAD PULLED OUT OF THE LITTLE ALBERTA STATION and vanished noisily behind Bald Mountain when a rider, leading two black pack horses, jogged down the backwoods trail from the North Ridge and swung out of his saddle beside the freight shed. The horses required no tying; with complete docility they hung weary heads, slouched hindquarters and quietly waited for further orders. The stationmaster had heard the hoofs clicking against loose stones in the mountain stillness, and now stepped out of the shed with a broad grin spreading through his reddish whiskers. “The hound pups have come, Johnny, right on time—June first,” he croaked genially. “Four of ’em. All alive and kicking!” “That’s news!” shouted the rider joyfully. He was much younger, thinner and taller than the other man. There was something especially boyish in his voice and in the look of his shaven, red face. Under the shadow of his old felt hat one could see sharp eyes and plenty of light own hair. But most noticeable of all was his walk. Life in the wilds had taken all awkwardness out of his stride. His heels made no sound on the boards of the platform and he seemed almost to glide with the grace of a panther. There seemed to be a close bond between the two men. They shook hands warmly. “You’re always lucky, you old boss!” chortled the stationmaster. “No, Mac,” grinned Johnny, “it’s just a case of having a mighty good railroad man looking after my affairs. Where are you keeping those dog cubs?” As if in answer there came a howl from the shed which [9]

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quickly grew to a general clamor of puppy voices. The two men took a look through the slats of a medium-sized box. Excited wet, black noses were thrust out to greet them. “Three are black and tan; the other’s all tan—no, he’s red. Ever see one so solid red?” “And the red one just sits there with that dignified, book-l’arnin’ face of his while the others climb all over themselves.” “What a pack they’ll make someday! And then how they’ll hustle the wolves! Shouldn’t wonder if the old King himself will have to watch his step. By the way, have you heard the big black fellow lately? Last time he was running alone, I think, while the other wolves seemed to be ganging up everywhere.” “No. Haven’t seen his tracks or heard him. Maybe he’s gone back to the Porcupine.” “Well, he’ll come around here again. Anyway, none of these trappers will be likely to catch him napping.” By this time the men had loosened the slats and lifted the four fat little pups out of their box. With timid steps the youngsters wandered about, sniffing and exploring. Their floppy ears almost brushed the ground and their solemn eyes looked questioningly at the unfamiliar objects. “They’re beauts,” observed the stationmaster admiringly. “Sure are thoroughbreds. Wish I had a bunch half as good.” Johnny watched them for a minute or two and then picked up the red one. “Here’s my favorite,” he said with conviction. “He’s the biggest and the huskiest, and see how he hates to be interrupted in his hunting.” The red pup had managed to squirm out of Johnny’s hands and to renew his tour of inspection. “He’s got ambition,” laughed the stationmaster approvingly. “Let’s see if any of them is hungry,” suggested Johnny, fishing a

LOST PUP

biscuit out of a pocket and offering it to the nearest pup; but the little hound only sniffed at it timidly. “Don’t want it, eh? Well, Reddy, bow about you?” The red pup had come quickly to investigate, and now without any hesitation seized the biscuit. With it jammed firmly between his teeth, he stood glaring at the others who clustered around him. Fierce growls came from his little throat and the hair rose on his back until he fairly bristled. The others meekly backed away. The men laughed and tossed pieces of bread to the three black and tans to cheer them up. When the last bit they could find was gulped, the pups were put back in the box and roped to the pack saddle on one of the black horses. Johnny, with an expert jump, was in the saddle on his black-maned bay. “Good-by Mac. Keep off the tracks!” “Try not to let the wolves get you!” countered the stationmaster. Then the rider and his horses, the blacks glad to follow homeward without any lead rope, vanished among the trees, and Mac turned away to begin his lonesome walk through the woods to the one-room shack which everyone who knew him called Mac’s Castle. Johnny’s trail went over the ridge, then down through a canyon and up again into the peaks until it led to the headwaters of Little Sheep Creek where, as forest ranger and game warden, he occupied the official cabin overlooking two long, narrow valleys. There, his only neighbors were the wild creatures; he was in the homeland of the white mountain goat, the big horn sheep and the golden eagle. Far below him, within view, but like mere specks, often ranged caribou, moose and deer. At times there might be bears, both the grizzly and the black, and at other times lesser dots moving nervously and fast—the wolves—gray ones and black ones, sometimes thirty in a pack, or perhaps only a few together or only two. When a lone wolf of unusual size came out of the timber, Johnny would fetch his binoculars from the shelf behind the door and take a

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careful look at him, for generally the single wolf would be the great old-timer everyone called the King. He was black as pitch and massive in limb, and his voice when he howled was gruff and deep, and with that weird quality which made the scalp of many a hunter tingle and something like a shiver travel along his spine. Anyone who heard or saw the King never forgot him. There were many stories about this old black wolf. At one time he had led the great wolf pack of the valley of the Porcupine—he and his mate. Men had tried to break up the pack, with guns, traps, poison and dogs. Rewards were offered, larger each year, and some results were secured, but no one ever broke the spirit of the King until the big wolf lost his mate. After that came a sudden change. The wolf seemed to go mad. He separated from his kind and ranged recklessly far and wide as if searching for the lost she-wolf. His great voice, hoarse from calling throughout the long nights, haunted the mountains with its roar. After a year of this he seemed to give up hope, but never to settle down again. Only very rarely would his tracks be seen with those of other wolves, for his restlessness drove him to wander constantly from one range to another regardless of the food supply or of his enemy, man.

There were spots in the steep trail where Johnny nearly always stopped to give the horses a brief rest, but this time the growing shadows warned him to keep going. It was not pleasant to be caught in the mountains after dark, especially in the gloom of the spruce timber which extended up to the edge of the rock slides and precipices immediately below the final climb. The timber line was at an altitude of about nine thousand feet; after that came the bush and loose stone country; then the jagged rock, with only scattered patches of grass and weeds. At the very top there was little except rock and banks of snow in partly shaded places. As the night gradually settled over the mountain basins, the horses cocked their ears and traveled more warily. Where the trail was especially steep and rocky, they tried to stop and look around while getting

LOST PUP

back their wind in the rarefied atmosphere. They were still in the zone of trees, though a little way ahead many openings showed where the forest began to thin. Suddenly Johnny felt the muscles of his mount tighten and saw two black shapes coming down the trail in front of him. From their size and general outline he guessed that they were bull moose intent on some business of their own and unaware of his presence. To let them come too close would mean trouble with the horses, so he waved his arms and shouted: “Hi, there!” The two big bulls stopped instantly and threw up their massive heads on which new growths of antlers showed like limbs growing from between shaggy ears. One swung slightly to the left, the other to the right, and past the horses they lumbered with such crashing of dead branches that the pack animals took fright and wheeled. Down the trail they dashed and out of sight before Johnny could control his own bay and do anything to stop them. It was not a real stampede, however, for the horses had often seen and smelled moose though not as close as these, so Johnny, riding recklessly fast, was able very soon to catch up to the blacks and turn them. He swished the loose end of his reins threateningly as he chased the offenders clattering uphill once more. The moose had gone down the mountain and were nearly out of hearing, but Johnny kept the blacks ahead of him and drove them the remaining mile and a half. By this time it was really night. The low cabin, perched among bushes and rocks on the divide between the two valleys, looked almost black in the starlight. Johnny dismounted quickly, took off the saddle and bridle and let his horse go into the corral at one side. Then he began untying the packs on the blacks. His first care was the box with pups, and this he noted was not in the right position. Working hard at the ropes, he loosened it and found that a slat was missing. Ripping off another slat almost feverishly, be felt inside and realized his worst fears; the pups were gone. At least that was his first excited surmise, but in the furthest corner he discovered one of them so shaken and

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scared by being left alone in a new situation that it had nearly flattened itself against the wood. Here was a real problem. Quickly stripping the blacks and turning them loose to forage for themselves, Johnny rushed into the cabin for a flashlight and started down the trail on foot as fast as the limited light would allow. He felt fairly certain that the accident to the box happened when the horses bolted at sight of the moose and perhaps bumped their packs against one or more trees. In that case the three pups might have been dumped from the box without being hurt; they would be frightened and would probably hide, but he easily coaxed to come to a friendly call. In a remarkably short time Johnny had covered the distance and stopped to look around. On all sides were the gray tree trunks. “Here boy! Here boy!” he called. The silence was oppressive as he waited. “Here boy, here boy!” He walked farther and then slowly retraced his steps to the fresh gashes in the earth which marked the spot where the horses had turned. Here he sat down and renewed his calls. At least, he thought, the pups were not badly hurt or he would have found them where they tumbled out. The light as he flashed it about produced weird shadows and frightening shapes among the trees. Better turn it off, he reasoned, and see whether that would help. For several minutes he sat in the darkness, listening. He heard at a distance the hooting of a great horned owl, a bird large enough to carry away the pups if it had found them. Then something brushed against his hand. Instinctively he jerked it away, then quickly began to grope around in the path. A friendly but timid whine came from near by, and a quick search with the light showed the retreating forms of two of the little dogs, tails between their legs. He caught them before they could hide again, and looked for the third. But after half an hour he gave up in despair; there was no sign of number three. Johnny had not noted which pup had remained in the box, but the two in his arms were black and tan and he guessed that the one still lost was his favorite, little Reddy. And that he found was the case.

LOST PUP

Back in his cabin, he placed the three on a blanket in a corner and gloomily watched them as they settled down for a needed rest. The four, a complete litter of a fine foxhound owned by a friend, had come all the way from Winnipeg and already one was lost, somewhere in the great Athabaska forest. In daylight he might find Reddy but he had his doubts. While he prepared a meal of canned vegetable soup, potted tongue and biscuits, the three that were left huddled together in the warmth of the blanket, sniffing the appetizing odor and whining a little. The remaining male kept one bright eye watchfully on Johnny while his tired sisters, after eating a few scraps, made no attempt to keep awake. Before retiring to his bunk, Johnny stood for a moment in the doorway looking out at the seemingly endless wilderness of peaks and valleys under the moonless, starry sky. He thought he understood this kind of country, he loved it; but he felt now more than ever before the helplessness of one man in the midst of such untamed vastness. It was then that he heard a wolf’s thrilling howl, gruff and fierce, but faraway, the unmistakable voice of the King.

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CHAPTER TWO

Wilderness Friendship >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE BLACK WOLF SAT ON A FLAT ROCK OVERLOOKING THE VALLEY OF Little Sheep Creek. Except for his great size, he resembled a dog, a wise dog in whose eyes gleamed intelligence and confidence. The sun was vanishing behind the peaks on the horizon and the shadows were deep in the canyons and valleys, but the wolf could still see almost as clearly as in the middle of the day. He was watching the animals that felt sufficiently safe now to move out from their hiding places in order to find food. His cocked ears caught many sounds made by the stirring of those creatures among loose stones, dead leaves and brittle twigs. There were three caribou only a hundred yards away, traveling single file along a game trail that ran parallel to the ridge. One was an old cow with a small calf close at heel, the third a young bull with little antlers beginning to show. This yearling bull was following the other two at a short distance, hesitatingly, as if apologetic for his presence, but lacking the assurance to wander alone. The cow caribou stopped to let a gray-faced marmot scurry across the path to gain the safety of his burrow among the higher rocks before darkness brought out any more of his enemies. In the daylight he could hope to dodge the eagles, but he, like his small cousins the squirrels, was one of the few animals that did not trust his eyesight at night when the great horned owls were flying and the bears, lynx, coyotes, timber wolves, foxes and wolverines did most of their hunting. The old wolf watched everything. He saw the two bull moose go trotting down the valley and then suddenly stop and stampede. This warned him that man was near, for nothing else would be likely to have quite that effect on the big creatures. Leaving his lookout rock to [16]

WILDERNESS FRIENDSHIP

investigate, he loped noiselessly into the forest and made a half circle which crossed Johnny’s trail some distance below the scene of the stampede. The fresh footprints of the horses and the scent hanging in the air told him at once that the man was his regular neighbor who lived in the divide, and the horses, those that he was accustomed to see and hear. Cautiously he walked along the trail, studying the footprints and looking for anything unusual. Where the horses had turned back he caught the scent of the hound pups and stopped in his tracks. He knew all about dogs and the help they gave man in trailing him and his kind. Like a shadow he melted into the mountains and loped down the mountain. Nothing followed him, however. Reassured, he finally stopped and sat on another big rock to puzzle over the situation. A half hour passed; night blotted out all but the outline of the trees. Very slowly he began to retrace his footsteps. He wanted to find out what had become of the dogs and make sure they did not mean some new kind of danger. Where he had first caught the dog scent, he stood for some time, listening. Then he began another circle which brought him eventually to a point where the night air, blowing from the lost pups, carried their scent faintly to his nostrils. He heard Johnny come stumbling down the trails on his search, and faintly he saw the moving reflections of the flashlight among the trees. When Johnny returned to his cabin the wolf was still standing in his strategic spot, his attention always held by the scent of dog which persisted. At length he felt safe in going a few paces nearer, and then a few more paces. His nose told him the exact spot from whence the scent came. Peculiar scent it was, different from that of any dog he had ever known. And so, more suspiciously than before, he stalked it, a few steps at a time, always watching for a trap of some kind, his every sense on the alert. Coming at length to the edge of the path, he crept along it hidden in the deep shadows. Expecting to find a big dog, or perhaps several, like those he had always seen, he gave the queer little bump in the trail

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ahead scarcely more than a passing glance. But his nose told him more accurately than his eyes that what he sought was very near, and when the little bump suddenly moved, his tenseness was so great that he leaped to one side. Toward him with timid, faltering steps came the lost pup which had been so shaken when he fell from the horse’s back that he had been wandering in the woods almost blindly. At length, finding the path, he had forlornly sat down in the middle of it, too frightened to whimper or howl. Now he saw in the wolf a doglike creature which might help him, so his hopes rose and he went forward to make friends. The wolf retreated and Reddy followed. The wolf then backed away more slowly, still completely bewildered by finding such a little pup. Suddenly he sprang at the hound and seized it in his great teeth, all his hate for the dogs that had persecuted him showing in his snarl. But he did not clamp down tightly. A strange feeling held him from killing this miserable little enemy. He let it go and towered over it as it groveled meekly in the dirt. Each time it got together enough courage to crawl between his feet he seized it again, fiercely and with terrible growls, but always without hurting it. Finally, he sprang away and loped into the shadows. He stopped after a few bounds and looked behind him. Sure enough, the pup was following. Again he bounded away and stopped, and still the little dog waddled trustfully after him. The same thing happened a number of times. Finally the big wolf turned up the ridge and galloped all of the way to the top where he could look for miles in several directions and see friend as well as foe. But he often looked back for he was expecting to see the pup clumsily following him as before. When the dog did not appear he became nervous and walked about. It was then that something impelled him to howl. With head held high and nose pointed well up in the air, he gave the lonely wolf call which Johnny heard, but which few if any creatures except those of the wolf tribe could locate as its tones rose and fell and echoes resounded from the rocks in every direction.

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After that he worried less about the pup and went trotting down the other side of the ridge in search of food; and to him food meant fresh meat. He passed a porcupine which raised its quills and ambled to the nearest tree, but he was in search of something better and scarcely gave the timid creature a second glance. A few yards further he scented a fox and picked up the trail of this furtive animal which he knew would be smart enough to keep out of his way. The distance between the fox’s footprints told him very plainly that the bushy-tailed one was running in great leaps as if chasing some other creature, and at that moment a large snowshoe hare dashed past in the other direction as it doubled back on its trail to evade its pursuer. The wolf shot forward like lightning and had the hare caught before it could go many yards. He stood over the carcass for a short time waiting to see whether the fox or any animal would dare come to dispute his right to the kill; then with forefeet holding it down, he tore and carved it into eatable pieces, each one without much or any of the unpalatable fur. The last piece he did not swallow. Laying it down in front of him, he looked up the ridge and waited for several minutes. Presently he lifted it carefully in his jaws and trotted in the direction from which he had come; over the ridge and down the other side to the place where he had last seen the pup. The little hound was sitting there lost and disconsolate. He had wandered about, but always come back to the same place. And now at the approach of the wolf, he stood up and violently wagged his tail in recognition. The big animal walked around him rather stiffly and finally dropped the meat a few feet away. It was awkwardly done, but nevertheless was a remarkable gesture of friendliness and an acknowledgment that the wolf felt the ties of kinship and the rights of a helpless young one to his bounty and support. If the pup had not acted his proper part, the whole affair might have ended then and there; but after one whiff with his puckered little nose, he fairly pounced on the fresh meat and gnawed at it with saliva dripping from his jowls. The King watched, his long tongue lolling out

WILDERNESS FRIENDSHIP

and his sensitive ears for once at ease. Forgotten experiences influenced him now more than he understood. Once he had accepted a wolfish dog into his pack when he roamed the valley of the Porcupine, a faithful creature that stuck to him through all the dangers of his terrific life as leader. He had then become accustomed to the dog scent before he learned to associate dogs with man. As the pup licked his lips after his meal and came confidently towards his benefactor fairly wiggling his appreciation and sudden love, the instinct to tolerate and take care of the young of his tribe surged over the great, rough creature and firmly fixed the binding tie of his earlier impulse. An odder combination or stranger friendship than that of the old black wolf and the little red hound could scarcely be imagined, yet from that moment it never wavered. The wolf led, the little hound followed. Men and kennels passed out of the picture; now it was the hard mountain wilderness that faced the pup, and he accepted it without the slightest hesitation because he had found one who could guide him, one whom he regarded with all the unquestioning trust and adulation which the very young accord to heroes of their making. And so the old wolf led away, tempering his pace to suit that of the little one who struggled to keep with him. Up and up they went, into the realm of bare rocks and eaves where the grizzlies holed up in the autumn for their winter sleep and where, between two boulders the King knew of a very special den, just the right size at the entrance to fit a wolf and deep enough among the rocks to be as safe as a den could be. On the earth inside the two lay down, well apart from each other, for there was still shyness between them. The pup sprawled out and went to sleep from sheer exhaustion and the wolf, after sniffing around the little fellow in the dark and satisfying himself that all was well, quietly slipped outside and sat for a time on a rock near the entrance loath to leave and yet drawn by the irresistible impulse to finish his night’s hunting. The yapping of a coyote caught his attention. The hair along his spine bristled as he listened, and for the first time in years, he sent back the challenging roar of the male wolf with a family to guard, one who would brook no trespassing in his chosen territory.

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CHAPTER THREE

The First Battle >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

REDDY WAS SEVEN MONTHS OLD. WINTER’S HEAVY SNOWS ALREADY covered the mountains almost knee-deep and weighted down the boughs of the conifers until the lower ones touched the ground, making wonderful hiding places for the smaller animals. But Reddy was no longer small. When the King and he stood up in their day beds in a spruce thicket, stretched, yawned and then stepped out to view the world, the difference in their height was not great. Reddy, however, was all bones. Every superfluous ounce of flesh had been eliminated by the long hunts at night and the grueling chase of deer and other fleetfooted game. Bones showed all over him; powerful ones they were too and straight as ramrods where they should be straight. When he trotted, his feet left a straight line of tracks, showing no awkwardness in his gait, no wasted motion. And no wonder, for the lonely wolf had definitely adopted him and as rapidly as his growth permitted, made him a steady companion. Rarely, indeed, had he been hungry under the King’s protection during the summer and autumn. With all the good meat he could possibly eat and no end of fresh bones on which to chew, at first around the den and later wherever they made a kill, he had every reason to develop into a big and powerful animal. Only his long ears had lost some of their beauty, for the edges were torn by bushes and by the teeth and claws of various enemies in this strange life among the wolves. Again the black wolf stretched. He seemed stouter than in the warm months because his winter coat of hair and fur was much thicker now and fluffed out instead of lying close against his body. He gave the hound a friendly glance to see whether he was ready to start out, then [22]

THE FIRST BATTLE

trotted up the ridge for his usual survey of the valleys before deeper darkness shut them in. Reddy, alert at once, followed. At each set of fresh tracks they encountered in the snow, they stopped to investigate. The snowshoe hares had made narrow, well-traveled paths between favorite little thickets, but other animals had wandered far and wide. Suddenly the two checked their pace and walked as if stepping on fragile eggs. Man scent was in the air and also in a line of snowshoe tracks that led along the side of the mountain. If this scent had been in the regular man-made trail in the valley, it would have seemed all right, but up here it meant some kind of danger. Reddy, thoroughly trained by this time, held back while the wolf followed the tracks cautiously to find out all he could about the mission of these men —for there were two of them as shown by two sets of shoe prints and two distinct scents. When the tracks turned at right angles the wolf stopped, stepped back a pace and began one of his careful circles. He found what he expected, a well-baited steel trap lightly dusted over with snow. If there was one dangerous thing associated with man that he understood, it was the steel trap of which he had found hundreds in his rambles. Always they smelled of metal and betrayed themselves. In many he had seen helpless animals held by their feet. He backed away and rejoined the hound. After that they headed for the next valley, far from the trappers’ tracks. A bull moose moved majestically out of their way. The King turned aside to look him over, then continued on his way. A gray mule deer buck ran past, startled by their scent. He was a fine fellow with long, sharp antlers, more like the kind of game they wanted. The hound looked at the wolf and knew that a chase was on. The King did not hurry. He smelled along the buck’s trail for a short distance, and then allowed Reddy to pass him. Reddy understood and went bounding after the deer while the King cut back to intercept the animal when he hit his regular runway and circled. It was an old trick. In his excitement over the chase, Reddy could not resist letting his voice loose. His bay was mellow and long-drawn-out, and there was a

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joyous, thrilling quality in every part of it which told very clearly that the hound was enjoying the work. Indeed, for the youngster, the serious matter of securing food was one great, glorious orgy of sport which harmonized with all the traditions of his breed. The wolf had been quick to recognize this and to give the hound the trailing work while he himself did more and more of the waylaying and heading off. For his end of the task, knowledge of the country and of the habits of all the different kinds of animals they hunted was of greatest importance; so the teamwork of these two gradually became almost perfect. Along the side of the valley ran Reddy, his keen nose as well as his eyesight unerringly leading him on the fresh trail. Sometimes he would put on a special burst of speed and actually come within sound of the deer’s thumping hoofs, but generally he was several hundred yards behind, mainly because his baying scared the game and told exactly how close he was coming. This helped the wolf in his part of the drama, for the deer’s attention was mostly on the hound behind him. Had the buck gone fairly straightaway, the chase might have been long, but he did not like to leave his regular range and so he circled. The wolf could easily tell by the sounds of the chase just what was happening and just about where the deer was coming in his circling back. He kept on the move, alert to every change in direction until he made sure that the buck was taking a well-known upper trail. Sprinting as hard as he could up the mountain, he secured a position just above this trail and had gotten back his wind before the buck came bounding towards him. The King was staying perfectly still in a low crouch among the bushes. He could hear the buck coming, but could not catch his scent any more than the deer could catch his, for the wind was blowing gently up the mountain. When the deer’s nostrils came almost opposite to him, he tensed his muscles and sprang, not in the manner of a panther or lynx on top of the animal’s shoulders, but directly at his neck. This threw all his weight and momentum against the big buck

THE FIRST BATTLE

and bowled the powerful animal over as if he had been a tenpin. The King and he went crashing into the snow-laden bushes on the lower side of the trail. The buck was much less agile than the wolf in pulling himself together and was instantly caught by the throat and pinned down with all the weight of his adversary thrown on him so expertly that his antlers, powerful legs and sharp hoofs were useless weapons. It was all over before the hound reached the scene. Again the great wolf had shown how to make a perfect kill, not wantonly, but for food in the wild manner of his kind. For two animals of their size, it was a proper feast, there on the snow in the waning light; and after them would come in their turn many lesser creatures, just as hungry, to eat whatever was left, until not even a bone would be wasted. Immediately after they had quietly fed, the wolf and the hound retired to the trail a few yards above and lay down near each other to rest after the hunt and luxuriate in the happy feeling of full stomachs. Already a pair of coyotes were slinking hungrily around the scene and working up enough courage to run in and snatch bones or anything eatable they could find. They were shy about this because they knew from past experience that the King might not tolerate any thieving while he was near. Often he had chased them, and always with grim ferocity because they had bullied and robbed him at the time when he was too young to put up a good fight. There was a constantly smoldering feud between the King and all coyotes, but so far these fleet little wolves had always been nimble enough to manage a getaway when his rage broke loose on them. Reddy very early absorbed from the wolf plenty of dislike for the coyote tribe. While they had not dared hurt him when the King was near, they had growled and sneered at him as a pup, and were still showing disdain whenever they had a good chance. There were so many of them that it seemed impossible to go anywhere without the feeling that they were covertly following and watching, always with some sinister purpose. Sometimes Reddy would give chase, but when his anger cooled he

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turned back, for he was still too young to feel sure of himself and the coyotes, who were good fighters, seemed to know just how far they could go in annoying him without bringing punishment from the King on their heads. They were not afraid of Reddy, but they were very much afraid of the King. And so, on this occasion, the coyotes kept their attention on the wolf while poaching on his kill. Presently there were five of them, snarling at each other and quarreling shrilly over the remains of the buck. When the King raised his head and cocked his cars in their direction, they slunk away only to return and begin their racket all over again. Reddy sat up and watched them. They were pulling and tearing at the deer’s carcass and acting just as if the meat were all theirs. The hound rose to his feet and walked towards them. They disdained to take any notice. Gradually the hair began to show like bristles all down his spine and there was something ominous in the way he lowered his head. Then, all at once he was among them, standing over the deer, warning growls rumbling deeply from his chest. A male coyote, larger than the others, turned instantly to snarl at him. In another moment he was surrounded by the pack, each flashing his teeth with all the evil he could muster. Reddy held his ground; his tail and head were up now and the whites of his eyes showed as he looked at his enemies sideways without so much as moving a muscle. Then pandemonium broke loose. A coyote dashed in and slashed at his thigh, starting the others in a furious hit-and-run attack which seethed around the hound as he sprang this way and that, vainly trying to catch first one and then another of his tormentors. This was just the kind of battle the coyotes knew how to wage and the five of them were cutting up Reddy until in almost no time blood showed in bright streaks all over him. He was on the way to being torn to pieces, not knowing how to defend himself against so many. Mad clear through, he was dashing about wildly instead of using his head and concentrating on one at a time. Just when the King entered the fight only one of the participants

THE FIRST BATTLE

knew. The wolf suddenly rushed in and pinned the big male coyote to the snowy ground with jaws like steel. When he let go, the big coyote lay still, with his long rows of white teeth gleaming from a strangely open mouth. The black wolf looked about him. The fight around Reddy had shifted several yards down the mountain. The hound was game, but he was tiring and trying now only to defend himself, with no more reaching at his all too spry enemies. One light-colored coyote was slashing repeatedly at his hind legs, trying to hamstring him, and to this one the King gave his attention. With a roar which was heard all over the valley, he charged. The light-colored coyote made a leap to one side, but this time he was up against more than a long-legged, clumsy young hound. In two great jumps the black wolf had him by the back of the neck, shaking him as a terrier might shake a rat, and after that he was out of the fight. The three that remained slunk into the bushes like the cowards they were, and ran as fast as they could, each in a different direction. But now the King was really aroused. Hastily he examined the coyotes’ tracks until he picked out by scent one with whom he had an old score to settle; then grimly he began to trail and outrun him. And with the King came Reddy, on only three good legs some of the time, but eager as could be, his usually musical bay changed by the fighting to a husky bellow. Down the valley led the coyote, then up and over the ridge; and after him came the black wolf and the red hound, side by side where there was room, but more often with one or the other leading. The deer meat was heavy in the King’s stomach, but Reddy had lost his meal in a wave of nausea immediately after the fight, and now was fully recovered and running unerringly on the line of musty scent which the coyote could not keep from betraying him. A fox would have dodged and tried other tricks, but the coyote just ran as fast as he could through the snow and so began to tire rather quickly. The pursuers who had been left far behind at first, were gaining with

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their long legs. Already they were beginning to look ahead for the first glimpse of their enemy’s gray form; and suddenly they saw it only a short distance away and laboring against the steepness of the trail at this point. An eager bellow or two, a deep roar from the black wolf and the two were in the final sprint which must end the chase. Closer and closer! The coyote had his narrow head turned slightly in order to look back from the tail of one eye and gauge their speed. There was something almost uncanny in his ability to keep just a few yards ahead while always climbing uphill instead of going the easier way. Up and up into the zone of rocks, and each moment the King, now slightly in the lead, drew a little closer. The coyote stopped looking back now, for that meant more speed, and he could almost feel as well as hear the panting pair leaping for him. He put everything he had left into a final effort, heaved his tired body in and out among the rocks and, just at the last possible moment, vanished in a narrow cleft through which he could barely squeeze. At first his pursuers did not understand that he had escaped. They searched among the rocks for other openings or some way to reach him behind the cleft. The coyote, as soon as he found himself safe, began to growl and snarl. Reddy settled down at the entrance to dig and bay, but the King tore at the rock itself as if he would rip it apart. At length they gave up and moved away, crestfallen and angry over the way the race had ended. They had gone only a short distance when they heard the coyote insultingly yapping at them and saw him standing on one of the boulders in front of his retreat. This was too much for Reddy who charged back to the attack only to have the small wolf again whisk into the cleft with more snarling; but the King kept resolutely headed down the mountain, and soon Reddy reluctantly quit again and followed him, though he often looked back. The night was still young and well lit by stars and a young moon, but they were tired and the hound was hungry and badly cut in a number of places. He had learned a severe lesson in the fighting which in the years that followed he never forgot. By the time they reached the

THE FIRST BATTLE

remains of the buck, Reddy was limping so badly he could scarcely walk. It was well for him that another pack of coyotes had not gathered around the deer. Two dark-brown wolverines were there at work, but they were put to flight with some fierce growls. Then Reddy threw himself on the trampled snow to gnaw the best bones that were left, and lick thoroughly what wounds he could reach.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Reddy Grows Up >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE NEXT DAY FOUND REDDY SO STIFF AND SORE FROM HIS WOUNDS THAT he could scarcely move from his bed in the spruce thicket. There was a long rip down his flank which troubled him the most, but this he could lick and keep from being infected. Other cuts on his shoulders and neck he was unable to reach, and these might have become serious if the wolf had not licked them thoroughly for him and taken out all the dirt and poison. Most of the day was spent in nursing the wounds in this way, the treatment being so good that by evening Reddy joined the King in his usual hunting, though not with any vim. Their first care was to make sure that the men they had tracked on the day before had not come any closer to the spruce thicket. A circle around the valley crossed no fresh man tracks, but the wolf knew that man always came back to his traps and that the danger was still serious. His manner conveyed to Reddy the general feeling of danger, for all the months of association with the wolf had made the hound a wild creature too, in everything except looks. He even acted enough like a timber wolf to go unchallenged by the packs they had so far encountered. Very few men besides Johnny ever caught glimpses of the lanky red pup that followed the black wolf wherever he traveled, and none as yet suspected that he was not an odd colored member of a wolf pack. Johnny, almost always in the mountains and very much on the lookout for the pup, saw him a number of times, marveled at his growth and felt almost exultant at the realization that he was a magnificent animal. Once, while watching him through binoculars, he saw the wolf and the pup play together like brothers on the short grass of a little pocket among the rocks. The wolf was noticeably gentle on account of his far [30]

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greater strength, but in the rough and tumble rolling, chasing and mock fighting, the speed and cleverness of the pup were equally apparent. Some of the time the pup would be the aggressor and try to maul the great black creature that led him on but always somehow thwarted his attempts to get a good hold. For an animal that must live by fighting, it was exactly the right kind of practice. Johnny, trying to come closer with his usual catlike tread, found that though this might be fairly easy in the case of other mountain creatures, with the black wolf on guard, it was impossible. Up sprang the King and fairly melted away among the rocks, with the pup like a shadow behind him. During the summer, the pup often saw an old gray she-wolf leading her four lanky cubs around the mountains, occasionally accompanied by the father, a yellowish-gray animal of considerable size, though no match for the King in whose presence he always seemed ill at ease. Each time they met, the King would walk forward stiff-legged and head up until he and the other male could almost touch noses. There he would stand, looking down at the other from his greater height until the gray backed away, thus acknowledging the King’s supremacy. Though the wolves were very conscious of Reddy, they gave him no special notice after the formalities between the two leaders which settled everything. Had the leaders fought, then Reddy would have been attacked by the four cubs who were almost exactly his age, and if that had happened he would have had small chance to survive. Always it was the strength and wisdom of the King that brought him through the dangers of wilderness life. Though he sensed these things dimly and took much for granted, it was small wonder that his almost blind adulation of the great wolf never wavered and that the odd friendship between these two grew closer every day. There was only one thing on which their ideas did not quite meet and that was the status of man in relation to them. The King had every reason to fear man, while the hound feared him only because of the training given by the wolf. Reddy, indeed, never missed the chance to

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watch man as if almost fascinated. He sometimes spent hours looking across the valley at Johnny cutting wood and doing the chores around his cabin, with the three well-grown hound pups playing about him. There was wistfulness in Reddy’s manner at such times. He would have liked to go closer and perhaps join in the play. When the gunners had come into the mountains for the autumn hunting, Reddy had tried to keep track of them and their doings. He had studied their footprints as much as the wolf had allowed, and often seen them stalking game and fishing in the creeks. When there was no snow, he could usually do this without being noticed, but sometimes the high-powered glasses of the guides would pick him out and the men would speculate as to how it happened that a big red hound was ranging the wilds apparently alone. Johnny, more closely in touch with the wild animals than the ordinary hunter, knew that the almost impossible had happened and that Reddy had been adopted by the great king wolf. To him, this became the most important interest of his life in the wilds. He wanted to see how it would develop, how it would end. Often he and Mac discussed it, but he would speak of it to no one else for fear of bringing some kind of trouble into the hound’s life. “ A wolf is bad enough in a game country,” Mac said one day, “but beware of a hound!” Mac insisted that the hound would just be like a wolf and eventually be killed as one, but Johnny reasoned differently. He could not quite work it out in his mind, but felt sure that there would always be a difference which might lead to strange things. Meanwhile, he was raising Reddy’s brother and two sisters, the black and tans, to be strong youngsters who soon could be taught seriously to hunt and trail. Already they were chasing gophers, snowshoe hares and other small creatures around the cabin, though Johnny took care that they did not wander too far. After the hunting season closed, trappers came into the mountains. Two men shared the trapping rights in Little Sheep Creek Valley, and

REDDY GROWS UP

while they brought with them a small tent, they spent much of their time at Johnny’s comfortable cabin. Their catches of ermine, marten, wolverine, lynx and coyote pelts were stacked where the black and tans could not reach them, and they tended a trap line that made a half circle of several miles in length. In the evenings they discussed trapping and all of the things of interest they had noted during the day, including the tracks of big game animals such as the moose, mountain sheep and deer. One of the men was particularly interested in timber wolves and carried a rifle in order to shoot any that he saw. There was a bounty on the big wolves as well as value in their pelts. “Someday I’m going to give up this trapping of small stuff and make some money with snares,” he told Johnny. “There are two of the biggest kind of wolves running together on the other side of the valley and a pack of ordinary ones that ought to be easy meat. We see their tracks everywhere, but they won’t go near the steel traps.” Johnny, taken by surprise, said nothing, but he worried about this. More snow came to the mountains. In some places it was several feet deep; in others where the wind blew it away, the rocks were bare. Fortunately for the wolves, the sun melted the top layer in exposed areas and formed a fairly strong crust. Hard running, however, was not necessary for the wolves because the food animals found the going especially difficult and spent almost all their time in small sheltered areas where they soon packed down the snow into regular roadways and yards. The moose and the deer were in the timber, and the sheep and goats in deep narrow canyons where the snow could not cling to the steep sides. Another pack of wolves had come into the valley and joined the family of six. It was easier for a large number to pull down a big animal, like a moose which could put up a terrific fight with its hoofs; therefore, the wolves stuck together though there was not any very good feeling between the different groups. They could be heard howling almost every night.

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The King was worried. While he could fight and whip any wolf in this big pack, he had seen on many occasions the danger that faced the hound when several wolves threatened to attack. His instinct to protect the young came forward strongly, and one night when the big pack was going full cry down the valley, he struck out across the ridge with Reddy to seek some place far from this menace. They chose the easiest way and followed the paths of the sheep and goats wherever possible. When they topped the ridge, the King felt much less uneasy. Ahead were dozens of valleys all of which he knew from one end to the other. He stood there a few moments looking back and listening, the hound beside him. Below them the wolf chorus had died down. Complete silence reigned over the cold mountains, an ominous silence different somehow from the usual stillness of night. Suddenly the wolf saw a thin line of dark dots against the snow. It wound slowly around the cliffs far below and might not have held his attention if he had not known that it was following the exact trail he had left.

He moved forward to see more clearly, and with him moved Reddy. There was no doubt now; the dots were wolves and they were following the King’s tracks, with what intent was not as yet clear. The King looked around at the treeless ridge which offered no protection. His instinct led him to run down the other side of the ridge to reach the tree country, or at least the boulders. He and the hound fairly wallowed in the deep snow for a while, but at length came to the spruce thickets and then to big timber. The wolf led to a cluster of rocks surrounded by tall spruce trees. There he sat down to wait. Every few minutes he got up and wandered about restlessly, only to return to the rocks. Reddy had sensed immediately that danger was close at hand and he had seen the wolves coming along their trail. He watched and listened as intently as the King. They had not very long to wait. Presently the woods seemed full of moving forms and the acrid smell of many wolves. The pack, failing to find meat that night, had taken the hound’s

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trail in a halfhearted way, experimentally, hoping that something might come of it but not sure exactly what to do. They knew the King. There was only one opening through which they could reach the rocks and in front of this stood the black wolf, always between them and the hound. The males came one by one to go through the usual greeting formalities with the King, but they dared go no further. Members of the pack slunk about or sat in the snow watching expectantly and whining occasionally. They were a gaunt, shaggy lot with lolling tongues and shifty, slanting eyes. All were restless and uneasy about starting a fight. Now and then they would raise their sharp noses the better to catch the dog scent which lured them, but with it always was the scent of the big black wolf. In every crowd, there is at least one fool, and in the present case this one was the yellowish-gray male who had long hated the King. He stayed persistently near the opening trying to get up nerve enough to pass through regardless, and to fight if need be. Always a ruthless killer, he was hungry now. Around him gradually gathered several others as if knowing that at the proper time he would lead. The tenseness increased. Reddy, now knowing that his life was at stake, nevertheless was thoroughly aroused and bristling along the whole of his spine. Quarrels started among younger members of the pack who snarled and snapped at each other at the least provocation. Presently the yellowish-gray could stand it no longer. He came forward straight to the black wolf with others crowding behind him and giving encouragement. There was a fateful moment when a deep growl rumbled from the throat of the King and then a whirlwind attack. Wolves and snow literally filled the air. The King had crushed the gray’s left front leg with his first fierce bite and slashed his shoulder with the next. They rose on their hind legs and clawed at each other, biting and snarling and whirling about. The gray suddenly went over headlong among his backers and the King dashed into the whole group, slashing this way and that with lightning speed. One slipped past in the melee and sprang at the hound who closed with him in a

REDDY GROWS UP

battle to the death. Reddy had fighting blood in his veins as well as the training of the great wolf, and when his ear was slashed and his leg laid open, he merely bored in all the harder until he had the wolf down and by the throat. Grimly, with scarcely a sound except labored breathing, they fought in the snow while the bigger battle raged furiously around them. It all died down as quickly as it had started. The pack wolves saw that this was no picnic and slunk away, all except one, and the gray leader who could only limp on three legs. Everywhere the snow was spattered with blood, and blood followed the pack in its retreat over the ridge. Reddy crouched beside the dead wolf and looked at him, the furrows about his big eyes deeper than ever and a strange feeling of power soothing his troubled heart. He had fought and won a battle. What mattered it if he was bitten and clawed from nose to tail. He could hold his own against an enemy. Never again would he be a simpleminded, aimless pup, satisfied to be led and babied.

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CHAPTER FIVE

“I’ll Tame Him!” >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE ROAMING OF THE KING WAS ONE OF THE EVENTS OF THE NORTHLAND. It had been interrupted by his care of Reddy in Little Sheep Creek Valley as a nursery, but now it broke out afresh and with renewed vigor, for wherever the roar of the King was heard, always there was with it the musical bay of a hound, and where they hunted there was at once a scattering of the game and general excitement among the other wolves of the vicinity who seemed to gain in daring from the example and very presence of these two. They traveled the Athabaska forest from end to end and made side trips east and west and to the north. Occasionally woodsmen would see them and take shots at one or both, but they were adept at dodging and never were hit. Nor were there any trappers who could catch or poison them; they seemed to bear charmed lives. Anyone who could have claimed that he had disposed of one of this pair would have become something of a celebrity. Strangely enough, it was Reddy that was most talked of. He was news, for up to that time no one had ever seen a hound running with the wolves. And Reddy did run with them. He had gained such assurance and such prowess that the wolves, especially the young ones, began to follow him just as they followed the King. They liked to be led when hunting was difficult. The black leader had allowed no other wolf to take the lead over him, but he willingly followed Reddy who developed more hunting ambition and speed than almost any wolf in the forest. The two remained inseparable, but the hound no longer needed very much [38]

“I’LL TAME HIM!”

protection; he often fought his own battles, if fighting was necessary, and some of these were terrible indeed; fighting, however, became more and more seldom as the wolves, wherever they went, grew to know and respect him, and he, growing more wolfish every day, learned how to avoid difficulties with them without losing face. One day in the spring the two returned to Little Sheep Creek Valley. Johnny heard them that first night as they charged along the mountainside in their hunting, and he noticed at once the change in Reddy’s baying. It had become confident and determined. The musical note was still there, but it was shorter and firmer; Reddy had grown up. And if Johnny could have been with them that night he would have seen something that would have surprised him, for with the two ran several fierce-looking wolves, including the yellowish-gray male with a slight limp still evident in a front leg, all glad now to follow Johnny’s former pup in his hunting. When the chase led below the cabin, the three black and tans, locked in their kennels, began a great howling in sympathy. Not knowing anything about wolves, they just wanted to share in what sounded like a lot of fun and excitement. Instantly the noise of the pack stopped and was not heard again for many a night. Anything that reminded the wolves of man’s presence put a stop to their exuberance and made them furtive and self-conscious, if not afraid. Not long after that night, Johnny received official instructions to kill the wild hound that was roaming the woods, as well as any wolf he found in his precinct. Reddy’s fame was spreading. “It’s a joke on you,” was Mac’s reaction to the news, “and a mighty unpleasant one, for I know you think a lot of that wild pup.” “It’s a joke on them,” retorted Johnny, “for nothing can make me do it.” “Dogs might help to get him. What about that pack of hounds you were going to train to hunt wolves?” “Oh that!” said the ranger. “It may take a long time to train young

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hounds.” Mac laughed; he thought Johnny was stalling. “I don’t blame you,” he said finally. But Johnny had a plan. He knew considerable about hounds and he figured that the black and tans, far from harming Reddy, might prove a means of reclaiming him from the wilds. He scarcely dared put much faith in the experiment, but in his quiet way he entered upon it by beginning the serious training of the black and tans. His first move was to secure a trapped coyote from an Indian village and keep it in a comfortable kennel at some distance from the cabin. He did not like the idea of trapping any creature, and he kept no traps, but here was a need and an opportunity to give a trapped animal a chance for its life. The kennel runway of woven wire was long and narrow. Each morning when he had fed the coyote, he let loose the three hounds and took them down there. The little wolf was just about twice the size of a fox, and an ill-tempered beast who knew he was safe with the fence around him, so he would growl at the hounds and run up and down the yard sassing them until he drove the high-spirited animals nearly frantic. The wild scent increased their excitement and so did Johnny’s urging. In a day or two their chief aim in life was to get at the coyote. Now the second phase of the training began. One day Johnny took the hounds down to the kennel on leash. He opened the door of the yard and let the coyote bolt out in full view of the pups who nearly turned somersaults in their frantic efforts to follow the hated little beast that was running from them and getting away. Johnny, however, kept them waiting there excitedly until the coyote had had a twentyminute start, then turned them loose. They dashed to the edge of the bushes where they had last viewed their enemy and then began to hunt for him with their super-keen noses. The scent was still there in his tracks, not very strong, but just enough to enable them to puzzle out the trail he had taken, and it grew stronger and more thrilling the further they followed it. This was real hound work and Johnny knew that after this, all they would need would be plenty of practice, and later on, encouragement in following

“I’LL TAME HIM!”

the timber wolves instead of the smaller variety. It was simply a matter of fostering their instinct and guiding it carefully towards the kind of game they were desired to hunt. Hot on the coyote’s trail, their fine voices echoed through the valley; “real music” hunters would have called the chorus. Reddy and the King listened to it in their favorite spruce thicket and stood up when it came closer. The hound was strangely stirred and more and more drawn by its subtle call to join in a glorious, exciting chase. The wolf, on the other hand, was bristling with his old hatred of man’s accomplices. He knew only too well that where there were dogs, even dogs like Johnny’s which he had often heard around the cabin, there might be a man or several men prepared to kill with their guns, and that hounds in particular, on account of their trailing ability, meant danger to his kind. Safety lay in keeping hidden until they were gone or until darkness made man blind. And so when Reddy whined and walked about excitedly, he growled, and when Reddy made a start to leave the thicket, he sprang forward and placed his long body across the way with such rumbling in his throat that even his companion, who knew him so well, was surprised and completely won to compliance with his warning. Thus it happened that Reddy’s brother and two sisters passed within little more than a hundred yards of him without an inkling of his presence, following the fast, wily coyote down the valley and into the great basin below where the thick, high timber shut in all sounds of their baying. Johnny tried to follow them, but gave it up and impatiently waited through the long afternoon for their return to the cabin. When night came, he was still waiting. Reddy’s excitement had not abated. No sooner had the shadows fallen than he was out of the thicket like a flash, racing to the line of the chase in order to study the tracks. The wolf and he puzzled the thing out together, knew that Johnny’s three hounds were following a coyote and that they had not returned. They found Johnny’s tracks too, but noted that he had turned back and gone towards his cabin.

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Then Reddy took the trail as if it had been that of a buck. Nose close to the moist ground, he went in long leaps down the valley, the now equally interested wolf at his heels. For several miles the trail was fairly straight, for the coyote was running to his distant home range; then it began to twist and circle. There was evidence that the three hounds had been confused by these turns, for there were many places where they had separated and wandered about as if hunting for the lost scent. Where they struck the swampy bank of the big Athabaska River, they seemed to have lost the coyote’s tracks entirely. From that point the trail was extremely confused as if they were wandering aimlessly around the forest. Reddy was making circles in his attempts to find the trail where it left this maze, when a weird wail stopped him in his tracks. The wolf and he stood for some minutes trying to understand just what this meant and what produced it, then guardedly they headed in the direction from whence it had come. Suddenly the wolf gave a gruff signal to stop, for his ears had caught the sound of some animal following them. They leaped into the bushes and made their usual exploratory circle. Reddy turned left, and it was he who came upon the most

miserable-looking creature he had ever seen. It limped first with one leg and then another. Its tail was between its legs and its head hung down as it slunk through the woods half scared to death. It was black and tan, and one of his sisters, but this he could scarcely be expected to know. As he watched it, its nose went into the air and the same wail that he had heard before filled the quiet forest, the cry of a lonely, lost hound. He and the wolf approached it from opposite sides. It saw them and for an instant seemed pathetically pleased, then more miserably afraid than before. It dropped to the ground and groveled, whimpering shrilly as if it had been struck. Both the wolf and Reddy regarded it with utmost contempt, walking around it stiffly and aloof as if it were contaminated. Seeing that it was not to be killed at once by these wonderful, big animals, the black and tan took heart just enough to drag itself after Reddy who quickly loped away from it. To be left here alone, however, was even more terrible to the poor thing at that moment, so it staggered to its feet and started after him. Reddy’s whole training had been to avoid making friends with any

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animal, but something beyond his control forced him to turn around and allow the hound to catch up to him. This time they almost touched noses, and then Reddy was off again. But the lost hound still followed, and the longer Reddy saw this creature of close kin, the more interested and tolerant he became. He forgot the wolf entirely and covertly watched from the corners of his eyes every move of this new animal. A further complication came in the form of two more black and tans which appeared from nowhere in particular and looked just as lowspirited and forlorn as the first. These did not grovel at Reddy’s feet, but followed him with the hopeful, almost worshipful manner which again disarmed him and kept his mind in a whirl. They were not thinking any more of chasing coyotes; all they wanted was to be shown the way home to their kennel beds where they had always spent the night. The difference between these house-raised hounds and Reddy, who by this time had lived through a year in the woods in all weathers, was very marked. Reddy was much taller and much heavier, and his coat was thicker and glossier. When snow had been deep on the ground and icy winter winds had swept down the valley, he had often come from a long hunt and burrowed under the snow to find a warm enough place in which to rest, while his sisters and brother had snuggled behind a hot stove. It was a wonder that he had survived, but nature had done her best to make up for the generations of soft living behind him. In the cold season he had grown almost three times the thickness of coat of an ordinary, pampered hound, and his blood circulation was so much better that he rarely shivered when the mercury went below zero. Now he was hard as nails and ready to hunt all night and part of the day if necessary. The three bedraggled black and tans stood in a lump and looked at him with sorrowful eyes. At one side and very much aloof sat the black wolf, for he felt none of the responsibility that somehow had attached itself to Reddy; to the King all this was meaningless waste of time, now that the interest of trailing the hounds was past. There had been no

“I’LL TAME HIM!”

exciting fight; the whole thing was boring. A diversion came when a young bull caribou passed between them and the river, his scent blowing in their direction. Both Reddy and the King instantly vanished like shadows and gave chase. This time there was no need to try any tricks; they simply rushed him to a standstill and together pulled him down before he had run a mile. Now they feasted. Reddy ate for a time and then looked about for the hounds; then he stuffed down some more of the strength-giving meat and lay sprawled out near the scene, the wolf beside him. This time, no coyotes or other scavengers came to molest them. In the first cool grayness of morning, the King stood up to start the long trek to a higher and safer place in which to spend the day, but Reddy had the hounds on his mind; he wanted to see what they were doing. For almost the first time in their friendship, he refused to follow the old wolf and instead took the back trail to where he had left the three; and there he found them, curled up beside each other, shivering like aspen leaves. At his coming, they rolled their eyes in his direction but did not move. Reddy walked around them and sniffed at each one. Then they quickly raised their heads and began to show more life, for they smelled caribou meat on his muzzle and they were very hungry. Stiffly they got to their feet. Reddy started away from them and they followed. Not knowing just what to do, Reddy led where he could find the King’s trail, which was close to the remains of the caribou, at the scent and sight of which the hounds, unaccustomed to such things, showed immediate interest. They walked around and around the carcass but did not realize that they should eat any of it and would have left it untouched if Reddy had not dropped down to finish gnawing a bone he had hidden. This seemed to give them the same idea, for each hunted until other bones were found. After that they felt differently about the caribou meat itself and got to work in a big way, stuffing themselves until their lean bodies looked as if they had balloons inside of them. Now they had to rest some more. At noon they were still resting.

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Reddy hung around, although very nervous about possible danger. He listened intently to any alarm notes of the jays which discovered the meat and called loudly to all jays to come and carry it away for hidden storage in the trees, and he kept his eye on the red squirrels when they appeared to be running away from anything. But the forest remained safe enough all morning in spite of his fears, and he was beginning to be less watchful when all at once he heard the voice of man. Johnny was calling the hounds. He had been riding all day and had reached the Athabaska about half a mile below where Reddy was on guard. It took him some time to get much nearer because of the swamps, but soon even the jays were alarmed by the calls and the sounds of the horse’s feet. Reddy walked into the bushes and the black and tans raised their heads sleepily but did not even stand up. Reddy whined to warn them and even ran past them in the manner of a wolf giving an alarm, but they took no notice. When Johnny’s horse brought him up the game trail and pricked its ears at scent of the carcass, the ranger caught a quick glimpse of Reddy and stood up in his stirrups to get a better view. Then he saw the black and tans near by and his heart began to beat faster, for at once he realized that his plan was already beginning to work, much sooner than he had dared hope. He stopped the horse and waited, but Reddy did not appear again. In fact he had run as fast as he could up the valley. Johnny then came forward to greet the other hounds and to look with intense interest at the mixture of tracks around the remains of the feast. “I’ll tame him yet!” he kept thinking jubilantly.

CHAPTER SIX

Nothing to Fear >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THERE WAS AWKWARDNESS IN THE RELATIONS OF REDDY AND THE KING. They stayed together much as before, but with a difference, for now Reddy’s interest in the hounds came between them. Each time Johnny let the three loose to hunt, Reddy would join them as soon as he heard their baying, and sometimes he would run with them all day and sleep most of the night instead of hunting with the wolf. Every day, too, he became more accustomed to hearing and seeing Johnny until the time came when he actually walked around the cabin with the hounds, warily it is true, but without running when Johnny came out to put the black and tans in the kennel. One night he slept near the cabin and in the morning ate the breakfast which Johnny left for him at a little distance down the trail. In another week he let Johnny touch him. This was a big moment for the ranger. The four hounds had been playing and had thrown themselves down for a few minutes of rest. Johnny was sitting on a flat stone not far away cleaning the frying pan when suddenly the red hound rose to his feet and looked into the Valley; he had heard an animal crashing through the brush below. The black and tans came forward inquisitively to find out what held his attention, and Johnny, seeing that for the moment all four were so occupied with this that they had forgotten everything else, moved to them and gently placed his hand on Reddy’s shoulder. For several seconds he held it there; then Reddy looked around and shrank away, more in surprise than fear. But Johnny knew that he had gained something. Later, Reddy gingerly accepted little pieces of ham held out to him, and from that time changed very much in his attitude toward Johnny. [47]

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After a few days he seemed anxious to be on the same footing as the other pups and to be treated in a friendly way. Partly it was a kind of jealousy, partly a desire to be affectionate with man, the superior being. The heritage of the dog was asserting itself. Before long he had become so attached to the ranger that few outsiders would have guessed he was by training as wild as a wolf. To Johnny, who recognized his good qualities, it was almost like a dream come true. There came a night, however, when he went on a big hunt with the King ten miles or more from Little Sheep Creek Valley. The two scaled a mountain known as Eagle Peak and fought a mountain goat on the edge of a precipice. It was quite like old times. Reddy held the billy at bay while the wolf circled and came on him from behind where the shelf of rock was little more than a foot wide. Anything might have happened, but when the billy charged Reddy and almost hurled him into space with his spiked horns, the King dashed forward, and in the melee it was the big goat that went hurtling a thousand feet into the canyon. The two looked at him land in the bushes far below and then, somewhat sobered by danger, gingerly edged along the shelf to safer ground and ran down the mountain to find the carcass and eat as they had always eaten, until there was no room for more. That was an exciting night, for barely had they filled themselves, except for a last bite or two, when a grizzly stepped out of the bushes and undertook to drive them from their kill. This was a medium-sized bear they had often seen and with whose own hunting they had never interfered. Generally he had been digging marmots and gophers out of their burrows when the two came upon him, and he had contemptuously glanced at them and not even stopped his work; but now his hair stood up on his shoulders and he fairly roared as he charged. Taken by surprise, the two retreated and let the bully take possession of the carcass, but when he scornfully turned his back, the injustice of the thing bored in on Reddy’s temper and in a sudden surge of fury, he ran up and bit the bear’s right hind leg quick and hard. That was all the King needed to arouse him too.

NOTHING TO FEAR

When the raging grizzly swung around at Reddy, he attacked from the other side and slashed at the bear’s furry rump. With two such animals running in and out to nip and cut and dodge away, the bear was so hot and bothered that he charged around in circles, slapping recklessly and catching neither of his enemies. Had the hound and the wolf been less crammed with food, they might have given the bear a really rough time, but when he turned tail and humped himself toward safer country, they were too much out of breath to care to follow. They threw themselves on the ground to pant and cool off while settling their full stomachs once more. But the excitement had not ended, for next came a bigger grizzly followed by three cubs. This was more than they wanted just then, so when the mother “woofed” her youngsters up a tree, clearing the field for battle, they left the goat to her. As they trotted away, they saw her broad brown back over the white of the goatskin, and part way up a spruce the three bright-eyed, eager little brown cubs looking down at it all as they hugged the trunk with sharp claws dug into the bark. Later their claws would grow too long and be too blunted by rough use among rocks to be useful for climbing, but now the cubs could climb like cats and easily keep out of danger when their mother faced a fight. Up on a pile of boulders where they could see in every direction, the hound and the wolf rested again. There was dirt in their coats which had to be licked out, but after that they just felt happy about everything and began to play and roll about. The rocks were hard, so they trotted to an open glade among the spruce thickets and rolled and played some more. Reddy could try all kinds of fighting holds and test his strength in various ways against a powerful and larger adversary who knew much more about these things and could defend himself. Their play was always like this, a kind of mock battle, with the wolf only letting out enough of his great strength to puzzle Reddy and give him the hard practice that he needed. It ended by the King shaking himself free and bolting away, with Reddy in hot pursuit only to be bowled

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over by the wolf’s sudden turn and quick thrust at the shoulder. Reddy could never learn to defend himself against that. They retired for the day in a grove near a little canyon where a stream helped keep the air cool. Above them was the rock country and far below, a broad valley that seemed an endless mass of treetops. They could test the air with their noses and catch the scent of caribou, mountain sheep, marmots and rock ptarmigan. It was a real game country such as they loved. When dawn broke, a coyote began to yap and howl. As the sun appeared, the marmots shuffled from one burrow to another, whistling occasionally. Almost beside Reddy a tiny creature, a pika or rock rabbit, scarcely larger than a rat, sat on a boulder and looked at him with wide eyes. Under the edge of the boulder which served as a roof was a pile of grass and weeds, the pika’s haystack which he had gathered with infinite patience for food in bad weather. A stone rolled down a rock slide, then another. Reddy looked up quickly, but saw only a line of brown animals with great curling horns, a band of rams, traveling single file along the side of the mountain. In another section of the mountains would be the ewes and lambs at this time of the year. Circling calmly overhead were two golden eagles. Everything was as it should be; and Reddy yawned and rolled over on his side. Before evening, rain began to fall, the gentle kind that sank into the ground and made the vegetation green and luscious. At once the grazing animals responded and went forth to fill themselves, while the carnivorous kinds foresaw good hunting and followed them. Reddy and the King walked out on a rock that overlooked the big valley and watched some of this. A cow moose with twin calves was nipping the low hardwood branches not far below them. Her brown body matched the trunks of the trees so perfectly that she was almost invisible until she moved about. The calves, little more than one-third her size, stayed close for protection and fed on whatever kinds of leaves and twigs she ate. Where the soapberry bushes were plentiful and full of red fruit, a porcupine was stripping them methodically by

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standing on his hind legs and pulling all that he could reach toward him. Still further below appeared a black bear with the same berrygathering idea. A band of five caribou wandered along one of the game trails, and behind them stalked a gray lynx not quite sure whether he should risk danger from their hoofs and attack the smallest calf, or turn his attention to the snowshoe hares. White specks on the side of the far peak denoted goats. Yes, it was a game country, one of the finest in the whole mountain region. The black wolf’s muscles quivered slightly at sight of the caribou, but he was not hungry and he never killed just for the fun of it. Probably he would not have moved from the rock had he not scented wolves, newcomers that he did not recognize. At once he and Reddy left the rock and circled through the bushes to reconnoiter, for it was well to make sure that wolves were not hostile. Presently they saw two old grays followed by four well-grown, leggy youngsters, and at the same moment these became aware of the King and Reddy. The big male came forward stiffly and guardedly to strut around the King, after which the others advanced and sniffed at Reddy with the kind of curiosity wolves always showed towards him. He bore it all in utmost good humor though with every faculty alert. When all formalities were over they sat and lolled about, waiting for one of the leaders to start a hunt for food. Eventually it was the mother wolf who restlessly took the initiative, followed by one after another of her band until all had vanished into the deep shadows leaving the King and Reddy again alone. Soon a howl far away in the valley told that the hunt was on. Reddy and the King loped out of the bushes to a vantage point among the rocks and watched for signs of the progress of the chase. The rain had stopped, but moisture hung like fog in the still air and everything was dripping wet. More howls; then an immense bull moose came trotting along the slope and vanished in the timber. Not long afterwards a loud clamor arose in the valley; the young wolves had sighted their prey and were too excited to keep silent. Reddy and the King did not move, but they were deeply interested

NOTHING TO FEAR

now. The clamor moved down the valley, then centered at one spot. It rose to an even higher pitch; the whole band appeared to be baying all together. After a few minutes of this, Reddy could hold back no longer and ran down the slope toward the noise. He plunged into the forest and suddenly came to a little glade at the further edge of which was a strange scene. In a pool of muddy water made by an alkali spring stood not a moose but a bull caribou surrounded by the wolves. The mud and water reached to his knees and was too deep for his pursuers who ran around it rather than risk coming within reach of the bull’s sharp hoofs where they could not dodge. The caribou’s magnificent antlers were still covered with velvet and too soft and sensitive for defense, but he swung them about in furious threats, his nostrils wide and eyes glaring. The clamor died down when Reddy appeared, the wolves being undecided as to what his coming might mean. The high-strung nerves of the big gray male seemed to give way at this intrusion and without the least warning, he turned on the hound and slashed at his throat. Reddy leaped to one side and then was engulfed in a mass attack by the other wolves who were quick to follow their leader. The caribou seemed forgotten as they joined joyously in this new fight and swarmed over the hound who went down under the first big rush and was battling on his back like a cat. The new noise reached the King who listened to it without understanding its significance. However, he loped down the mountain to investigate, and when he reached the glade he needed just one look. He came into the seething mass of lean gray bodies like a thunderbolt and killed the first wolf he hit as if its neck had been a matchstick. In the next instant he had hurled the biggest beast out of his way and was standing over Reddy, every hair on his great back bristling, his long jagged rows of teeth bared and a deep furrow almost hiding his eyes as his rage fairly boiled over and growls such as those wolves had never heard rumbled from his chest and drowned out their shrill clamor. Reddy got on his feet as the wolves hesitated and slunk back. He

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was bloody and mauled, but he had only one thought and that was to settle the score with the big gray male. Suddenly he charged and only the nimblest dodging saved the gray from going down. The two were almost the same in weight and height and made a perfect picture of well-matched ferocity as they circled each other, feinted rushes, parried with their feet, clashed teeth against teeth, rose on hind legs to spar or leaped this way and that with deadly slashing at shoulder and leg. The hound was waiting for an opening to get his favorite hold on the neck, just back of the wolf’s terrible jaws. He tried again and again and each time was met by slashing teeth; then he tried the black wolf’s trick of offering his shoulder and whirling when his enemy struck, so that the teeth passed harmlessly over his rump and he could slash at the other’s hind leg. But Reddy did not slash; instead he gripped with all the strength of his jaws and, putting his weight into the lift, threw the wolf to the ground and leaped on top of him. He had the great, kicking, snarling beast down and fighting for his life. Not now was the wolf thinking of killing the hound, he was trying to get away, to protect his throat, to keep his legs from being smashed. And Reddy stood there waiting his chance, and if ever a dog looked terrible it was Reddy in those fierce moments. But he did not strike. Some strange force in his nature held him back, now that his enemy was down. His rage cooled; he let the wolf roll free and dash for the woods. For a time he stood there, legs apart, while he regained his breath. The wolf pack had vanished with the exception of one that lay sprawled in the grass, a gray splotch against the green. The caribou still stood in the water, his head low as he watched. The King was lying down, licking a cut on a front leg. Presently the caribou raised his head and took an experimental step towards the bank. Neither Reddy nor the black wolf took any special notice; so he made a leap and then another and in a few moments was among the bushes. There he stood to look back curiously at the two

NOTHING TO FEAR

who did not want to kill him. At length he shook his head, with all its weight of antlers, as if he could not understand, and then he trotted away to rejoin his scattered friends. A grim and dangerous experience this fight had been to Reddy, but he felt proud and strong and secure, now that it was over. He walked around the glade with tail held high, ready to fight again if need be, knowing that there was nothing in the mountains that he and the King need fear, nothing except man, and about the danger from man he was not quite sure. Had the King started north that night on one of his long tours, Reddy, in his exaltation and love of the wilds might never again have come under Johnny’s influence. The ties between hound and man welded through so many generations might have been completely broken and Reddy have become a wolf in spirit as he was by training. The scales hung in balance that night. But the King turned south, back to Little Sheep Creek Valley, back to where Johnny’s cabin overlooked the woods and basins and where Reddy’s own kin could lure him to softer ways of life. If the big wolf sensed all of this he gave no sign. Head up and nose pointed straight ahead, he led at steady pace through the forest, stopping only briefly at intervals to lick his wounded leg and to run his healing tongue over Reddy’s cuts where the blood still oozed and clotted the hair. And so these two friends, so different yet so closely joined, came to the ridge that overlooked Little Sheep Creek, and a new chapter in life opened for both of them.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Springing the Trap >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE BLACK WOLF, THROUGH LONG EXPERIENCE WITH MEN AND TRAPS, had learned to avoid having any favorite trails; he tried to go through the woods by a different route each time. When snow was on the ground, he almost never walked in his old tracks. Gradually, Reddy had acquired the same habit. To avoid poison as well as traps, the wolf would not go near carrion or return to an animal he had killed after he had feasted and left it. And this, too, the hound learned. That was one reason why he came through the first year in the mountains without being caught in a trap and without having suffered the agonies of strychnine. The two fur trappers who had operated in the valley of Little Sheep Creek during the previous winter, were smart men. While visiting Johnny and tending the small traps they set for beaver, mink, marten, fox and ermine catches, they had studied the possibilities of the country for larger game and found plenty of wolf tracks. Neither of them had ever caught a big timber wolf, so they were especially interested in pitting their wits against wolf cunning and showing their friends at home how good they were. During the summer they collected heavy wire snares so that they could make a trip into the valley two weeks earlier than the shooting season, and before the wolves would be made wary by the scent of gunners and the sound of rifles in the woods. This was an excellent plan as far as securing wolves was concerned, but it was not considered legal to trap out of the regular season even a bounty animal such as a wolf, nor was it playing fair with other trappers to do this. Therefore, the two slipped into the valley without [56]

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saying anything about it to Johnny and set their snares carefully and as furtively as any felon. They remembered very well where they had seen wolf tracks, and they went quietly from place to place on foot without so much as disturbing a marmot that might whistle an alarm. At the end of the first day, they had placed ten snares across possible trails in sections where they knew the wolves had traveled. This was done while Reddy and the King were in the neighborhood of Eagle Peak. To say that when the hound and the black wolf returned to the valley they were entirely unsuspecting, was not exactly correct. The wolf in particular, was always suspicious. Except when chasing game ahead of him, he was watching for some dangerous trick of man along every foot of ground that he covered. He remembered the time when he had been nearly killed by a cleverly placed snare, and on innumerable occasions he had located both traps and snares in time to avoid being caught. Always there had been either the faint scent of man or the subtle taint of steel in the air. Now, approaching Little Sheep Creek, his nostrils caught man scent. The King stopped as suddenly as if someone had shot at him. He stood, not moving even a toe, while he looked and listened. It was nighttime, therefore, it was a trap rather than a gun that he feared. Behind him, like a statue, stood the hound, his nose and eyes equally busy. The forest around them was quiet except for the murmur of the water in the creek, almost too quiet, as if it had been deserted by the other animals. The scent was faint but unmistakable. The wolf’s nose searched the ground. The smell of shoe leather was there in depressed places. Then he caught a mere whiff of the scent of steel and knew just as surely as if he had seen the men setting it that somewhere very close, perhaps beside him or even under him, there was some diabolical contrivance of man aimed at destroying him. Men did not often make blind sets, sets without bait or housing, unless they were trying something particularly dangerous to him. Backing carefully, he forced Reddy away too. After that he made a wide detour, then suddenly stopped again. More scent; more steel.

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That was enough for the King. With Reddy still a few paces behind, he turned around in his tracks and trotted up the mountain to leave the valley. Now, however, Reddy rebelled and hung back. He was old enough to have a mind of his own and now that he was so close, he wanted to rest and recover from his wounds in the comfortable thicket they had frequented so much, across the valley from Johnny’s cabin. The old wolf turned back and pulled at his shoulder with gentle teeth, but Reddy, though usually easily influenced, this time continued to move away. When the wolf whined, further to show his disapproval, the tired hound, becoming reckless, pretended not to hear. He made his way slowly and resolutely toward the thicket and walked straight into a snare. There was a tug against his chest, then a quick crash at the left and a vice closing on one leg and his neck as the heavy log, propped in the crotch of a tree, was released and in its fall jerked the wire taut and yanked him partly into the air. With a howl of fear and rage, he hurled his body this way and that until the wire bit cruelly into his skin and he was nearly strangled. Only the fact that one front leg up to the shoulder was also in the noose saved him. Gasping and weak, he gradually calmed down and hung there quivering all over, his hind legs on the ground, the fore part of his body suspended. At this moment, the black wolf sprang for the wire and tore and ripped at it with his teeth, not realizing that every jerk brought more torture to Reddy and did no good. Again and again he made his brave, magnificently wild leaps until his whole mouth bled and he too was exhausted. Frustrated and beaten, he lay panting on the ground always looking at Reddy, his brain working to devise a cure for this dreadful thing. And then he howled, such sadness and despair in his voice that every living creature in the valley took heed and though not knowing what it was all about, became worried and ill at ease. The two trappers in their tent heard it and looked at each other with quickened breath. Johnny heard it, climbed out of his bunk and opened the door the

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better to understand it. The three black and tans howled dismally in sympathy. A coyote on the ridge and one beside the creek set up separate wails. The king howled and howled and no creature slept. At dawn Johnny gulped some coffee and started out in the gray light to learn what had happened. When the three hounds tried to follow, he ordered them back for he guessed that the black wolf had been caught in a trap and he was debating what he should do if he found the great animal. And Reddy? Perhaps if the King were captured the reclamation of the hound would be more possible. With the instinct of a real woodsman, Johnny slipped through the forest in almost a direct line to the spot from which the howling had seemed to come. Everything was quiet now. The ranger moved with caution, stopping from time to time to look ahead and listen. He was not surprised to find the tracks of the two trappers, and then was more than ever sure the wolf was in a trap. Plainly, the men were breaking the law, setting traps out of season when the woods were supposed to be safe for man and beast. Suppose that the three black and tans had been roaming the woods and been injured by being caught! Well, he would report the matter to headquarters anyway. But first he must find the trapped wolf. The sun came up and shone on the mountains, but the valley was still in shadow as Johnny searched almost within a stone’s throw of the right spot. There was nothing to guide him, no visible tracks here, no howling, no clamor of jays. He sat down on a log and tried to study out the probable course of the trappers. It seemed likely that they would have followed the creek, but then he had seen no sign. Strange! But no! Illegal work must be hidden. The men would perhaps have set their traps where he would ordinarily never think of looking for them, up among the rocks. With fresh confidence, he started to search in the direction of the summit. He was above the timber when a black animal came running uphill from a line of low trees, and Johnny quickly recognized the

SPRINGING THE TRAP

King. In long bounds the wolf, who showed no signs of any trap injury, took the slope and passed within twenty yards of the ranger who remained motionless and partly hidden. When, however, the big animal caught the man scent, he stopped and for a moment looked directly at Johnny under puckered brows with a wistful rather than the usual sinister expression. And, as Johnny watched him, his mind jumped to Reddy and he guessed for the first time that it was he who was in trouble. Poor Reddy! Johnny had had such hopes for the hound. He watched the famous old wolf until he topped the ridge and vanished. Now Johnny ran down the mountain toward the row of trees, but with utmost caution lest he start any stones rolling noisily, for he must find out what had scared away the wolf. In the shadow of the spruce trees, he slowed to a fast walk and then stopped stock-still for he heard voices. The trappers came blundering through the woods toward their last snare. Already they had visited the other sets and found nothing caught, so their expectations were at high pitch as they neared this one. The taller man in the lead held his rifle in readiness when he parted the final barrier of branches and came in full view of the snare and the big red hound suspended there, his eyes on the approaching men. Suddenly Reddy knew that here was the greatest danger he had ever faced, and with all his remaining strength, lunged against the pull of the wire and fairly hurled his body forward. At the first shock of seeing a huge hound instead of a wolf, the men were confused and uncertain what to do, but they had heard, of course, of a wild red dog in the mountains on whose head was a fifty dollar bounty, and when they realized that the animal might tear loose in his struggles, they did not hesitate long. “Shoot him!” whispered the one in the rear. The other raised the rifle. “Hold on there!” Slowly the surprised men turned their heads and saw Johnny. He was coming down the slope among the trees with his

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peculiar gliding gait, and he did not stop until he had reached the men. “I’ll take this,” he said, laying his hand on the rifle. “Well, I’ll be—. Of all things!” gasped the taller man. “How did you get here?” He kept his hold on the rifle and faced the ranger. “Bill,” said Johnny, trying hard not to show any anger, “I wouldn’t have thought you and Mose would break the law. You thought you could get away with it, I suppose, but you can’t, and I’m here to see that there’s no more of this.” He tried to take the rifle. “Let me have that gun!” “Not till I’ve shot that renegade dog.” “That is my dog,” said Johnny. If the men were surprised before, they were doubly so when they heard this. “You mean that the dog who turned wolf and has the whole world after him is one of your pack? Well, that’s something for a ranger! Wait till the authorities hear about it. You’ll get fired sure. Maybe it would be better for you if we were to decide not to tell. Yes, you’d better think that over.” Bill felt almost elated. He thought that the tables were turned on the ranger. “I know what you’re driving at. It won’t do you a bit of good.” Johnny was holding himself in with difficulty. “Come, give me the gun.” “If you were four cops you couldn’t get this gun. You’re as good as fired right now. Look out or you may get shot. We don’t calculate on letting a bounty dog get away. Look out, I tell you!” Johnny was pushing the men back. If they got the upper hand, there would be little chance of saving Reddy. “Bill, don’t be unreasonable,” he urged. “Can’t you see that beside the matter of trapping, I have every right to protect my hound? Suppose he were yours; wouldn’t you feel just like in me? I’m going to set him free, and if you’ve injured him you’re responsible. Now, give me elbow room.

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“The wild brute’s ours, not yours,” cut in the man called Mose. “You’re the one who’s trying to break the law. And what’s more, if you lay your hands on us or our gun, we’re going to protect ourselves and our property. We’ll spread you out for the ravens before we’ll be bullied, you ex-ranger!” “Are you trying to get the bounty yourself?” snarled Bill. “I don’t believe this big brute ever saw you before. Look at him tearing things up. He wasn’t anywhere around your shack when we were there. If you want him so badly, we’ll sell our rights for fifty dollars. Now, what do you say? But on top of that, you’re going to forget we were in the valley before season, understand?” “Fair enough,” added Mose with a broad grin. “That’s our proposition. Make up your mind, ranger.” Johnny was in a quandary. He felt positive that Reddy would fight him if he went within reach now. It would take a lot of planning and careful work to set a wild creature like him free, work which the trappers must not see. His one chance was to outbluff them. “Where are your other traps?” he asked belligerently. “What other traps?” asked Bill slyly. “Come on, cut out this cop stuff. We’ve got you and you know it.” He looked confidently at Mose for approval. Johnny saw that he was losing. The men were tough and they had a double stake to win; the circumstances gave them the upper hand. He looked at Reddy and saw that the big bound was watching him. He wondered whether Reddy understood what was going on and would allow him to work on the snare. No, he argued, that would be expecting too much. Then he saw the hound’s eyes shift. Following his glance, he glimpsed one of the black and tans slinking timidly in the bushes. What luck! The hound had followed him after all. “Nell!” he called, glancing exultantly at the men. “Come here, Nell. Nice old Nell.” His hopes skyrocketed. The pup would show that she and Reddy were friends, pack mates. After that it would be futile for

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his adversaries to claim that Reddy was just a wild dog. Nell’s timidity vanished at the unexpectedly warm reception. She ran forward wagging her tail furiously and whining with delight; behind her, equally encouraged and happy, burst the other two. From Johnny, they ran to their brother without the slightest hesitation for they were accustomed to being tied themselves and saw nothing wrong. They frisked around him, reached up to lick his nose, and tried to make him play with them. It was like a joyful reunion. The trappers said nothing. Mose spit loudly to relieve his feelings, but his partner just walked away. Things didn’t look good for them; the shoe was on the other foot and the sooner they gathered up their snares, the better, for Johnny’s other dogs might get caught and he have an even better case against them. Johnny breathed easier. He had expected real trouble. Suddenly, however, Bill returned. “Remember,” he warned in an ugly voice, “if you squawk about us, we’ll fix you and your red dog.” “You and your snares are to be out of this valley before night,” countered the ranger. “That’s what you say,” sneered Bill over his shoulder. Johnny trailed the men for some distance to make sure they had gone far enough away, then hastened back to Reddy. With the black and tans frisking around him, he went within a couple of paces of the snare, all the time talking to the trapped hound in his quiet way. Reddy’s eyes, bloodshot and bulging, never left his, but the hound, beyond quivering in every muscle, made no move and seemed almost resigned to his fate whatever it might be. First of all, the ranger, with difficulty, raised the log to its place in the tree crotch thus releasing the pull of the wire and lowering Reddy’s heavy body to the ground where it lay on sprawled legs from which power seemed gone. Then slowly, gently, he worked on the wire, slipping it through the noose bit by bit until the loop was large enough to go over Reddy’s weary head. Part of the wire was embedded in the

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skin, but the flesh, caked as it was with blood, had lost feeling. After being drawn from under the body, the wire dropped harmlessly on the ground and Reddy was free. Would he run into the woods, or turn dangerous, or did he perhaps realize that Johnny was friend and benefactor? For more than a year his whole training had been bitterly against man. Fear and hatred had been inculcated in his heart. The spirit of the wild had kept him with his brethren the wolves, free to roam, to hunt, to spurn the very thought of subservience to man. Yet he lay not trying to move while an unarmed man crouched beside him and stroked his head.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

A Pack Hunts >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

JOHNNY HAD BROUGHT A SLEEPING BAG AND CAMPING KIT FROM HIS cabin in order to spend the night beside the hound who was too heavy to be carried through the woods properly in his injured condition. Reddy pulled himself under a near-by spruce whose low-hanging branches protected him from the sun, and there curled up to rest. He was feverish and would not eat, but water he craved whenever Johnny offered it. He appeared to have accepted the ranger as a nurse and, though always watchful, made no effort to stop him when he bathed every wound he could find with disinfectant; and there were plenty of wounds from the wolves, the wire and Reddy’s own violent threshing about when in the snare. His whole body was a mass of soreness that could bear only the lightest touch. Johnny had made up his mind to tame the hound and this was his great chance. He dared not risk leaving him alone through the night for fear he would travel away or somehow escape Johnny’s influence. At evening the ranger built a campfire and cooked some simple things for supper, meanwhile watching continually lest Reddy take fright at the sight of the leaping flames and the crackling of burning twigs. As the shadows deepened, he sat closer to Reddy and talked to him, disconnected sentences, anything that came to his mind, just to accustom the hound to the sound of his voice. When black night really descended upon them, he still kept the fire going for he had the eerie feeling that some creature was watching him from the bushes. He thought of Bill and Mose, of the grizzlies and the lynx. No matter where he sat or what he did, he still had the feeling, and though he had a rifle, he wished that he had kept the black and tans instead of [66]

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leaving them to guard the cabin. At least they could make a noise and give warning. Before trying to go to sleep, he walked around the campsite, using a weak flashlight to probe the darkness, but he saw only endless numbers of tree trunks and bushes. Returning, he was standing beside Reddy looking down at him by the light of the fire when there was a roar directly behind him that would have done justice to a lion. He spun around in time to see a large animal leap back to the shadows. He sensed that it was the King. For a few moments he was unnerved, for he knew something of the strength and courage of the black wolf, but quickly enough, he realized that had the wolf intended to attack, he would have done it with silence and his uncanny stealth. No, the King was only trying to frighten him away from Reddy. Nevertheless, Johnny felt anything but secure when he lay on the ground in his sleeping bag and watched the fire grow lower each minute. At any moment, the wolf could kill him. But Johnny waited and nothing happened. Lying there, he heard many things. The owls talked to each other, coyotes yapped somewhere down the valley, stones rolled under the feet of hoofed animals, and always the creek gurgled and splashed. Then he heard the wolf whine. It was very close. He did it several times. There was nothing fierce about that whine; it sounded so plaintive that Johnny felt sorry for the old King. A feeling of security came over him and soon he slept. At dawn he awoke and with sudden foreboding looked around to see if Reddy was still there, but the ground under the spruce tree was vacant. Johnny’s heart beat fast as he crawled out of the sleeping bag and began to search around the camp. No sign of the hound. However, he soon found tracks in the dust, large ones such as only the black wolf could make, and he guessed that somehow Reddy, sick as he was, had been lured away. Johnny studied the ground and slowly worked his way into the bushes. About a hundred yards from the camp he came upon an

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uprooted tree and there found the hound curled up in a bed of leaves underneath the butt where the roots fanned out and served as a partial windbreak. Reddy looked very sick, but evidently had had all his wounds thoroughly licked and cleansed by the wolf. In fact, beside him was a bare place where the King lay during the night to work over him. Johnny knew that no better treatment could have been found, and his admiration for the big wolf who would face man to aid a comrade, gained further ground. The ranger moved his sleeping bag to the hound’s new position, and there set up his rough camp. During the day he visited his cabin for more supplies and to fetch the black and tans who were glad to leave the lonely ridge and were happy over the camp as a new home. Johnny had to worry over what the black wolf might do to them, but he had great faith by this time in the King’s good sense and took a chance on no mishap coming to the young hounds. He had made up his mind long ago that under no ordinary circumstances would he ever try to harm the fine old leader whose life had been interwoven with his through all the years he had been in the service. “You don’t kill an animal for whom you have real respect, even if he is a wolf,” he had told Mac on one of the occasions when they had been listening to the spirited baying of the King. “O. K.,” Mac had answered, “I’m with you myself; I like to hear the old boy; but don’t ever tell your ideas to anyone else; you’re a pretty fair ranger and are needed in the job. Don’t lose it. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking there are already too many after the old black’s scalp. It’s a miracle they don’t get him the way he goes roaring all over the country.” “He may have killed a lot of game,” mused Johnny, “but he has never done any harm to men except when he chewed up a few dogs they sent after him. And that was just self-defense wasn’t it?” “Wait till he chews up some of yours!” That was something to think about. Already the wolf had deprived

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him of Reddy. Or had he? That was always the question, as yet unanswered. At any rate, the wolf leader had developed in Reddy the finest hound Johnny had ever seen. That night the black and tans bayed several times and ran about excitedly, but always returned safely to the fireside. “Good old King!” said Johnny with feeling as he turned over in his sleeping bag to rest even more soundly than before. In the morning the hound was still lying under the fallen tree and he was looking better. He lapped broth with bread in it and tried to wag his tail when Johnny talked to him and the black and tans played around. On the following day, he walked stiffly to an open place where he could bask in the sun, and on the third day, when Johnny and the black and tans encouraged him, he followed slowly all the way to the cabin. But he would not go inside. Instead, he found a pile of brush and curled up among leaves as before. Johnny wished that he could tie him and make sure that he would stay, but he knew that tying would be the last thing that Reddy would endure. Days passed and the hound stayed around the cabin with the black and tans, growing more and more at home. Johnny suspected that the King had given up hope of having him back as a companion and gone north on one of the long, hectic rambles that seemed to soothe his nerves; at least, the wolf made no further attempt to take Reddy away. By this time, Johnny found no difficulty in patting him occasionally, though the hound showed no special interest in any affectionate demonstration and was afraid of quick motions and of any attempts to lead him into the cabin or other enclosures, all of which he quite evidently regarded as traps. He slept among the bushes and rocks no matter what the weather, but strangely enough, would eat with relish any kind of food that was offered to him. When his wounds were well healed, Johnny took him and the black and tans on hikes around the valley. The hound would walk beside or directly behind the ranger just as he had always done with the King, and from Johnny he took directions in regard to what animals he

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should hunt. As he had never hunted unless he was hungry, and now was well fed every day, he showed no particular eagerness to chase the moose, caribou and other game, as long as Johnny did not encourage him. This pleased Johnny more than anything else. When Mac rode up the valley one fine day to pay a visit and saw the big red hound with the black and tans, his eyes fairly bulged. That Reddy feared him and stayed well in the background, made no difference. He saw that the miracle had happened. He looked and looked and still marveled. “And what a hound he is!” he said to Johnny. “I never saw one so big and fine!” Later he made the ranger tell all that had happened, and when he heard how Bill and Mose had left with threats, he shook his head, and for the first time since his arrival, looked grave. But nothing could long hold down the spirits of these two, and Mac was all for seeing how well the big hound could hunt. “I’m afraid to start him after even a coyote,” sighed Johnny. “He might somehow get the urge to go wild again.” “But man, he’s no good as a lap dog,” urged Mac. “The coyotes around my shack are so bold they’re taking the chickens right from under my nose so quick that I can’t shoot them. There’s one big old yellow fellow that I see every day sneaking around as if he wanted to eat me and own the place! Come down tomorrow and just have one try at him. You’d do more good if you put fear into him than you would around here in a month.” Johnny demurred, though his eyes sparkled and he soon began to get almost enthusiastic over the idea. Eventually he agreed to try it, and after that the two could talk of nothing else. That night the four hounds received an especially good dinner of tinned beef covered with rich soup. And such was the bond between master and hounds that they sensed something was afoot and pranced about and played together wildly. Mac slept in the spare bunk in Johnny’s cabin. At dawn their horses were saddled and they were starting single file down the valley with the hounds at heel.

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“Man alive! I can scarcely wait to see that yellow coyote run,” chortled Mac. “Won’t he be surprised!” But Johnny was far from being confident that the hounds would do their part. Everything on the journey went smoothly until a young black bear ran across the trail. The black and tans saw him and gave chase with wild baying, Reddy following them without enthusiasm for he knew there was nothing to be gained by hunting bears. Johnny shouted and tried to head them off, but he found it difficult to force the horse through the timber and only caught up when the bear made a circle. A good scolding brought them again to heel. When they struck the trail from the station to Mac’s Castle, Johnny held back the hounds while his friend went ahead to look things over and see whether there were any signs of the coyotes. It was not long before Mac’s shouts showed that something was afoot, so Johnny hurried to catch up. Mac was dismounted and fairly tearing his hair with exasperation. He had come out of the timber very quietly and caught sight of a coyote sitting on its haunches behind the shack licking its lips after eating his white rooster which he had left fastened in the coop. The coyote, evidently knowing that Mac was far away, had dug a big hole underneath the side of the coop. White feathers were blowing everywhere. “He wasn’t the only one,” shouted Mac. “There were three others over beyond where I throw the garbage.” “Was the big yellow one there?” asked Johnny. “Of course he was!” cried Mac. “He was the lad who killed my poor chicken. He went into the bushes where you see the clothes line.” Johnny tied his horse and ran to the spot, the hounds following at his heels; but after the scolding they had received on account of the bear, the black and tans held back from taking the trail, and Reddy stood stolidly watching everything without comprehending what all the excitement was about. Johnny saw that he could do nothing with the timid black and tans so he concentrated on Reddy, calling him and

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trying to get him interested in the scent. Still Reddy did not understand, for to him coyotes were like the bear, just a nuisance in the woods and not the kind of food he wanted. Poor Mac was almost in a frenzy. “Don’t you see he needs leading. He wants the wolf to show him the way. If you could imitate the old leader—just howl a few times—it might work. Howl man, like a wolf following a scent.” Johnny instantly saw possibilities in this ludicrous advice. Crouching where the coyote had left tracks, he made noises which sounded more like an Indian on a scalp hunt than anything else, but Reddy pricked up his long ears and came to him to investigate. He sniffed along the trail of the coyote. “Howl man, howl!” urged Mac, fairly dancing in excitement. But no howling from Johnny was necessary. “Wu! Wu! Wu-u-u-u-u-uh,” thundered the red hound, and with wagging tail started off on the trail. Behind him at once joined in the black and tans. The whole place echoed with the din. “Boy, oh boy!” yelled Mac joyfully. That was a chase to be remembered. Reddy led all of the time, up the mountain and down the other side, then on a long, fast run to the north. The coyote turned at last and came back, trying to dodge among the rocks and confuse the big hound. But no coyote could confuse Reddy. Again the din centered around Mac’s Castle, then it faded away towards the south. Johnny leaped into the saddle and galloped down the railroad. Mac was too out of breath to do much of anything. Presently the din ended as if it had been cut off by a knife and Johnny left his horse and ran on foot into the woods toward the place where he had last heard the hounds. The question was, had they caught the coyote or been led over a precipice? Coming breathlessly into a glade, he almost stepped on them, lolling full length around the very dead yellowish-gray animal, and panting so hard from the fury of the chase that they scarcely took any notice of him.

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Johnny first patted the big hound and then the others, making sure that all knew the pride he felt in them. Coyotes were worse in the game and fur country than rats in a hen house, and unless killed, they would rapidly increase. Johnny slung this one, an especially large old fellow, on his back and trudged to where he had left the horse. After a little trouble, he got his burden fastened to the pommel of the saddle and then rode back to Mac almost bursting with pride. Reddy had proved himself a great hunter and the black and tans had ably seconded him. They were turning out to be a good pack. “Of course, Johnny,” said Mac gleefully while he stroked the valuable fur of the coyote he had disliked so profoundly when it was alive, “you, yourself could be the best hound of the lot with your ‘Wow, wow,’ only you haven’t enough run in you. Less noise man, next time, and more speed!” Then he added seriously, “Come inside the Castle, won’t you? It seems to me this calls for a sort of celebration!”

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CHAPTER NINE

The Cabin on the Ridge >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

MAC WAS SURPRISED TO FIND THAT FOUR HEALTHY HOUNDS COULD EAT nearly as much as four men at a meal. “No wonder you’re always lugging in provisions,” he remarked to Johnny who had for some time been worrying about the cost and difficulty of feeding them. The cabin was so far from the railroad that Johnny had trouble enough to bring in food for himself though during the previous autumn he had secured a quantity of meat from a moose which hunters had killed solely for its antlers. But the problem was a pressing one. As a ranger and warden, he could not shoot game for them. Likewise, he could not expect to take the pack with him on his rounds of the hunters’ camps in the coming shooting season, for the hounds would be likely to frighten some of the game and thus annoy the sportsmen. So it ended in a loan of the black and tans to Mac who had more spare time and would use them in hunting coyotes. “Anyway, Reddy is a whole pack in one and probably won’t leave me now,” said Johnny. “He will be easy to control when he and I are alone and get to know each other better.” And so it happened that only Reddy returned with the ranger to the cabin on the ridge. Johnny had left with Mac a report to be sent by train to headquarters about the Bill and Mose episode. He expected to be told to come to town to press charges in person, but by the time the hunting season was in full swing, no word had reached him and he thought it best not to delay any longer in starting on the trip around his district. He took his camping equipment on the pack horses and began his leisurely journey with Reddy as companion. [74]

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Knowing all the principal camping places, he found it easy to locate four hunting parties. He spent the nights at his own camps and by day rode around the mountains always accompanied by the hound. Whenever they approached a camp, Reddy held back and vanished in the bushes to wait until Johnny took the trail again. The ranger’s principal business with the men was to see that those who hunted had licenses and were not killing more than the legal limit. He was on good terms with all the guides and enjoyed the short talks he was able to have with them. All had heard from Bill and Mose a lurid story of the wild hound that they claimed Johnny had taken from them, and this usually came up for discussion. Johnny thought it wise to say little. At one of the camps, however, he met an elderly sportsman named Marshall who was particularly interested in hounds, and to this man he managed to show Reddy. Marshall was deeply interested and asked many questions about him. Johnny eventually told Reddy’s history as far as he knew it. On two evenings, the sportsman turned up at the ranger’s camp to chat further with him and see more of the hound for whom he seemed to have taken a great liking. When Johnny returned to the cabin, he often thought of Marshall. Snow came into the valleys early that autumn. Johnny always took his vacation after the shooting season ended, but this year he was in a quandary over what to do with Reddy who was still afraid of every stranger and would not enter a house. He was debating the matter when a band of Indians came into the valley to trap. They made camp about two miles from the cabin, putting up tepees as usual and allowing their horses to graze in the valley as best they could with light snow everywhere. One afternoon the chief and two others from the camp paid a call on Johnny accompanied by the flock of mongrel dogs they usually had hanging around them wherever they went. The dogs were half-starved and while the powwow was in full session indoors, began to hunt food. They found Johnny’s storehouse, broke into it and pulled out a ham, some pieces of pork and other things that seemed especially eatable.

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Reddy had been some distance away in the woods, but heard the dogs and came bounding back. When he saw what was going on, he charged the vandals and fought the whole crowd of six at once. They were fierce, half-wild creatures, but they were easy compared with wolves and went rolling before his lightning rushes. He had a big fight while it lasted. When the Indians came out of the cabin, there were no dogs in sight. They found a number of red stains on the snow and remains of half-eaten provisions, but that was all, and they went away very mystified. Johnny made a good guess, but said nothing, and when the coast was clear, called Reddy out of the bushes and gave him more petting than he had ever received before. He saw that he could depend on the hound to defend his property. While the dogs had managed to do considerable damage, they would have done much more had they not been interrupted and punished, and probably they would have come back again and again. One problem was more on Johnny’s mind than any other during these first days of snow. He knew that the black wolf would be likely to come back almost any time and lure Reddy away unless somehow he could be brought indoors at night. Now that the black and tans were not at the cabin to keep him company, there was likelihood that the hound felt lonely. Sometimes at night when Johnny had gone to bed, he would howl from the top of a big rock in wolf fashion until he started the coyotes yapping. On two occasions, Johnny heard timber wolves answer him. Was he calling the King? For a time Johnny suspected that he went hunting on his own account, but this proved to be wrong, for as often as the ranger woke up at different hours and called Reddy, he would always come bounding from near by. Before the winter came to stay, there was a warm spell of several days with heavy rains that melted the snow. Johnny took this opportunity to go down to the station with his horses to leave them also with Mac until spring. There would soon be little feed left for them in the valley, and there was always plenty in the lowlands along the railroad. The

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ranger locked up the cabin in preparation for a night at Mac’s Castle and carried his snowshoes in case of deep snow coming suddenly on the heels of the rain. Mac was very glad to see him, and the black and tans gave Reddy a vociferous greeting, so Johnny stretched a point and stayed two nights. Instead of snow, clear, crisp cold weather came, bringing northern lights that lit up the whole sky on the second night. Strips of white radiated from the north, shimmering slightly and changing patterns slowly until they almost merged, then split again and gradually thinned and receded. The weirdness of it caused the coyotes to set up a great clamor and the hounds to howl long and mournfully. In the morning, right after breakfast, Johnny and Reddy left on foot for the return trip. Without much to carry, the ranger could cover ground in this manner faster than with pack horses. He found the path through the woods pleasant to travel now that the mud had partly frozen. Everywhere the wild creatures were busy. Red squirrels ran ahead, jays called, an old black porcupine followed by a half-grown young one was eating bark from a pine; moose trotted out of the way, the bulls still wearing the heavy antlers that would be shed before long. Quickly the time passed and the cabin loomed ahead on the ridge. Johnny never sang in the wilds, but his spirits were high and he felt like it now. That was before he came to the top of the ridge and saw the devastation. The cabin was gutted by fire! The heavy logs that made the walls, still stood, but the inside and part of the roof were nothing but a charred ruin. The little cabin was just a shell. Johnny could scarcely believe his eyes. The fact that there was no smoke and few smoldering embers indicated that this must have happened on the first night that he was absent. How had it started? Johnny pulled open the weakened door and stood on the threshold looking around, trying to remember any act of carelessness that might be responsible. The fire in the stove had died down before he left; there were no loose matches that woods-mice could gnaw; the chimney had been perfectly insulated. He gave it up.

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Presently he thought of the Indians. Could they have come for his provisions and burned the place to hide the evidence of their pillage? No, they were good chaps and friendly. He could trust them. Somehow, he decided, it must have been his own fault, perhaps one of his oily rags had ignited from spontaneous combustion or a cigarette butt had burned the table. He felt very low. At this point he happened to glance at Reddy. The hair on the hound’s shoulders bristled and he was walking stiff-legged as he always did when irritated or angry. No wonder, thought Johnny. Even the dog was riled by this desolation. Reddy, however, kept his nose to the ground. He was not looking at the cabin, he was trailing! Johnny, suddenly aroused by a new idea, hurried to him. The hound worked slowly around the cabin, then back again. After that he made a wide circle and still a wider one. The scent was elusive, very stale; he could make nothing of it, and so returned to the cabin. There he resumed his careful, thorough study of the ground, trying to find a trail he could follow. He covered every inch as he worked up and down the various paths. Johnny gave up hope about his idea and went inside the cabin to examine the damage, but still the hound continued to sniff. The ranger was bending over the remains of what had been a crude chest of drawers containing his clothes, when the air was electrified by the baying of the hound. Reddy had found the trail! The red hound was on a boulder behind the cabin; from that boulder he jumped to another. More sniffing and then another beautiful, long note! Small wonder there had been no tracks or other sign in the paths; whoever or whatever had done the mischief had come and gone by treading only on the high rocks which would show nothing and carry almost no scent. The fact that the stone was wet at the time, accounted for the slight trace that the hound was able to catch now. Wonderful Reddy! Johnny’s heart beat fast as he saw the hound doing the almost impossible. Slow work, but Reddy persisted. From stone to stone, further and further down the ridge. At length he reached the shady damp places

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under trees and there found much more scent. His voice rang out repeatedly. Johnny followed, first to the creek, then to the slope on the other side. Here was the first real evidence that Johnny sought—remains of a camp. There were tracks of horses indicating that the man or men had mounted here and ridden away. For a time Reddy was confused and could only circle. Presently, however, he realized that his quarry had left the ground and that it was the horses he should follow from this point. He started so eagerly that Johnny could scarcely stay with him in the scramble up the slope and over the next ridge, then down on the other side and all of the way to the Athabaska River. There was another deserted camp, evidently used during the past night, for tracks were fresh and the fire ashes not yet scattered. What intrigued the ranger was an empty tin can on which was the date of purchase in his own writing. He pocketed it as exhibit A against his enemies. There was very little ice on the river, but the water was wide and deep and not inviting. Nevertheless, where the tracks indicated that the horses had crossed, Johnny waded in too, determined to see the hunt to a finish. The chilling current nearly swept him off his feet, and it carried the swimming hound quite a distance down stream so that when they arrived at the far bank, both of them looked like halfdrowned rats. Reddy shook much of the water out of his coat, but Johnny did not want to spare the time to build a fire and dry his clothes; he simply poured the water out of his shoes. The tracks were fresh and he decided to follow while there was good light. It was evident that the riders were hurrying. Wherever there was good ground in the well-worn trail leading south, the horses had been made to trot and there was no sign that they had been allowed any time to nip at the bunches of grass along the way. Where the tracks were in soft ground, Johnny easily counted that there were four horses, probably two for riders and two for pack, and again his original idea took possession of him and he felt more sure than ever that Bill and Mose were the men ahead of him.

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At times he and Reddy ran. The hound was silent now, his hair bristling all down his spine as the scent increased. Three miles of good going and no glimpse of the riders; more miles and still no view of them. The sun was scarcely a half hour above the horizon. Then it was that Reddy left Johnny and started ahead in full run. Johnny, almost breathless, knew there was no use in trying to stop him, so he plodded along the well-worn trail as before. Minutes passed and then there was furious baying far ahead. A shot rang out, followed by two more. A lump rose in Johnny’s throat and he sprinted like a runner on his last lap in a race. He ran panting through a thicket of spruce, over an area of windfalls and out on open muskeg. Here a strange sight met his eyes. Two heavily laden horses were floundering up to their middles in the muskeg’s watery slime, and in the narrow ribbon of path along the edge, Reddy stood over a black blotch which did not move. Johnny, unable to utter a word, staggered forward. The blotch turned out to be a man sprawled on his back, his unwinking eyes gazing up at the bound who stood on his chest and growled as only he and the king of the wolves knew how to growl. “Reddy! Reddy!” gasped Johnny, but the man wasn’t dead. He was only half-scared to death, as a coward always is when things go against him. True, death was looking him in the face at that moment, death if he tried to fight, and he knew it. What a revenge! Reddy whom this man had trapped and wanted to kill, holding hire in the mud until the man he had tried to ruin could come. The hound’s growling ceased when Johnny arrived, but he had to be lifted aside and held away. “Why did you do it, Bill?” Johnny managed to ask, but the man said nothing, he just stared at Reddy straining to free himself. “He’s a devil!” whispered Bill hoarsely. With one hand, Johnny felt the man’s pockets to make sure he was not armed.

THE CABIN ON THE RIDGE

“Get up,” he commanded. He knew that he was more than a match for the man if he carried no weapons. Very slowly Bill straightened to a sitting position. “Where’s Mose?” asked Johnny. “Gone on,” was the husky answer. “The red devil attacked the horses. Stampeded them. Ran like a fiend and got me by the foot.” But all that Johnny noted was the unguarded admission that Mose was the other man. “Where’s the gun I heard fired?” he demanded. “Mose—,” began Bill, then realized for the first time that he was giving his partner away. He shut up like a clam. “You’ve already told enough, Bill,” Johnny said with a grim smile. “Now get up and help me unload the packs from these horses. We’re going to get them out of that bog and ride to town for a little talk with your old friend, the sheriff.” “You’re holding that brute?” “Yes. You needn’t be so afraid of him unless you run or try something foolish.” Slowly Bill got to his feet, then stooped quickly and picked up a thick stick he saw near the trail, just the right size for a formidable club. The hound growled ominously. “Drop that, Bill!” shouted Johnny. The man took one good look in his direction and obeyed. “Now you get to work on those packs.” When Johnny was satisfied that Reddy had given the conduct of things over to him and would not attack again, he joined Bill in relieving the horses of their heavy burdens. Once free of these, both animals began to plunge wildly, trying to reach firm ground. Mud, water and slivers of ice flew in every direction, but the efforts, though violent, were not enough; the discouraged horses sank back and lost their remaining ambition. Nothing could stir them. Johnny, now almost as muddy as they were, walked around them on tussocks and tried to solve the problem. Reddy was floundering at

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his heels, and the ranger noticed that the horses pricked their ears and looked almost panicky whenever he came close. One, a gray, was several yards nearer to the trail than the other, and on him Johnny tried an experiment. He suddenly leaped at the horse, brandishing his arms and yelling. This had no particular effect on the gray, but it made Reddy instantly come to his assistance, and that had effect, for the hound dashed at the horse as if he were going to eat him alive, at the same time giving one of his terrible wolfish roars. The gray snorted and plunged in terror. He threw mud twenty feet and fairly ploughed his way to the firm trail where he heaved himself out of the mire and stood trembling in every limb. “Get to his head!” shouted Johnny to Bill, but he couldn’t see the man at first for the simple reason that Bill had run to a tree. Johnny let him stay there and got Reddy to frighten the second horse into making the necessary effort. The work was rather grim, but it had its comical side. The ranger scooped some of the mud from the gray and vaulted to his back. Bill reluctantly came from his retreat and with difficulty got one leg over the other horse and pulled himself into place with the aid of the mane. He felt and looked very shaky without a saddle. “Let’s get going,” called Johnny and started off in the growing darkness. He wasn’t afraid of losing Bill for it was evident that without saddle or bridle, Bill could not manage his horse, and the animal would be too afraid of being left alone to allow the gray out of his sight. Nor was Johnny worrying about any ambush by Mose now that Reddy—good, faithful, wise Reddy—was ranging ahead. “Get along old fellow!” he said to the gray, pulling at the halter and pressing his heels expertly against the animal’s sides until he made it trot. Out of the tail of his eye, he could see Bill clutching at the mane and bouncing up and down on his bony horse like a rubber ball. Often he said “get along” to the gray, and often he looked back happily from the tail of his eye to watch trapper Bill bounce during that long ride to town in the moonlight.

CHAPTER TEN

Wyoming Adventure >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE AFFAIR OF MOSE AND BILL WAS A THING OF THE PAST. THEIR TRAPPING rights were canceled and they were facing a term in jail. However, they had managed to cause trouble for Johnny in regard to the hound, for Johnny was not one to lie to the authorities and therefore, had to admit that the wild dog, which for a year had been practically a wolf, was his. In consequence, there was considerable delay over rebuilding his cabin and renewing his commission as ranger in the game country. The most that he could do meanwhile was to stay at the house of a friend in the outskirts of town and chafe over his enforced inactivity. Reddy had quickly become famous. People wanted to see him and hear all about him. His great size and the fine, strong proportions of his body aroused continual admiration among men who valued sledge dogs and dogs that worked in other ways for their masters in the rugged northland. And Reddy, while still refusing to make friends with strangers, gradually lost all of his fear of man; he became accustomed to going in and out of houses and even to being mauled by the children who, one and all, idolized him. But he was not happy; like Johnny he was chafing and longing to return to the mountains. There was a faraway look in his eyes when he lay dreaming in front of the fire or sat outside in the snow looking in the direction of the Athabaska. He did not make friends with the town dogs; to him they seemed like an alien race with whom he had nothing in common. Those that wanted to fight he whipped quickly and thoroughly; those that were too cowardly to fight, he disdained. Johnny worried about him and wondered how long the ties of affection and loyalty could hold him from returning to the wilds and again becoming a wolf, free to roam at will over the limitless timber ranges with the King. [83]

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It was when the problem seemed at its worst that Johnny received a fat letter from Mr. Marshall whom he had met during the shooting season. That gentleman remembered Reddy. The letter in fact, was an appeal to Johnny to bring the big hound to Marshall’s ranch in Wyoming where, during recent months, there had been heavy losses in cattle and horses from the depredations of a pair of mountain lions which no ingenuity of man had been able to control. “It is plain,” wrote Mr. Marshall, “that ordinary hounds are no match for these two clever killers. The best traps are useless and against rifles the beasts bear a charmed life. I can think of nothing further except a trial of your extraordinary hound-wolf whose unusual experience and strength may enable him to cope with these big cats whose range covers both mountains and forests in the roughest country to be found in the State. I hope you won’t fail me in making this experiment.” The invitation thrilled Johnny who had been born in Wyoming and always enjoyed visiting it, although his parents had been dead for several years. He did a lot of planning about making such a long trip with Reddy. Also, he spent a whole evening in trying to work out a scheme whereby the hound might be likely to succeed in treeing the cougars or at least in bringing them to bay where men could follow. The principal drawback was the possibility that they would injure Reddy, perhaps fatally, in the fight that would develop, for there was small likelihood that he would know enough about this new kind of enemy to stay out of reach of both claw and fang. There had not been any cougars as far north as Little Sheep Creek for as long as Johnny could remember. Reddy, during this pondering of the matter, was lying on the floor in front of Johnny watching him, his big, intelligent eyes seeming never to wink. Whenever Johnny looked at him, he wagged his tail, and when finally the ranger made up his mind to accept the invitation and rose to write the letter to Marshall, Reddy rose too and came forward whining and wagging his tail so hard that its tip almost beat his sides.

WYOMING ADVENTURE

Johnny patted his head and smoothed the long ears. He realized for the first time that such sympathy and understanding had sprung up between him and the hound that his own excitement had communicated itself in some way to Reddy. “Yes, old boy, you’re soon going hunting!” he assured him. “It’s big hunting too, such as you haven’t ever seen. And somehow I know you’ll do your part.” On the following day, Johnny made arrangements to leave for the Marshall ranch. There were not many things to do about this, but the authorities had to be informed and an automobile purchased to transport Reddy who certainly could not be jammed into a crate and shipped by train in the usual way. Then Johnny borrowed a horse, tied a few things on the back of the saddle and rode to Mac’s Castle to bid his best friend good-by and to pick up two of the black and tans to be companions for Reddy. The hound accompanied him and raced ahead in spite of the snow which was deep even along the railroad tracks where the snowplow had cleared much of it away. Loud, joyful baying greeted them at the Castle. Mac came out and helped take care of the horse’s needs while listening to Johnny’s story of the coming trip, his sharp little eyes twinkling all of the time. “It’s the best luck anyone could possibly have!” he said more than once. They talked far into the night in front of a blazing mass of logs, about Bill and Mose, about the trapping and the hunting, but most of all about Wyoming and Reddy who was the cause of the stirring trip. Mac praised the black and tans. With their aid he had managed to shoot four of the coyotes he disliked so greatly. He had seen tracks of timber wolves, but no sign of the King. Picking the two best hounds for Reddy’s companions was an easy matter because Nell and her brother Bill were much more eager in their hunting than Bess who was always content to trail along behind

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them. All three were good-looking, big animals, but appeared small when compared with Reddy. Mac hated to part with any of them. “When those cats chase you out of Wyoming,” he shouted after Johnny, “bring back my black and tans or I’ll wallop you!” “O. K.,” laughed the ranger, “and a few cats’ whiskers for luck.” He turned around in the saddle from time to time to raise a hand toward Mac who could be seen standing bareheaded in front of his lowly Castle until heavy-limbed spruce trees intervened. Suddenly he felt the urge to gallop all the way to the town instead of slowly picking a safe path through the snow. Ahead was adventure, and with him were the hounds, as fine a trio as could be found anywhere. When, toward the end of the week, Johnny actually was starting on the trip, it took him all the morning to get Reddy settled in the automobile. The hound was determined not to be led or shoved into what certainly looked like a particularly dangerous trap, and when at last Johnny, with the aid of the friend who owned the house, carried him blindfolded into the rear seat and shut the door, Reddy almost tore the car apart. Before the cushions and upholstery were entirely in shreds, they were glad to open the door and let him jump out. But seeing how easy and painless it was to escape from the trap reassured Reddy, who immediately lost all interest as well as fear and allowed himself to be put back in the car with the docile black and tans. It was a strange proceeding, and Johnny felt apprehensive during every day of the trip, especially when all three hounds became actively ill from the jolting over poorly cleared roads, and everyone had a miserable time. The stops for the night at various farms were happy interludes except for the fights which were forced upon them by cross watchdogs. Reddy always got the upper hand in short order and, when they moved on, left wiser dogs behind. At one farm, two of the hired hands admired the red hound so greatly that they undertook to steal him, but they soon found out that this was

WYOMING ADVENTURE

a different kind of dog from any they had seen in the past. The attempt was made in the middle of the night when the black and tans were sleeping in the back of the car and Reddy, according to his usual desire for freedom of action, was curled up on some burlap bags underneath it. The two men had opened the barn door and were tiptoeing to the car in almost total darkness when Reddy, understanding perfectly well that they had come for no good purpose, charged at them from under the car with one of his terrible roars. They had no time even to turn on flashlights. Both of them leaped for the door and tripped over the threshold, landing hard on the frozen ground outside, but not so hard as to prevent them from doing some remarkable running directly afterward. So it happened that in spite of delays on account of snowstorms and bad roads, Johnny and his pack safely reached Wyoming and the vicinity of the Marshall ranch. It was below the Tetons in foothill country even wilder and more rugged than the ranger had expected. The branch road to the ranch itself was blocked by snowdrifts, so Johnny stopped for the night at a roadside hotel beside the swift little Wind River. Here, several ranchers gathered after dinner, and, like all who saw the hounds, were greatly interested in the whole project. They spoke well of Mr. Marshall and enlarged on the stories which Johnny had already heard of the mountain lions that for some unexplained reason had taken to eating the ranch’s tame animals instead of the wild deer, sheep and elk. One thing was certain, no trapper or hunter had as yet killed either of the two marauders in spite of so many attempts that the fame of the lions had spread far and wide. “Have they tried hounds?” asked Johnny. “You bet,” replied one of the younger men. “I was with Jimmie Dillon when he took the trail with eight good hounds and lost three of them. On account of so much snow in the mountains we couldn’t keep anywhere near the pack, and never found out what happened to it. Guess the cats turned on the hounds where they couldn’t dodge;

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anyway, five came slinking into camp that night pretty well scratched up and with no fight left in them. After that we just pulled out of the mountains.” “You think that the pair of lions stay together?” “According to the tracks, I’m sure of it,” was the answer. “The smaller one leads. That must be the female. The larger one follows in her tracks. You’ll find it that way almost anywhere you run across their trail. I’ll bet the big boy did the fighting when the hounds caught up. His tracks are quite some bigger than the biggest wolf’s, and I say he’s all of nine feet long.” “Yes,” chimed in one of the listeners, “he’s a big one!” Johnny was thrilled by all this talk. He arranged that a couple of the men come with him next day to help clear the road with shovels, but soon after morning broke, Mr. Marshall and two of his cowboys arrived in a roadster after cutting through the drifts. They were very pleased to see Johnny, and almost immediately were ready to lead the way back to the ranch. When Marshall approached the hounds, Reddy recognized him at once, and stood gravely wagging his tail while tolerating being patted. This won the rancher’s heart completely. “I wonder,” he remarked, “whether it’s fair to start this grand hound after the lions? You heard about the recent hunt of Dillon’s pack? His was made up of old-timers in the game, and yet it was very nearly cleaned up. Maybe we’re taking too much of a chance with your Reddy who just won’t know what it’s all about until it may be too late.” Johnny had often thought of that because he knew that mountain lions very rarely came into the bleak mountains of Alberta, but he did not waver in his confidence in Reddy’s intelligence and the hard experience gained with the King. “Don’t worry yet,” he suggested. “He’s learned about the lynx in the North. We’ll try him and see. I feel more worried about the black and tans, although they’ll just follow his lead.”

WYOMING ADVENTURE

“In that case it’s still a go!” said Marshall. Not long afterward, the party was on its way to the ranch on a single track road that wound around buttes and deep cuts made in the plateau by a small creek. Here and there were groups of gaunt cottonwood trees, but for the most part, low sagebrush was the principal growth that met their eyes; cover that in the snow would scarcely hide a rabbit. At a big bend in the creek they came upon a herd of whitefaced Hereford cattle, resting among low cottonwoods, and further upstream, they passed a dozen heavy-coated horses ranging in color from light gray to black, pawing the snow from grass they wanted to eat. At some places they crossed bare patches of ground swept almost clean by the wind. Around these Johnny, even from the moving car, could see tracks of jackrabbits, coyotes and antelopes. It was interesting country. The first sign of the ranch buildings came after they had topped a little rise and could look down on a broad, almost flat basin with the creek in the middle and the high mountains as a background. Here was a rectangular, single story, log house with several outbuildings and a high fence of peeled wood. Bleached antlers of elk, moose and deer were nailed over doorways, but there was no paint of any kind in sight. In a few minutes the men were inside the log house facing a wide fireplace full of blazing logs and being greeted by Marshall’s softspoken, pretty wife and his two children, one a tall, very blonde girl in her teens, named Patricia, and the other a sturdy, freckle-faced boy named Bob whom Johnny liked at once, and decided was a year or two younger than the girl. “Why don’t you bring in the hounds?” Bob wanted to know first thing. “We’ve got to see them!” Johnny called them in from the porch. First came Reddy, walking gingerly around the rugs of antelope and bear skins. He looked very

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large and dignified as he stood in the middle of the room with the black and tans timidly slinking behind him. Both children exclaimed with pleasure. “Oh, he’s wonderful! We never had anything like him out here!” They patted him and stroked his ears and almost forgot his brother and sister. Then the ranch boss, George Morton, and his wife came in from another room and were introduced, after which they all sat down at a table that they pulled in front of the fireplace, and had a good lunch served by Mrs. Morton and Patricia, while the hounds ate from heaped plates set out on the porch. It was gay and jolly and made everyone good friends. After that, the men sat before the fire, smoking and telling stories of hunting and ranching, while Bob romped with the hounds outside. Mr. Morton saved until the last the really thrilling news of the day. “You’d scarcely think,” he observed, “that the lions would come anywhere near the house in snow time, but that’s just what they did last night. I found their tracks not over a hundred yards up the creek.” “That’s the nearest they’ve ever come!” cried Mr. Marshall. “Lucy, did you hear that? The lions, right at our backyard. It’s a good thing we’ve got the hounds. Shall we try them tomorrow?” “Why not now, right away?” excitedly asked Bob, who had just come in to get warm. Johnny smiled at him. He felt the same urge. “Why not?” he echoed. “Just give them time to digest their meal and I think they’ll be all right.” The excitement became general. Mr. Marshall agreed that it was a good idea. Snowshoes were pulled out of boxes, rifles brought from the closet. Light, but warm clothes put on. Everyone except Mrs. Marshall intended to see at least the start of the hunt. They gathered on the porch and looked around for the hounds, but these were nowhere in sight. Johnny called and whistled. Mr. Marshall took a look around the other buildings, and Mr. Morton

WYOMING ADVENTURE

studied the tracks in the snow. It was Morton who found the first clue to their whereabouts, for behind the ranch house, where the wind was less brisk, he heard baying far up the creek. He shouted and everyone joined him. “I’ll be hanged,” he exclaimed, “if they haven’t found that old lion track I saw this morning! Listen to that big-voiced one! Is that old Red?” “No time to lose,” interrupted Mr. Marshall. “Let’s go!” Already he was striding toward the hounds, and the others followed helterskelter over the snow.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mountain Lion >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE HOUNDS HAD NOT BEEN TRAILING WITH ANY SERIOUSNESS, BUT when the gay crowd of people came from the ranch and shouted encouragement, they became more interested and settled down to hard work. The trail was very stale. Part of the time Reddy followed the tracks more by sight than by scent, plunging through the snow with great leaps which broke a path for the others. Those from the ranch who did not have snowshoes soon had to turn back, leaving Johnny, Marshall, the foreman and the two children to follow the chase which now was heading definitely for the mountains. Marshall was greatly excited and already getting out of breath. “How do you suppose the hounds happened to find the trail?” he asked Johnny. “And why did they start to follow it if they knew nothing about mountain lions?” The ranger too had been considering this. “They were cooped up in the car so many days,” he said, “that when they had a good chance like this to run around a bit, they just naturally cut loose and probably hit the lion trail merely by luck. I think that the scent must be pretty gamey, probably like that of a lynx but stronger, so they opened up on it just for fun. When we joined in, they knew at once that they were doing something worth while. Now, I believe they’re excited enough to stick to it until they find the cats, no matter how long it takes or what they go through.” “And we’ll have to keep with them to shoot before they’re killed. They don’t know what they’re in for!” With this the ranger agreed. “I’m worried mainly because the snow will make it hard for them to dodge,” he said. “Will it be deeper in the mountains?” [92]

MOUNTAIN LION

“No doubt a little deeper, but softer.” “Then at least one of us should manage always to be near them,” said Johnny, adding more length to his own strides. Not more than a hundred yards ahead, the hounds were ploughing laboriously up the side of a rocky little ridge. “We’ll go around,” panted Marshall. This helped them to gain ground and actually cross the cats’ trail on the other side ahead of the hounds. Reddy, however, was already ploughing and sliding down the ridge with the other two strung out several yards behind, all of them giving tongue after every four or five jumps. It wasn’t the kind of wild music that a pack can give when really close to game on a hot trail, but it was thrilling enough in the still, cold air. The Marshall children were delighted with everything about the hunt and stayed almost at Johnny’s heels no matter how fast he strode. It was evident that they were experts with snowshoes. Soon the trail led into the foothills and then to the heavily timbered mountains. Evergreens hid the hounds, but their baying showed the way so perfectly that short cuts could be taken to avoid needless climbing, particularly as both Marshall and the foreman knew all of the paths. Twice they were nearly run down by stampeding herds of elk which had been frightened by the hounds, and many times they saw gray mule deer dashing to safer country. “I can’t keep up this pace,” Marshall called, when they were going over a pass between two peaks, “don’t wait for me.” They left him to follow more slowly. But it was not long before the foreman also gave out. Johnny glanced at Patricia and noted that she at least had no intention of giving up. Her cheeks were healthily crimson from the hard exercise, and her eyes fairly sparkling with excitement. Behind her, Bob trudged along doggedly but with less confidence. If the cats had not circled and zigzagged considerably, it would have been no easy matter to keep up with the chase, for the climbing grew harder and the air more rarefied.

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Marshall had pointed out the rugged peak for which he thought the lions’ trail was heading, a peak so steep and rocky that in many places the snow had not clung to the cliffs. He had been right in his surmise, for now the hounds were working among the boulders and crevices at the base of its steepest ascent. Johnny shouted in an endeavor to stop them until he could catch up. This looked like the kind of place in which a wily animal would hide during the daytime. Reddy heard him and looked back to find out what Johnny wanted, but the other two would not stop. While Reddy stood still, they forged ahead. “Nell! Bill!” shouted Johnny. “Whoa there! You Nell, come here!” It was no use; they had caught a new scent, the odor of the cats themselves which were hidden in a crevice above a ledge. Johnny knew from the way they climbed with heads held high that this was it, the moment before the mountain lions would either burst forth and run away or else charge and fight. He unslung the rifle from his shoulder and put everything he had into the climb. Below the ledge Reddy still stood, looking first at Johnny then up the cliff. He longed to go ahead, but did not budge. A terrific baying suddenly sounded from above, then a series of wild yelps. Reddy could stand this no longer and charged up the cliff; but halfway up he was met by Bill tearing down the slope and yowling at the top of his lungs. It was then that Johnny caught the first glimpse of the lions; one of them, its dark yellow color making it easily visible, was bounding along the ledge with Nell close behind. The lion looked much larger than the hound but nothing like the size of the huge tawny beast which suddenly came in big leaps along a higher shelf and, before Johnny could aim and shoot, hurled itself with legs outspread and tail high, straight through the air on top of Nell, who was swept from her feet and rolled head over heels down the cliff with the lion wrapped around her. Down they came, amid a flying mass of snow, with Reddy leaping to intercept them and roaring with rage.

MOUNTAIN LION

But before Reddy could come anywhere near, the lion let go his hold, came to his feet and after a moment of snarling defiance, leaped towards the rocks and vanished around the side of the mountain with Johnny throwing lead after him, but all in vain. “Reddy! Come here! Reddy! Reddy!” shouted Johnny trying to stop the hound who, he felt sure, would be killed. But this time Reddy would no more mind him than would the wind. He had seen the lion leap, Nell lying in the snow, the snarling yellow beast daring him to come and fight, and come he would! With roar on roar, he hurled himself through the snow in the wake of the big cat, over the rocks and out of sight, his voice echoing and re-echoing among the peaks. Johnny was kneeling beside poor, crumpled Nell when Patricia came struggling up the slope. Behind her came Bob, panting mightily, and further back was Bill’s disconsolate, slinking figure. Johnny looked hopefully at Patricia. “Can you take care of Nell?” he called to her. “Of course I can,” she answered in a voice so thoroughly matter-offact that it surprised him. Without hesitating for a moment, he left Nell with her and started after Reddy, well knowing that every second counted. Reddy, meanwhile, was managing to keep the big cat in view, although he could not gain while racing uphill. He wasted no breath in baying now; the grim grueling chase to a finish was on. Halfway up the far side of the mountain’s rocky peak climbed the lion and then stopped on a ledge of rock to look down on the hound. He could have made a stand there, but something in the determined look of Reddy made him start running again, this time toward another rocky peak on the other side of the wooded valley. It was a hard run, but he made it easily with his long, graceful leaps, and soon was among bare rocks on the side of a precipice. Now he stopped again to look back, confident that his foe could not follow, but he saw Reddy still ploughing after him. With hate in his heart, he crouched to wait for the hound and fight, but once more he lost his nerve and dashed away to gain an even

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more inaccessible perch on a precipice directly opposite. This was close to one of his favorite dens, a cave that no man had yet found, where he had several times taken refuge when hard pressed. He hesitated to go to it; there was only one outlet and that meant he would be cornered if the hound managed to reach it. He took a look at the cave, half expecting his mate to be there ahead of him, but it was empty. Inside he crouched and waited, but this was too hard on his nerves. He had to sneak out and try to see what the hound was doing. Reddy had trouble with the slippery, hidden ledges. Twice he fell and rolled, but the snow saved him from getting hurt and he knew a good deal about dangerous places like this. The stiff breeze eddying around the rocks brought the lion’s scent and told him that now the cat was waiting, somewhere very close. In spite of his rage, he slowed to a cautious walk, almost a stalk. There was no sound, but always that telltale scent which he hated and which warned him that any moment he might meet the charging foe. Always in the past when he faced danger like this, he had had the help of the black wolf; now it was different, he was on his own, only himself and the powerful, yellow beast on this bleak mountain, up in the sky with the world far below. Any other hound would have hesitated and perhaps turned back, or at most stayed where he was safe and bayed with the hope that someone would come to his aid, but none of these things even occurred to Reddy. He had a job to do and he was going to do it. Almost crawling along the narrow ledge, he caught sight of a movement in the rocks ahead and slightly above him, and he saw the lion’s head, ears back and mouth snarling. Quickly he changed direction and climbed upwards, and as quickly he saw his foe retreat. Crawling along another ledge, he came directly over the mouth of the cave and scented the cat again, this time unmistakably close and directly beneath him, though hidden in the cave. Now the climbing was very difficult. He had to make a half circle in order to reach the level of the cave’s entrance. Snow slipped from beneath his feet and fell in powdery clouds to the foot of the precipice,

MOUNTAIN LION

but he edged steadily nearer and suddenly was facing the cave on a little platform of windswept rock. Behind him was the precipice and the white valley below, in front was the black interior of the cave, reeking with the scent of a foe whose full fighting power he did not yet know. And Reddy, every hair on his back bristling, his teeth bared, and a rumbling in his throat, walked deliberately forward. What happened came so suddenly that he was thrown hard against the side of the cave. The lion had charged at him from the blackness and had struck furiously with its left paw, but in the bad light had missed by the fraction of an inch and only hit him with its shoulder. Reddy recovered in an instant and gripped the top of the beast’s neck which was so muscular that he had to chew to get a good hold. Over on its back rolled the lion carrying Reddy down with it. Raking with the claws of all four feet, the tawny beast tried to rip him from end to end as it had ripped other hounds, but Reddy held on and kept his body out of reach. Then the lion sprang to its feet and reared, dragging the hound and flinging him to right and left, but still failing to get in a good blow. Each time Reddy’s paws touched the ground, even for an instant, he managed to get a firmer hold, more of that great neck in his mouth, a better angle for his teeth. Now the lion rolled again, wildly. It dashed around the cave, half dragging Reddy, half throwing him against the sides, his weight seeming like nothing against the frenzied power of the beast. Once it rose on its hind legs and went over backward, hurling Reddy to the ground. A claw ripped his thigh, but he scarcely felt it in the mad exaltation of the fight. His jaws locked, he maneuvered with the lightning quickness of the cat itself to keep always behind, always enough in balance to dodge with his body when blows were aimed or the snarling, screeching animal bit at him. Dust filled the cave and swirled out of its entrance, but neither fighter could see much anyway from his bloodshot eyes in the close fury of the action, and ears seemed deaf to all the hideous noises. An impulse to escape from the cave suddenly gripped the lion and

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gave it added strength, for now it dragged the heavy hound straight for the entrance in a maniacal attempt to get out at any cost. Reddy held back desperately, but could find no adequate hold for his toes as the valley came to view in all its whiteness and dangerous distances. That the cat was striving to get out, regardless of the precipice, rather than fight longer was a certainty now, yet Reddy held on, dug his toes into the rocks and swung the lion sidewise only to strike a slippery place and go head over heels with his foe in a rolling tussle which brought them to the edge of the rock platform and then over it into space. They grazed the side of the precipice ten feet below and slid fifty feet with a mass of snow, then hurtled into space again and landed among bushes and rocks with a thud which Johnny beard from the opposite ridge as he helplessly watched the performance. After that everything was hidden in snow, but he could see no movement and had the sickening feeling that Reddy was dead. Coming down the ridge with reckless speed, the ranger saw both Marshall and the foreman below him, hurrying to the same spot from a pass at the right. He was the first, however, to reach the precipice and almost stumbled over the lion which was buried in snow. Several paces further, also covered with snow, he found Reddy amid red stains which gave ominous foreboding, and for several seconds held him from uncovering the body. Reddy, however, suddenly stirred and whined. Hastily then, Johnny clawed at the snow with his bare hands and freed the hound who tried hard to rise, and finally succeeded in getting to his feet only to fall down and lie panting for more than a minute. Again, however, he staggered up and nosed about in the snow until be discovered the lion, whereupon he stood looking down at it as if making sure it was dead, then sank down himself beside its long body. The three men watched, silent and overcome by the tragedy of the drama and courage and greatness that a dog like this could show. “If I hadn’t seen it, I never would have believed it,” Marshall said at length, and oddly enough, his hat was in his hand as he stood there.

MOUNTAIN LION

Johnny was kneeling beside Reddy who, though still panting, was able to lick his hands. “The cat was underneath when they came down. I saw it,” said the foreman, “otherwise, Old Red would be gone by now.” “Never was there such a fight!” added Marshall, and he tried to drag the tawny beast to one side. They scraped bare of snow a few feet of ground beside a boulder and built a fire of dead spruce limbs. Johnny examined Reddy’s body and legs and made sure he was not fatally injured. “He’s terribly bruised and cut up, and a rib or two may be broken,” he decided, “but I believe he’ll pull through. He certainly ought to after winning a battle like that!” “Think of it! Singlehanded he finished the biggest mountain lion ever seen around here!” This from Marshall who was beginning to glow with pride over the success of his venture. A distant hail told them that Bob was coming through the pass. They answered jubilantly. Soon the boy had reached them and was looking at the lion. “Gee, whiz!” he managed to say. “Gee, whiz!” and those two words seemed adequate to express what all of them felt.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

One Against a Pack >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE TRIP OUT OF THE MOUNTAINS TOOK THE PARTY WELL INTO THE NIGHT under a moon so bright that it made easy the crossing of the rocky foothill country. Slim, gentle Nell was carried for the most part by the foreman, while badly shattered Reddy rode in a litter made from a coat stretched between four short poles that were tied together to form a rectangle. Bill, crestfallen and thoroughly ashamed, slunk in their wake, sniffing occasionally at the lion’s skin which Johnny carried in addition to his corner of the litter. Under their snowshoes the white blanket swished and crunched in the damp chill of the rarefied air, while overhead many stars twinkled. Far to the left, where there was a gully and cottonwood trees, coyotes yapped. Against the white expanse, the party looked very insignificant, but it felt itself important enough, and, because of the elation of success, was able to keep up a good pace in spite of tired muscles. Little was said. Now and then Patricia tried to encourage the two injured hounds by petting them and talking to them, but for the most part each was busy with his thoughts and the expectation of food and rest at the ranch. It was nearly eleven when the scraping of their snowshoes on the porch boards heralded their return and brought a grand welcome. Mrs. Marshall had been so worried, that for her sake the cowboys had remained at the ranch house on the chance that a search party would be needed, so there was a good crowd to jollify over the hunt and ask endless questions while food and drink were being served and a roaring fire built up in the big main room. The whole adventure was so astounding that without the tawny hide of the lion to prove the truth [102]

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of the story, it would have been hard to convince the cowboys who, however, when sure it was not all a joke, knew how to appreciate what Reddy had accomplished. It was they who insisted upon helping Johnny to disinfect the hound’s wounds and make both Reddy and Nell as comfortable as possible on blankets laid out in front of the fire. Also, it was they who next day rode to town and spread the colorful story which started Reddy’s fame throughout the land, for here was news which won front page space in papers far and wide and later was taken up by one of the leading sports magazines in an illustrated feature story. The artist had used plenty of imagination and had depicted the mountain lion as about the size of a Bengal tiger in relation to the hound, which was stretching the lion’s nine foot length somewhat. But while fame was spreading, Reddy was slowly recovering from the fight and being made ready for more adventure, for now he was in the limelight and looked upon as a public character in the same way as a race horse that had won a big race. Someone made a bet that he could not kill a grizzly; someone else wanted to take him on a hunting trip to Africa, and a third suggested that he be the hero of a moving picture that would show the difficulties of an earlier American settler in defending his family and his livestock from wild beasts until he tamed a giant wolf (Reddy) who made short work of all his enemies, including a few Indians. Johnny did not lose his head over all this, although he came in for a good deal of notoriety himself and had to tell again and again the story of Reddy and the King in the wilds of Alberta and how he happened to reclaim the hound. The West liked heroes, and in Reddy it had a real one who seemed to have plenty of possibilities of continuing to win laurels. Of all those in this exciting drama which centered in the ranch, the Marshalls were the most interested. They helped Johnny to answer fan letters and they took care of sightseers. The lion skin was tacked across one end of the living room where all who came could see and admire it while being introduced to Reddy and the two black and tans,

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who quickly learned to enjoy the visitors as much as anyone. There was no trouble now in keeping the road open, because the visitors would not be thwarted by mere snow. They came from the neighboring ranches for the most part in packed cars, mother, father and children, all in holiday mood and prepared for a picnic. Mrs. Marshall always offered them cakes, coffee and milk, so they went away in happy humor and sometimes came a second time or sent their friends. In winter, there was very little of interest in the sagebrush country, which accounted for much of this enthusiasm. Reddy accepted all with calm and dignity. For several days he had been unable to walk, but by the time visitors began to come, he could move about slowly and stiffly. Nell was in very much the same state, but Bill, of course, was in fine trim and greeted everyone by capering about and wagging his tail as if sure he was the hero of the occasion. The winter was a hard one. There was so much snow that the cattle and horses could find very little food on the range and had to be hand fed at the corral from the stacks of alfalfa hay. Even elk and antelope came to the corral, the former following the creek bed all the way from the mountains and spending the daytime hours among the cottonwoods. Several of the young and weaker animals were attacked, hamstrung and eaten by coyotes which gathered together in a formidable gang of eighteen. This seemingly always hungry pack made the ranch its headquarters and spent much of each night in sneaking around the buildings to grab anything alive or dead that was eatable and not formidable enough to protect itself. The pack haunted the cattle, elk, and even the horses with the constant hope that it would find strays or one that seemed to be weakening. At first, Bill boldly chased the coyotes whenever he was let out after dark, but they soon cured him of this and taught him that it was safer to stay by the fireside. Their method was the old one of running from him until he was well away from any aid that might come from the ranch house; then turning on him in a body and almost eating him up before he could rush back.

ONE AGAINST A PACK

The first time this happened, Bill was so cut up and in such a panic that he almost burst through the door when he came tearing to the porch with three big coyotes snapping at his heels. The second time he was more wary and did not go so far, but he had to run for his life as he was anything but a fighter. On still evenings, the yapping of the coyotes could be heard on all sides, even with doors and windows closed at the ranch house, so there was trouble in controlling Reddy and Nell when they began to feel strong again. Bill had learned his lesson and lay low. Toward the end of February when the days were long enough to melt some of the snow in the sunniest places, Johnny came to the ranch from town where he had been boarding and decided that both Reddy and Nell were fully recovered from their wounds and fit to be taken back to Alberta as soon as he was sure the roads were passable. He took them and Bill out for a walk and made a circle around one of the big buttes that rose like young mountains in the midst of the fairly level plain. On the southeast slope the snow was well melted in places and here Reddy began to nose about with interest, for scent lay well and he had detected the tracks of coyotes. Nell followed his every step and the two gradually worked around the butte until they came to a thicket of sagebrush. Here there was a sudden commotion, wild baying and then a rush over the snow as two coyotes burst out and streaked for safety with the hounds ripping along, almost at their heels. The coyotes gained at first and reached the next butte well ahead, but by this time Reddy had outdistanced Bill and Nell and was getting into his old stride so well that he was making the coyotes run fast enough to begin to tire. According to their usual habit they separated, the larger of the two keeping to the edge of the slope while the smaller ran toward a gully. Reddy followed the big one who was trying to make time in a well-beaten elk path, and when the coyote tried to dodge among some rocks, he put forth his best spurt of speed, outguessed him at every turn and bowled him over in a wild leap across a snow

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bank. The coyote was so surprised he had no time to get himself set for a real fight. Leaving him in the snow, Reddy rushed for the gully and took up the trail of the other, following unerringly until the coyote loomed ahead and soon turned with teeth bared to fight rather than plunge any longer through the drifts. Reddy walked slowly around him as he crouched in a depression, snarling and making his worst face before suddenly charging and almost getting Reddy’s left hind leg. Until then, the hound had hesitated to go through with the fight, for he was not really angry at the coyote and there was no one near to tell him that he should do away with this killer of the plains; but now it was different and Johnny, though far away, heard his roar and knew that there were only sixteen coyotes left in the ranch pack. Johnny skinned both of the animals on the spot and brought the handsome, thickly furred pelts to the ranch house to be added to the collection of trophies. The Marshalls were pleased and greatly surprised. Two coyotes in one day! Again Reddy was petted and praised. That night when the little wolves assembled as usual and began their clamor, he wanted to be let out and he bayed fiercely in answer to their challenge, but Johnny, who had been invited to sleep at the ranch, wisely kept him indoors to rest and stay out of harm’s way. Therefore, when bedtime came, Reddy was left, apparently safely, curled up in his corner with the black and tans. Scarcely, however, had the lights been put out before he was at the door sniffing and listening longingly. He knew now that the hand of man was against these coyotes, and some of his old hatred, fostered in his days with the King, returned to make him anxious to be out there in the snow hunting them down. While his sister and, brother dozed, he walked around the long room, restless and alert, the hair on his back stiffening whenever he heard any sound outside. He tried to look out of the windows and in one of these attempts found a sash that was not firmly closed; it rattled when he nosed against it and it let in cold night air.

ONE AGAINST A PACK

Reddy stood on his hind legs and scratched hard at the lower sash without much result, then he tried to push with his nose, and as a last resort worked with his front teeth, gradually widening the opening until his nose would slip in and he could thrust more and more of his body through and eventually squirm out. He landed in the snow with nothing more between him and the job he wanted to finish; and again he was free as in the old days, the whole world before him and the night clear and beautiful. But he was lonely without the black wolf on whom he had depended so often and whom he would never forget. Just once as he walked around the buildings, the loneliness got the upper hand and he howled; it was the long, dismal wolf call which he gave, the one that the King had always answered. But this time there was no answer, though the coyotes heard and after some circling and indecision, bunched together and waited in the cottonwoods below the ranch, their sharp noses pointing in the direction from which had come the sound. A fight was inevitable. Reddy knew it, the coyotes guessed it. To all of them life had meant many fights; it had been hard and cruel and rough. Now, with the hound moving around the ranch and the coyotes nervously watching from the cottonwoods, there was no real fear of fighting in itself, but a kind of awe of an enemy not yet tried out in battle, a reluctance to be the first to start the thing. The coyotes continued to watch, the big hound continued to potter about, each side well aware of the other and waiting for something to happen without bringing it about. Somewhere out in the moonlit expanse around them elk snorted and from far away, almost out of earshot, came the yapping of a lone coyote. And still Reddy wandered around the buildings and the tension grew. Finally Reddy picked out an open place between the buildings and the cottonwoods where no creature could slip up on him without being seen, and here he sat down calmly in the snow to outwait the enemy. The longer he sat there in plain view, the more nervous and

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restless the coyotes became. They fidgeted about, trotted this way and that and soon began to make cautious circles in order to satisfy their curiosity and see what the hound would do. Always in the back of their minds was the thought that even an enemy is good eating when other food is scarce, and each one in the band fully expected to be in at the kill for his share. They were a lean, ghostly lot, moving without a sound and growing bolder with each circle, the males in particular full of confidence in their strength and agility. Gradually five of the males drew much closer, each encouraging the other; back of them like shadows the remainder trotted this way and that, their usually shifty eyes scarcely leaving the stolid figure of the hound. When they came too close, Reddy stood up and looked around, his hair bristling and teeth bared. The coyotes retreated a few yards. Then one of the females began to yap and howl, and as if this was a signal, one of the males charged and grazed Reddy’s flank with his teeth. Reddy whirled like lightning. Another charged and another, turning aside just in time to avoid contact with the hound. They were trying him out, leading him on. A fourth tried it, not so expertly, and Reddy leaped to meet him. Teeth clashed against teeth. Two coyotes charged from the rear and slashed at his legs and then Reddy went wild with all the fury that was in him, and a dozen coyotes dashed in and out with teeth flashing as he charged first one, then another, and roared with rage as the swarm eluded him and yet caught his flanks again and again. One skidded in making a turn and Reddy had him in an instant, hurling him to the snow and boring into his thick, heavily furred neck until he had the right grip and shook him as if he were a rat. Turning as though on a pivot, he pinned another and shook him, and sprang over his body to reach a third. Coyotes seemed everywhere, snarling, slashing, leaping away, mad with the smell of blood and battle. Reddy tripped over their bodies, flung them from him, ripped and chewed and roared. He was not in condition for a big fight like this; his tongue soon began to hang out, he gasped for breath and swallowed blood

ONE AGAINST A PACK

and hair, but he fought. If only the King were there! Back to back, he and Reddy could have stood and beaten an army of coyotes. But the black wolf was not with him and Reddy was weakening, tottering from exhaustion as he held the closing ring at bay, the relentless hungry wolves of the plains, killers every one, coming in now for the final round. Reddy was very quiet. His feet were wide apart, braced for the impact of surging bodies. Though his breath came in long gasps there was disdain in the way his upper lip curled. The coyotes, balancing stiff-legged on their toes, snarled almost in his face, but they held back from the reach of his teeth, well knowing that he was terribly dangerous to the end. Soon there would be a rush by all together and at least one of them would meet those teeth. Which one? They hesitated, and Reddy waited, watchful, grim and determined. A streak of fire, followed instantly by a tremendous explosion, seemed to paralyze the world. Two coyotes dropped in the snow and began to kick crazily. The others scattered in panic. There were voices, and people running from behind the ranch buildings. Johnny, carrying a gun, ran to Reddy’s side and leaned over him calling for a light. Marshall, the foreman, Patricia and Bob clustered around him, and Reddy looked up at them and wagged his tail. Around the group ran Nell, baying wildly, while Bill slunk on the outskirts of the crowd. “Look at the wolves!” shouted Bob, pointing to the gray bodies lying about them. He began to hunt them out and count. “Five, six, seven! Look out, there’s one getting away!” By the light of the moon Johnny shot again and laid low this badly wounded cripple. “That’s eight!” yelled Bob. “Yow! Eight of them! It’s a whole pack!” “The place looks like a drove yard!” exclaimed Marshall. “See all the tracks and the trampled snow!” “Give me a hand,” pleaded Johnny, “quick! Reddy’s all cut up. We’ll carry him in.”

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It took Johnny and the foreman with Marshall assisting and Patricia carrying the flashlight, to get Reddy to the ranch house and lay him once more on blankets in front of the fireplace. He was bleeding from more than a dozen gashes but, as Marshall remarked to cheer up the party, “He’ll live. He always does. But what will he be up to next?” ‘They worked over Reddy and sat around for a time to talk about this latest exploit of his. The score for twenty-four hours was ten coyotes, a record if ever there was one. Patricia came in for well deserved praise. It was she who had heard the noise of the battle and run through the house spreading the alarm. Marshall had given Johnny his ten gauge duck gun and Johnny had slipped out quietly ahead of the others and stealthily approached the busy coyotes without being seen. In the excitement of the moment, he had fired both barrels at once and almost been knocked down by the recoil. “I say!” exclaimed Bob suddenly, “you look awfully funny, Pat.” It certainly was true. In her rush to save Reddy, Patricia had put on one black, one tan boot and wrapped herself in a pink quilt in place of a coat. “We all look sort of peculiar,” suggested her father, glancing at his own costume, and with that they one and all bolted for the hallway and hurried back to bed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Call to the Wild >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

WYOMING WAS REALLY WARMING UP UNDER THE HOT SUN OF EARLY May. Everywhere except in the mountains the snow had vanished and given place to rock and earth and green things in the landscape. The Marshall ranch boiled with activity, the center of it all being Johnny, for he had been induced to take the job of construction boss. This entailed much of the work of repairing the ranch buildings, providing dams and ditches for irrigation and putting up fences. It meant too that Johnny hired the men to work on the projects, bought supplies and paid the wages. He was busy night and day. The Marshall ranch was undergoing a change from cattle raising to sheep herding, but doing it gradually; the cattle and horses were to have their own big fenced pasture temporarily, and the sheep, to the number of five hundred, were to be driven from place to place on the open prairie with herders to manage them. In this general plan, Reddy also had an important place, in fact it was his prowess in dealing with predators which made the raising of sheep seem a fair risk. In a number of exciting hunts he had accounted for the record number of twenty-three coyotes during the late winter and early spring. In addition, he had treed three vicious bobcats, thus enabling them to be disposed of. He had also cornered and fought the second of the mountain lion pair and kept it at bay until Johnny and the cowboys could lasso and tie up the snarling animal and get it into a crate for shipment to a zoo. He was watchdog at the ranch, guardian of the children during their rides, and faithful companion of Johnny on his trips to town for the payroll. Indeed, he fitted into so many of the ranch activities that he was fast becoming indispensable. [111]

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There was one thing, however, which he could not be induced to do and that was hunt timber wolves. There seemed to be at least five of the big fellows in the mountains that year, and they made forays into the ranch country, occasionally leaving the remains of a dead calf in their wake when they returned to their mountain fastness before daylight. This made them enemies in the eyes of the ranchers, but Reddy, while willing to trail them, never brought them to bay. Johnny tried him again and again, but it was always the same; Reddy would go on their trail quietly and in complete silence, vanish among the canyons and not come back until late that night or the next day, generally in the best spirits and without appetite for his usual meals. Only once did he seem to have been in a fight and that time he was badly cut up. If the black and tans were put on the trail with him, he either managed to lose them or let them get discouraged and quit. It was all very mysterious. “If he’s friendly with big wolves, I can’t very well blame him,” Johnny told Marshall, “but the fact that he may be hunting with the wolf pack isn’t so good and I’m going to try to find out just what he does do when be loses himself in the mountains, even if the job means a trip clear over the Tetons.” It was arranged that the next time fresh tracks were found, Marshall and he would ride into the mountains equipped to spend the night if necessary, and take stands in the canyons where Reddy had been seen to go most often. After they had been given a couple of hours start, one of the cowboys could put Reddy on the trail. They would carry rifles just in case they might have a chance at the wolves. The children were allowed to go part way with them. Things like this had never been a part of the ranch life before the ranger came with the hounds, and everyone was very willing to admit that he and Reddy had added a new and thrilling interest to the regular routine. Patricia and Bob had worked like slaves over their home lessons just to be given the chance always to ride with the hounds. They had become better riders too, and were fairly bursting with health because of the outside exercise and fresh air. Bob had grown and filled out, and

THE CALL TO THE WILD

Patricia, with her high color and sparkling eyes, was prettier than ever before. Small wonder that the elder Marshalls felt happy over their experiment in making the ranch a winter as well as a summer home and giving up temporarily the greater luxuries of city life in the East. The timber wolves were in everyone’s thoughts during the days that followed, though no sign of them was found. It seemed as if they had somehow learned that trouble was brewing. Meanwhile, wire fences went up and a good start was made on a canal leading from the little creek to flat ground which was ploughed and sown with alfalfa. It was a brave attempt at making a crop. Everyone knew that the antelope, jackrabbits, prairie dogs and gophers would manage to eat a part, even if the cattle, sheep and horses were kept out, but at least the deer, moose and elk would stay in the mountains during the growing season, and the mountain sheep would not venture into the ranch country. Johnny was on horseback the greater part of each day, but in the evening he and Patricia often waded the creek to catch trout. Patricia never tired of fishing and was just as expert as Johnny at hooking and landing the big ones that other fishermen could not lure from the deep pools. On one of these fishing trips the two went almost as far as the edge of the timber land and were whipping some of the swift water among the rocks when Patricia saw a gray animal resembling a police dog trot along the side of a ridge and sit down on its haunches to watch her. It was more than a hundred yards away but so plainly outlined by the reddish background that she could make quite sure it was not one of the dogs from neighboring ranches. Soon Patricia forgot all about it, but later, when she and Johnny were trudging back to the ranch, she told him about the strange dog. Johnny stopped instantly and looked back, but by that time they were far from the ridge and could see no sign of the animal. “Sure it wasn’t a coyote?” he asked sharply. “Of course I am,” she replied. “It was much larger.” “Did you ever see a wolf?”

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“No, except, of course, the two skins that are at the ranch.” “Well,” Johnny remarked after a pause, “you saw one today.” Patricia’s eyes sparkled and she asked rather breathlessly whether they were near enough to the ranch to be safe. “You’re safe,” he laughed. “The wolf didn’t know that your eyes were sharp enough to spot him or he would have run a mile. I’m wondering whether he spotted any of the cattle up there near the creek or whether he was just scouting around. We’ll take a look tomorrow. Probably there were others near by which didn’t show themselves, for it isn’t often that wolves are found alone. Reddy’s old companion, the King, was an exception, but there aren’t many like him.” They talked about the wolf all of the way to the ranch house, and at the dinner table discussed with the others the possibilities of a hunt in the morning. It was decided that at daybreak Johnny and Marshall would take horses and ride around the ranch to look for wolf tracks before releasing the hounds. If they found fresh signs they could take stands in the mountains as already planned and wait there while Reddy worked out the trail. The excitement grew, until the family party separated for the night. Next morning a gentle rain was falling. Breakfast was on the table when one of the cowboys who had been sleeping in the bunk house beyond the corral, burst in with the news that the cattle were bellowing and making a great fuss in the direction of the foothills. After that, breakfast was forgotten. The two children ran to the corral to saddle the horses, while Marshall and Johnny gave the cowboy directions about taking Reddy to the place where he would be sure to pick up the wolves’ trail. Soon the riders were galloping through the sagebrush towards the mountains, regardless of the rain and a chill wind, the bellowing of the cattle growing louder as they neared the timber. Presently they rounded a butte and saw a herd of thirty or more shorthorns bunched together and looking towards something which turned out to be the mangled carcass of a red heifer. It lay all by itself on a flat, bare piece of ground.

THE CALL TO THE WILD

As the horses approached, they cocked their ears and snorted. Johnny dismounted, threw the reins over his horse’s head and walked to the poor heifer. He looked at the tracks in the moist earth and nodded to Marshall; then hurried back to his nervous horse. “Wolf tracks. Very fresh and many of them,” he said quietly, and urged his horse towards the timber. Here was the place where the children were to turn back. Among the trees the two men galloped around the rocks and up in the direction of the Tetons. Elk paths helped them, but the going was rough and wet. Every leaf that slapped their faces seemed laden with water, and stones rolled as hoofs struck and slipped. Higher and higher into the mountains until the rocky walls loomed almost perpendicular with only gloomy chasms between. At one of these places Johnny left Marshall; then he rode to the next valley and fastened his horse in a grove of evergreens behind a high rock which gave a view into a deep canyon. The two stands covered the usual route of the wolves when they invaded the ranch country, and here they would be likely to pass on their way back. The question uppermost in Johnny’s mind was whether the wolves had already gone by or whether they had obligingly loitered and perhaps rested in the foothills after their feasting. If they had loitered, Reddy, he hoped, would rout them out and hurry them through one of the canyons. The watchers were taking a long chance, but one which might lead to interesting results, especially if they found out what part the hound really played when he followed the wolves. Johnny made himself as comfortable as he could on the jagged, wet stone and looked into the canyon. Above him on all sides towered rocky peaks around which, like fog, hung the rain clouds. For a long time he saw nothing move. Then he noticed two mule deer feeding on the slope of the mountain opposite. These soon lay down and were no longer visible. Then a small stone rolled loudly into the canyon and gave away the whereabouts of a mountain sheep and her lamb which blended so perfectly with the rocky background that they were

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scarcely discernible as they cautiously edged around a high cliff. The lamb followed precisely in its mother’s footsteps, stopping whenever she stopped, feeding when she did, and standing on lookout with her. A single misstep would have sent either of them rolling nearly a thousand feet. In such a dangerous place they were safe, however, from all enemies except man and the big eagles. The ewe bore pointed, upright horns like those of a goat, but the lamb was too young to show any horns and had to rely on its mother for protection as well as guidance and, knowing this, kept very close to her. After studying the sheep through his binoculars, Johnny looked again into the canyon and saw something moving among the rocks. When it came more into the open, its orange-red color and whitetipped, bushy tail told plainly that it was a fox. At first it trotted up the canyon, then suddenly stopped and crouched flat on its stomach. With the binoculars Johnny could see a young marmot sitting on the very rim of a burrow intently watching the fox. The marmot was ready to jump into the den if his enemy came a step closer, so the fox turned, crept behind a rock, then sneaked in a wide circle until he could approach unseen from the opposite direction. While the marmot was still watching the place where he had been, the fox crawled forward, made a sudden rush and had his prey pinned down before it knew what had happened. Evidently the fox was out to secure food for his young because he started at once down the canyon carrying the limp marmot in his jaws; he had traveled only a short distance, however, when suddenly he turned and came running back. This seemed odd until other shapes appeared and a pack of five big gray, sharp-nosed wolves came loping up the canyon with none other than Reddy in the lead. At first it seemed as if the wolves were chasing the hound, then it was plain that Reddy was the one who looked ahead and watched for danger while the others followed almost carelessly. It seemed unbelievable, but there it was. All at once Reddy stopped and the wolves instantly stopped behind

THE CALL TO THE WILD

him. They were far below the ranger who was keeping perfectly still, but something had seemed not entirely right to the hound. His eyes searched the rocks ahead. Then like shadows the six animals literally faded away in the direction they had come. It all happened so quickly and strangely that Johnny had no chance to shoot, in fact had not even raised his rifle. Minutes passed and there was no further sign of the pack. He turned around to find a more favorable position and got the real surprise of the day; sitting on the rock behind him not twenty feet away was Reddy. He was out of breath, his mouth was open and tongue lolling out, but otherwise he was trying to look just the same as usual. His keen nose had caught a very faint scent of man from a back draft of air which had whirled around the canyon and descended to the floor of the valley. He had for the moment been enough of a wolf to lead his pack to safety, and then enough of a dog to report to his master. The joke was on Johnny, and he chuckled to himself as he called to Reddy and patted his great shoulders. He was still more surprised when Marshall later gave his version of the happenings. Marshall, from his post on the other side of the mountain, had seen the five wolves far down the valley. They were alone and moving slowly in single file and with frequent stops, when something made them turn around and look back. A few moments later, Reddy came into view following on their trail. When the wolves saw him, instead of running away they bunched together and greeted him with every sign of affection. Some of them romped around him and carried on just like a bunch of puppies. They were beyond reasonably accurate rifle range, but by using binoculars, Marshall was able to see everything as if quite close. The pack consisted of one old battle-scarred wolf which was a female, and four full-grown young ones, no doubt her litter of the year before. They were powerful creatures fully as tall as Reddy, which would indicate that each weighed about a hundred pounds. After they had romped for a few minutes, some sound or scent

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seemed to scare them for they scattered and remained for a time perfectly still, all heads turned in the same direction. It was then that Reddy took command. Running through the ring of wolves, he gathered them in his wake and started up the valley at high speed, never hesitating until he had entered the canyon above which the ranger was on stand. For nearly a minute Marshall lost sight of them, then he saw Reddy coming back. This time he was driving the wolves before him, the latter slackening their pace when he slackened his and the whole band stopping in the valley to look back toward the canyon. Presently Reddy turned to the left and the wolves to the right, but on what strange signal Marshall could not discern. Reddy climbed the mountain to go to Johnny, and the wolves entered the heavy timber on the run and were quickly lost to view. Johnny rode to the place where Marshall had last seen the pack. The fresh dog-like footprints were plainly visible where the heavy animals had gone up the slope in great bounds. Reddy sniffed at the tracks and looked knowingly in the direction they led, but would show no further interest. He acted as if he did not want to betray his friends by following them now. Marshall shook his head at him but laughed, and Reddy looked up at Marshall inquiringly and then began to wag his tail. “I still like that big old fraud,” chuckled Marshall. “At first I thought he was a perfect hound, but now I see he’s just human, as human as any of us. We might as well give up and go home.” But other things were to happen. The gentle rain was still falling when they returned to the prairie and again approached the carcass of the heifer. Marshall was in the lead and he was startled to see the heifer move. At least that was the way it looked, but suddenly a big wolf sprang from where he had been crouching behind it and bounded away. Marshall jumped from his horse and tore his rifle out of the holster, but Reddy was even quicker. He bolted past like an arrow and was behind the wolf almost in the twinkling of an eye, every hair on his back bristling.

THE CALL TO THE WILD

At this turn in events, Marshall was too surprised to try to shoot, and anyway it would have been difficult to avoid the danger of hitting the hound. Johnny had swung his horse around and started on a dead run to head the wolf from the timber. It was a breakneck chase. The wolf, now thoroughly alarmed, was making all speed for the mountains; Reddy tearing behind him, roar after roar resounding from his chest with all the old-time fury. Presently he gained, and the wolf and he were running neck and neck lunging at each other. Before Johnny could come anywhere near, they locked in battle and rolled head over heels in a wild scramble among the sagebrush. The wolf was first in getting to his feet and running again, Reddy yards behind and limping. That was the order in which they hit the timber and vanished together, leaving the men helplessly trying to find a path or game trail. At length they had to dismount and take to the forest on foot in order to follow. “Can’t understand it,” panted Marshall. “Why should he be friends with a pack of them and go crazy when he saw this one? I’m afraid he’s met his match this time.” Johnny was worried, but said nothing. There was no sound ahead of them. Johnny walked in the lead following the spoor. They topped a ridge and began to scale one of the larger mountains. After nearly an hour of breathless work they came to a nest of peaks surrounding a treeless little basin. “I see Reddy!” Johnny suddenly exclaimed and pointed. The hound was stretched out on his stomach among some rocks. There was no sign of the wolf. Johnny ran forward and knelt beside him, noting the blood on his left flank and all over his head. “Great goodness!” exclaimed Marshall when he came up, “the wolf has finished him!” Johnny shook his head. “Look over there,” he answered. Marshall looked. Lying on its side, quite still, was the biggest wolf he had ever seen, a gray old male with long tusks gleaming from between half-open jaws.

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“I still don’t understand it,” Marshall was saying as, once more, the two men were carrying Reddy home. “I do,” said Johnny, looking down at the hound whose big eyes were turned towards his. “There was some kind of feud between those two. Perhaps it was jealousy. Don’t you remember the time Reddy came to the ranch all chewed up. He and the wolf may have fought then.” They trudged on in silence for some time. “He weighs a ton,” at length exclaimed the perspiring Marshall, “but I believe I’d gladly carry him to the ends of the earth if it would help the old son of a gun!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Grizzly >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

ANOTHER WOLF SKIN HUNG ON THE WALL OF THE MAIN ROOM IN THE ranch house, the largest one of the three there; and once more Reddy was the star in a story which went from ranch to ranch and then from town to town. It was linked with that of the mountain lions and the later one of the coyotes, and it made Reddy, more firmly than ever, the greatest hound in the foothill country. The ranchers were, for the most part, rugged men who appreciated rugged dogs, and here was one in their midst that certainly knew no equal. It was natural that many tried to find new fields for him to conquer. Reddy, however, when fully recovered from his wounds, went his way unconcernedly, faithful only to Johnny from whom he was never willingly separated. He liked everyone at the ranch, but he loved the ranger with unswerving devotion. When Johnny rode around the ranch, the red hound could always be seen either ranging a short distance ahead or following directly at his horse’s heels, tail up and long ears set well forward as he looked around him for possible foes. He had quickly learned which animals to hunt and which to leave alone. The pronghorn antelope which bounded away on all sides were never molested. Badgers, the diggers of burrows dangerous to the legs of all the hoofed animals, he chased and disposed of at every opportunity. Coyotes he hated more and more though they and the bobcats were very scarce now. Sometimes Johnny would ride to the top of a butte and sit there for hours studying the cattle herds and the bands of horses through binoculars. On such occasions, Reddy would stand or sit on his haunches looking just as intently as his master, ready at any moment [121]

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to go charging over the prairie in pursuit of any predator they found skulking around the valuable stock. Few sheep and fewer calves were lost on the ranch that summer. The black and tans took life much easier; they hung around the ranch house and confined their major activities to chasing jackrabbits and an occasional cottontail. Once, during early September, a grizzly ventured from the timber into the sagebrush country and caught a young steer. Grizzlies were so scarce in Wyoming that this incident created quite a stir, especially when it was learned from the tracks that this was none other than old Thimble Toes who came only very occasionally from the Tetons, and who, several years before, had lost two of his big claws in a steel trap. Thimble Toes was almost a legendary character. Hunters had been after him for many seasons, though none had managed even to come near the great lumbering old fellow who was a constant traveler and went from one district to another, always to return when least expected. It was said that he weighed a thousand pounds and was at least twenty years old, though all of this was mere guesswork. The big bear had one virtue which, in fact, was a weakness. He hated to waste meat. When he managed to kill a beef or an elk, which wasn’t very often, he came back to the carcass again and again until nothing was left except a few of the bigger bones, and with these he would sometimes play like a child, tossing them into the air to catch them deftly and roll on his furry back with one of them juggled by his great paws. Several times he had been hunted hard with hounds, on each occasion managing to escape after inflicting losses to the pack, so the owners held back from risking any more valuable dogs. At least that was the case until Johnny was induced to take up the hunt with Reddy, the argument being that steers and cows were worth considerable money to the ranchers who in hard times could ill afford to feed them to the bears or any other predators; the game authorities might object, but some of the ranchers took the stand that a steer-killing grizzly was outside the game laws and had to go.

THE GRIZZLY

The hunt grew into a big affair, more on account of curiosity than anything else; people wanted to see the notorious red hound in action against the most formidable foe that could be found. The grizzly was still paying nightly visits to the steer’s carcass when Reddy was brought to the scene early one morning. There were a number of men on horseback armed to the teeth, and some more in automobiles, waiting nearly a mile away from the kill as Johnny came with the hound by car and was led to the fateful spot. It was marked by bones, red hide and trampled ground in the shadow of one of the many buttes. Tension grew among the picturesque crowd as the hound was let out. Skeptics shook their heads, several offered bets against him. Johnny, however, quietly walked to the trampled ground and stood watching while Reddy examined the bones and looked the place over with evident interest but no excitement. All that he smelled was grizzly bear, not mountain lion, coyote, bobcat or even badger. He was disappointed and showed it; no one had ever encouraged him to hunt bears. A buzz of comment came from the circle of men. They had half expected that something like this would happen, and some of them were mean enough to exult. Johnny, however, just stood there as silent as ever. Presently Reddy came back from his tour of investigation and stopped in front of his master for directions. Inquiringly he looked at the ranger’s face, trying to read it, for he knew very well that something was expected of him. Johnny waited until the other men in their disappointment had made plenty of unpleasant remarks. Then with a confident smile he stepped forward and pointed out the bear’s tracks to the hound, talking to him meanwhile in the way Reddy understood, telling him to hunt what he smelled there on all sides—bear. And Reddy was quick in getting the idea that at last he was expected to trail a grizzly, this one that had left heavily scented tracks during the night before. With tail wagging, he went to work on the scent trying to unravel the trail and find the direction that the bear had taken. Soon he began to

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circle and gradually drift toward the Tetons. Almost before the watchers realized what was happening, he was a quarter of a mile away and giving tongue. They didn’t argue or bet anymore; one and all started after him, on their horses or in their flivvers, some of the younger ones adding color to the occasion by giving Apache war whoops with great gusto. That was the beginning of a grueling run; such a chase in the mountains as none of them had ever experienced before. It lasted all that day and night and the day following and ended in Yellowstone Park where a guard found Reddy baying all by himself at the big bear who had been chased and harried and nipped until, unable to go any farther, he had stopped with his back against a protecting cliff. The ranch men, with the exception of Johnny, had long since turned back after being left far behind among the rocks and canyons. Johnny had kept going but had lost the trail eventually among the peaks. The hound was unhurt and seemed as fit as when he started; in fact he was so determined to fight that the Park guard could scarcely drive him away. Again and again Reddy, bristling all over, came back to the attack and as many times was chased and threatened by the guard who did not wish to harm him but was in duty bound to protect bears in the Park from being either injured or molested. Had Johnny been able to come to his aid, Reddy would not have allowed anyone to drive him away, but without Johnny he knew himself powerless to dispute the authority of man and so had to give in. At first he stayed near by and waited for the guard to leave or for Johnny to come, but at last he realized that there was no use in hanging around the bear any longer. Reluctantly and with many stops and backward glances, he left the grim animal and started slowly on the long road home. Before dark he happened to come across Johnny’s trail. At once he changed his direction and followed it until he found the ranger making a bed of leaves and spruce twigs for himself in a cave where he had built a fire of dry, dead limbs torn from near-by trees, and expected to

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spend the night. Johnny had shot a large blue grouse with his rifle and had plucked and spitted it for cooking. Man and dog looked at each other understandingly for a long time across the little fire that evening, shared the grouse evenly and lay down together, very tired but quite contented with the world and the way old pals stuck by each other. The bear to be sure had escaped but not from any error of theirs. Besides, after such an experience, it was unlikely that he would dare come back for a long time, if at all. Johnny could pretty well piece together in his mind the chase as it actually occurred. He could imagine Reddy slowly working on the stale trail until he came upon the bear sleeping in some thicket near timber line from which it burst when aroused, with the hound roaring close behind, trying his best to bite its powerful flanks to make it stop and stand at bay until the hunters could catch up. After running until winded and thoroughly mad, the great bear no doubt stopped often to turn and try to catch the hound who was nimble enough to dodge the rushes and harass the big beast until in a fury it would start off again, clattering over the rock slides, crashing through bushes, but always instinctively going farther from the pursuing hunters and nearer a well-known sanctuary. Johnny guessed that this might be the Park. He had worried more than ever before about Reddy and had made more than one solemn vow never again to start him after an old grizzly like Thimble Toes in country where horses could not follow and bring aid, or men on foot keep within hearing. The danger to the hound was too great. Sleeping beside the remains of the fire that night, Reddy growled in his dreams and once more rushed over the rocks and down the gloomy canyons behind his big adversary, but with him was the black wolf. When the two forced the bear to turn and fight and the animal stood facing them with teeth bared, the wolf suddenly vanished and Reddy was left alone once more and could not find the King, no matter how long he waited and later searched. In his loneliness he awoke, then stood for a time at the cave’s mouth looking out at the starlit mountains.

THE GRIZZLY

Impelled by his feelings, he gave the long, wailing, lonesome call of the wolves. It carried far and wide over the valleys and filled the cave until Johnny was wakened and came over to him. But Johnny understood; he said no word and let the hound howl and howl. Presently coyotes answered far over to the left and then to the right. Bull elk bugled somewhere in the wooded valleys and the usually quiet mountains, now awakened, seemed all at once to be full of animal life; but the man and dog listened in vain for any answering call of a big wolf. Johnny, once more on his rough bed, thought hard about this and made up his mind someday to take Reddy back to the Athabaska, perhaps to the very spot where he had lived so contentedly in the cabin. Good old Mac was still at the railroad station, lonely no doubt but proud as ever of his Castle. And somewhere in the highest mountains the black wolf would be roaming, perhaps hoping to find his old comrade. “Yes, someday,” thought Johnny, and he too became suddenly very homesick.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Everglades Adventure >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

MR. AND MRS. MARSHALL HAD DECIDED TO TAKE THE CHILDREN TO THE warmth of Florida for the winter instead of braving, for another season, the chilly woods of the foothill country, and since there was much work to be done there, Johnny was to accompany them. He put in a plea for Reddy, and without much discussion the hound was made one of the jolly party which motored in two well-packed cars for the Southland to occupy a cottage on the Gulf. The black and tans were to remain at the ranch. The trip was one of easy stages with stops wherever the Marshalls had good friends, and through it all, regardless of the jealous dogs of many breeds that they encountered, and the trouble they might expect to have had with a huge hound that was treated like one of the family, they found that Reddy conducted himself always with dignity and complete assurance. In an automobile, he was perfectly happy if he could look out a window and see all that was happening along the road. Florida to him was like a new wonderland. Upon arrival he made himself at home immediately. He tried to drink the salt water, ran up and down the beaches, waded into the surf in pursuit of the nimble rat-like beach crabs, searched the scrub oak and palmetto country for new animals such as gray foxes, raccoons, opossums and skunks; bayed at the various snakes he encountered, and dug for the big gopher turtles that made burrows in the sand hills. Much of the time he reeked indescribably from unhappy encounters with both the striped and the smaller spotted skunks, but at length he learned to leave these pretty, black and white cologne-laden animals very much alone and settled down to the safer task of catching, or at least treeing all of the scrappy coons and gray foxes in the neighborhood. [128]

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In November, Marshall took him further south for a panther and deer hunt in the West Coast section of the Everglades where there was a real wilderness of marshland. They boarded a roomy houseboat at Everglades City and traveled still further south along the Gulf Coast into the region where frosts never penetrated and the tropical growths came to the water’s edge and even into it. There was an uncharted region of numberless islands bordering the Everglades and extending for miles. A place so wild and uninhabitable that no one ventured there except in boats which could go through the narrow channels and out again. Up one of these winding salt channels, the houseboat pushed its way towards the interior where the remnants of Florida’s rarer animals, such as the panther, bear and deer still lived in considerable numbers, and such beautiful birds as the roseate spoonbills, kites and even flamingoes could be found. There, with mangroves growing out of the shoal water and almost hemming them in, they anchored and prepared to use the houseboat as a main camp while going through the even narrower channels between the islands in a small rowboat which had an outboard motor. Reddy had seen mosquitoes and biting flies before, but nothing to equal the swarms which came to meet them at every turn in the heavy, mud-scented atmosphere. He found midges even more exasperating for they crawled all over him and stung the edges of his eyes and wherever they could get past his protecting hair. When he was brought to shore for exercise and waded with Johnny through scurrying flocks of little fiddler crabs, he soon collected ticks and chiggers, and had to look out for scorpions, spiders and a black poisonous insect resembling a big scorpion which the guides called a grampus. This was real insect country indeed, with no letup in their biting either in night or day. Johnny and Marshall covered faces and bands with ill-smelling oil of eucalyptus, and dusted flowers of sulphur over their legs; added to these precautions against insect pests were snake-proof, woven-wire leggings.

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Nor could Reddy help matters by taking to the water, for, besides sharks and sting rays, there were occasional alligators and Florida crocodiles which would gladly seize a dog and drown him even though he was too large to be eaten at once. The guide was busy warning them against all sorts of things, including the saw grass which they might encounter still further inland and which had a toothed edge that could cut like a knife. Barring such little drawbacks, the region was of intense interest and beauty, the natural haunt of game which was willing to bear the unpleasant things in order to enjoy the comparative safety from man which these things made possible. “I guess we can endure it for three or four days,” was Marshall’s comment as he slapped at a bloodsucking fly the size of a bee. They spent the first day in reconnoitering among the endless islands to find out from the tracks just where the animals were the most plentiful. Deer trails were in many places, but no signs as yet of either panthers or bears. On the following morning, they landed with their rifles on one of the larger islands which rose just high enough above the tide to carry a stand of cabbage palmettos, swamp oaks and many kinds of bushes in addition to the endless mangrove trees. Many ancient conch, clam, oyster and other shells lying about in the dead leaves showed this to have been at one time a favorite camping place of the Seminole Indians. Leaving the rowboat and forcing a way through the prickly greenery, they came to an open plain on which grew coarse grass, waist-high, through which wound game trails full of the hoofmarks of deer. This was by far the best hunting country they had seen and it was decided to have a try at shooting a buck. In the center of the plain grew a group of tall trees literally swarming with the longbilled white ibis which part of each day fed like herons in the marshes and perched in trees when disturbed or when sleeping at night. These large birds quickly took wing and circled overhead in gracefully flying flocks with no sound except the swish of their wings. The guide stationed Johnny at one side of the tree clump and Marshall at the other, telling them to stay there while he beat through the bushes

EVERGLADES ADVENTURE

with the hound and tried to put up a deer. But to his surprise, Reddy, who disliked him from the first, would not leave Johnny’s side, although the man tried to pull him by the neck and soon grew angry; so the plan had to be changed and the ranger taken with him for the work in the thickets. Reddy, at first, was doubtful about hunting deer and needed much encouragement from Johnny to satisfy him that it was all right. Then he beat around for awhile on the crisscrossing trails until he found the general direction that some of the animals had taken. A few minutes later the men heard him begin to bay amid a great crashing of palmetto leaves as four small, reddish deer, two of them with antlers, sprang toward Johnny and almost ran into him as they came racing along one of their paths that was like a tunnel through the greenery. Close behind them was Reddy, baying now with real enthusiasm. There was no chance for either Johnny or the guide to shoot in such a tangle. The deer and the hound passed them almost like lightning and went tearing around the edge of the island. In a short time, however, the deer had made a circle and were coming to them again, and this time there were not just four, but a string of the animals, since the four had picked up others until the band numbered at least a dozen. In vain Johnny tried to get a good aim at one with antlers as they crashed past on both sides, bucks, does and fawns, with Reddy driving them. “Stop the hound!” yelled the guide. “He’s pushing them so hard they’ll take to the water.” By that time, however, Reddy had rushed by. It happened then, just as the guide had predicted, that the deer became panicky and ran into the river to swim across it to the next island. Johnny heard the splashing and managed to break his way to the shore in time to see the last one, a doe, go up the bank of a wooded strip of land a hundred yards away with the hound swimming only a few yards behind: The guide crashed his way to the boat and shoved off with the oars as Johnny leaped into the stern. They rowed hard to the other side of the second island, but not in time to intercept the deer which had

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already swum to a third. The guide had had enough by this time, but Johnny took over and drove the boat past number three, only to be disappointed again. No sound of the chase reached them now, so he leaned on his oars the better to listen, and allowed the boat to drift quietly with the tide. In the calm water they could see silvery tarpon “rolling” on the surface, some of them little twenty pounders, others great creatures of a hundred or more that had come to these secluded waters to feed and play. Johnny, watching the fish, became aware of a black floating object resembling a log close to the matted mangroves. Something impelled him to look at it more closely, whereupon he could distinguish the eyes and great snout of a nearly submerged alligator, and almost immediately the “log” slowly sank out of sight without causing a ripple. Just then a little flock of merganser ducks flashed past very close over the water and a cormorant swam nervously uptide. Overhead, a medium-size, black and white hawk, the Everglades kite, flew toward the east, while little blue herons and snow-white egrets with nearly black legs flapped along lazily in the other direction. “What a place!” mused Johnny, comparing its tropical beauty with the drifting snowfields and cold valleys of the foothill country. But there was work ahead; first it was necessary to go back and pick up Marshall, then to follow the hound as fast as possible. The guide started the outboard motor which made a great racket and at once broke the spell and changed the whole picture. The tarpon flashed to the bottom, the cormorant dove and swam away under water; the herons and the kite vanished, and no more ducks or other birds appeared. Marshall was waiting for them in the mud at the water’s edge, nearly eaten up by mosquitoes. He had seen two badly frightened does before the herd left the island, but had not had a shot at any buck. The three men then chug-chugged after the hound with nothing more to guide them than the general direction that the deer had taken. The guide muttered something about never seeing him again, but Johnny was sure that he would be sensible enough to find his way back regardless of swamps, rivers, alligators, sharks and snakes. When they had gone

EVERGLADES ADVENTURE

a mile or more and could not tell which way to turn in the labyrinth of channels, Johnny began to call and whistle while the guide blew into the barrel of his shotgun to make a far-reaching sound resembling that of a hunting horn. They repeated this at intervals as they threaded their way through mile after mile of the narrow waterways. When they returned to the houseboat at sunset, the hound had not been heard from and their hopes were beginning to run very low. Around them the wilderness gloom was setting in and fish large and small were splashing noisily in the safety of the fading light. The guide shook his head and leaned back resignedly in his seat. “Bad country on dogs,” he mumbled. “Something might easily have happened to him or he’s just lost among the islands or over in the saw grass country or maybe in the Big Cypress Swamp that reaches all the way to Lake Okeechobee. We might travel around a whole month and never see hide or hair of him in this big place.” But Johnny, just for luck, gave one more long call which the wooded islands seemed to smother and make useless. Reddy had not heard the shouts or the blowing. Plunging through dense thickets, seas of mud and narrow water courses, he had followed the deer from one island to another, on and on, until they had covered nearly ten miles and reached the edge of the Big Cypress Swamp on the mainland, dense with high stiff grass under scattered cypress trees whose limbs were laden with air plants and orchids. Already the band of deer had divided and scattered until only two were ahead of the hound, and now one of these ran off to the side. Reddy came to the place where the trails split and nosed along each of them before deciding which to follow. And the one he selected was that of the biggest of all the bucks. Reddy had never seen country like this, but he knew he was not lost. All that he worried about was thirst, for so far all the water had been salty and he was desperately in need of a drink. In the Big Cypress he soon found plenty of fresh water and wallowed in it, lapping it up and taking it in gulps. When at length he shook himself and took the trail again, he was feeling fit and confident, and once more enjoying

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his work. Musically the long notes of his steady baying carried through the glades as he chased the wise old buck that was heading for the safest place he knew, the country of limitless saw grass where a hound’s legs could be cut to pieces almost before he knew it. As the sun began to sink in the west, the buck was just about worn out. In spite of water, saw grass and clever tricks of dodging and backtracking, his pursuer was still with him, almost at his heels in the worst swamp in which a hound could try to work. It had been a colossal task for both animals to come so far, and now the deer, for the first time in his life, was losing and knew it. In his desperation, he plunged forward blindly into a pathless section of the Everglades where even he in all his years had never been before. A great paved road cut across it and hurt the buck’s tired, torn hoofs as he hit it and stood for an instant almost stupefied at the unaccustomed sight of automobiles rushing toward him. He made one gigantic bound with all the strength he had left, slipped and went headlong into the ditch on the far side of the road, lying there waiting for death and not caring. A few yards behind him came Reddy, silent now, for he sensed that this was the end of the long chase and that the task that had been given him was just about

accomplished. He barely crossed the road ahead of autos approaching from two directions, and then came upon the buck. There was no fight left in the deer; he just lay there in the mud. Reddy was surprised and walked around him, sniffing and wondering; then satisfied, he flopped down a few paces away to pant and cool off and wait for Johnny who wanted this deer and had given him the job of running it down, just as he had run down cougars, lynx, coyotes and old Thimble Toes, all of whom, however, had wanted to fight rather than wait ’til Johnny came. If the King had been there, hungry after a long run, all might have seemed different; but now it was only Johnny’s influence that counted, and Johnny, though slow, would come for the buck; Reddy was sure of that. So there he waited while autos stopped and a little crowd of curious people gathered and gaped at him and at the spent deer, and talked a lot. Whenever any of the people came too near to Johnny’s buck, Reddy growled and the people fell back very quickly; it was as easy as that, not anything like the trouble with the guard in Yellowstone Park over the old grizzly. So Reddy waited and waited and the crowd grew.

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Then came the voice of authority. The one who had it was a man like the Park guard. He didn’t stand and gape; he sprang out of an auto, took just one look, asked if the hound belonged to anyone there, and then strode over to the buck, seized him by the long antlers and dragged him part way out of the black mud. Somehow Reddy knew that this man had the right to touch Johnny’s buck, and though he didn’t like it, he could not prevent the man. So he just watched him try to make the deer run away and fail because after such a chase, the buck had no strength or will to run. Then the man with authority made others help him carry the deer to his little truck and lock it up. Reddy wanted to protest this, but he knew it was no use; so he just walked around, stiff-legged and dignified, letting no one touch him no matter how they tried. Soon the truck and then the other cars drove off one by one, leaving him beside the big road with no more job to do. He sat down on his haunches and thought about it and made up his mind that since there was no deer now, Johnny would not come, so he must go back home to Johnny. Without more ado, he started off for home, heading north, up the big road. It did not occur to him that the houseboat was anything like home or had any serious connection with Johnny or with him. He had treated it in the same way as he would a riding horse or an automobile. Home was where everyone went after a hunt, and there he would find Johnny. The idea of distance did not worry him. His instinct told him the direction, and he trotted along as confidently as ever, dodging into the swamp every time an automobile flew roaring past. His feet were sore and his legs were covered with cuts from the saw grass, but he was too proud to limp or do more than occasionally stop for a few moments to lick especially sore spots. Pat, pat—pat, pat went his feet on the paved road until well into the night when he took a long drink of water in the ditch and curled up for a little sleep on the driest piece of ground he could find near by with gloomy swamp all around him. The night was pleasantly warm and he rested well in spite of the

EVERGLADES ADVENTURE

hooting of excited barred owls, but could scarcely get to his feet when dawn began to break. Every part of his body seemed stiff and sore, and his stomach ached with hunger. A dog without his early training would have gone hungry, but he set about catching breakfast quite as a matter of ordinary routine and stalked the blue herons that watched for minnows along the edge of the roadside ditch. The way they flew from the bank and over the water when alarmed, prevented him from accomplishing anything with his usual method of leaping after a bird and seizing it before it gained much height from the ground. He could not run and leap in mud and water. But a barred owl that was perched on the road eating the remains of a water rat that autos had flattened and ground into the paving, was quite another matter. Reddy sighted the big owl far ahead in the dull half light, lowered his head and made a rapid wolf stalk along the ditch until quite close; then a charge across the road. The surprised bird tried to spike him with its long curved claws, but missed and in a few moments was partly stripped of its thick feathers and eaten almost to the hard wing points. Raw, old owl might not be the most savory dish on earth, but Reddy had eaten worse in the woods and felt much happier now as he continued his journey. He encountered few vehicles during the morning and when limbered up by the first half hour of trotting, set out at speed in the wolf lope that eats up the miles like the canter of a pony. Still following the road, he came into Everglades City before noon and went through it so fast that no one who happened to see him had time to think much about whether he was away from home. Even the town dogs were taken too much by surprise to make any trouble. He had begun his journey, worn out and hungry, with more than a hundred and sixty miles to go, and that distance he made easily in two days, the last mile on the dead run because of the anxiety to be home again. He fairly burst into the Marshall house when the children and Mrs. Marshall were in the midst of dinner, after having received a telephone call from Mr. Marshall to tell them that he had given up Reddy as lost in the Everglades, and had returned to port in the house-

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boat, though Johnny had not given up hope and was going into the Big Cypress Swamp. Spirits were at a very low ebb indeed then, and tears not far away when the familiar thump of Reddy’s leap from the path resounded on the porch, caught them by surprise, and he ran in the open door almost beside himself with excitement at coming home. He pranced about and howled wildly, while the children and even Mrs. Marshall pranced with him and almost wanted to howl too. Then the telephone rang again and Marshall told them that Reddy might be all right for he had just been advised that a red hound, as big as a great Dane, had been seen in Everglades City. “Why, he’s here with us!” the three Marshalls fairly shouted into the phone. “Reddy’s home!” “Impossible!” Marshall cried incredulously, but happily. “How did anyone know where he belonged? And, besides, he would never have let anyone except Johnny or me put him in an auto.” “He has legs,” called Bob. “He’s lying by the table now, all worn out from running here I guess, but he’s wagging his tail like mad!” Marshall hung up then in order to go and tell Johnny. Then the two of them went to the hotel and ate the first meal they had enjoyed since Reddy had been missing. A man who saw that they were sportsmen came up to their table to tell them how the sheriff had brought in a fine deer that had been run to a standstill by a colossal red hound in the very middle of the Big Cypress Swamp. This called for a real celebration because now they knew that Reddy had again done a very remarkable thing. Then they hunted up the sheriff and made him tell the strange story firsthand. The buck, they learned, had been taken to one of the State parks and released there, apparently not much the worse for his experience, though no doubt a much wiser animal. Hunting deer with a hound or hounds, was entirely legal in the State, so the sheriff, who was a very good chap, added apologies for having dispossessed them of their rightful game, though perhaps he had been within his rights because the hound was unattended when discovered with a buck that had not been wounded by the hunters. It

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all ended very happily anyway, and another chapter in Reddy’s adventurous life had closed, for Johnny and Marshall agreed that they had taken too many chances in hunting such a hound in such a place. And everyone else who knew the Everglades and the Ten Thousand Islands, said that they were right.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Fox Hound Field Trials >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

MARSHALL WA ONE OF THOSE TIRELESS, FIDGETY SPORTSMEN WHO, when on holiday, try not to waste a moment. No sooner were he and Johnny back from the Everglades than he began to plan a trip to the north of the State to attend the annual foxhound field trials which brought together many spectators and men from various parts of the country who were especially interested in fox hunting and anxious to have their hounds win prizes and, if possible, the championship. It was not surprising to anyone that Marshall wanted to enter Reddy who had shown such ability in chasing the Florida gray foxes that there was not one of them to be found in the woods within miles of the Marshall house. Those he had not caught, quickly moved to less dangerous regions after finding out that Reddy could outrun and outguess them no matter what tricks they tried. Johnny knew almost nothing about field trials, but soon became deeply interested, for he felt confident that no hound could run a fox or anything else as well as Reddy, and he wanted very much to test this. Also, for once it was a chase without danger to hounds, except from possible rattlesnake bite, and for that emergency he would carry along a tourniquet, antivenom serum and a hypodermic syringe. The entry blanks were secured and duly sent off, and then a training schedule for hunting foxes regularly wherever they could be found was arranged by Marshall to ensure tiptop form for the big event. Reddy seemed always in first-class condition anyway, because he was active and naturally healthy, but for the trials which might last through several days, Marshall and Johnny planned to give him every possible advantage. And they did their best to see that he had long [140]

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hunts in a number of good localities. The one thing that worried both men was the fact that all the hounds who were competing would be run together as a pack for comparison of their work. On the opening day, before the weeding-out process had begun, there might be a hundred or more hounds of all ages, types and dispositions, but all trained to hunt in pack formation, each one trying to find a fox and to get the lead when a fox was running, but also willing to hunt with the others and honor the leadership of hounds which happened through luck or otherwise to be in front. If any hound did not co-operate this way in the chase, the judges would certainly eliminate him, since the ancient sport of fox bunting depended on the good teamwork of every member of a pack. Would Reddy, who was not accustomed to this kind of hunting, ignore the work of other hounds? That was the big question, for there seemed to be no chance to give him any training along this line unless they left southern Florida, which would have been very inconvenient. “Well, Johnny,” Marshall remarked one evening, after they had returned from one of the practice hunts, “if Reddy won’t run with the others, then you and I will take him somewhere far off to the side and have the very best kind of a one hound hunt all to ourselves. But I hate like everything to think of not winning that cup!” “So do I!” sighed Johnny. “And Reddy can do it, and do it easily if he understands what is expected of him.” “It’s up to you to make him understand,” was all that Marshall could add. And he saw to it that Johnny familiarized himself with every rule. So the day came when big Reddy was led into the rear of the waiting automobile and given a rousing send-off by Mrs. Marshall and the children. Even some of the neighbors had come to see the start and add their good wishes. The trip was a long hot one, over concrete roads the first part of the way, and then sand roads among little blue lakes separated from each other by stretches of pine woods. Close around each body of water was a ring of many low palmettos and gallberry bushes. This was the rolling sandhill country, sparsely settled, far from

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the coastal swamps, and ideal for hunting. It made Johnny’s breath come more quickly just to look at it and see its possibilities for Reddy, whose size would not be a drawback here where there were no masses of briars and tangled vines. The pine woods were carpeted with sparse, short grass and small palmettos over which Reddy’s bounds should take him even more easily than in the fine sagebrush country of Wyoming which he knew so well. By late afternoon they reached the little town that had been chosen as the headquarters for the trials. Already its main street was crowded with cars and men leading hounds, as the trials for young hounds had been in progress three days and had ended that afternoon. The event in which Reddy had been entered was called the All Age Stake and would begin in the morning, as near daybreak as possible. Marshall had made arrangements to stay at the bungalow of a friend named Alfred Jones who lived near by, and after asking his way a few times, found the little house and the whole family of wife, mother and three children at home. Two beautiful black, white and tan hounds were in the enclosed yard and set up a great baying when they sighted Reddy, who looked nearly twice as big as either of them and not at all troubled by the commotion. The Jones family knew enough about hounds to be greatly impressed by Reddy and just a little jealous, for he would compete with their pair; however, they were sports and did everything possible to make the visitors comfortable. After a wonderful dinner of fried chicken, ham, yams, boiled turnip tops and pie, they sat on the porch smoking and talking while watching one fine-looking hound after another being led past by anxious handlers who were quartered in the town and wanted to exercise their charges. They ranged in color from nearly all white to nearly all black, the majority being black, white and tan. Johnny had never seen so many good hounds together, and began to be more worried than ever about Reddy’s chances. But his worries were nothing when compared with the consternation that the sight of Reddy caused among the other fox hunters. It was not just his great size that caught their eyes, but something about the confident way he

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walked and his evident intelligence and good breeding that held them. One after another stopped at the yard until at one time there was a group of more than a dozen, politely asking Johnny questions and appraising Reddy. Later three men strolling together and unaccompanied by hounds stopped casually, nodded to those on the porch, took a good look at Reddy, then sauntered back toward the town. “Did you recognize them?” asked Mr. Jones. “Those were three of the officials; the short, stout one with the black felt hat is Colonel Calvin, president of our association. Evidently they heard about your big hound and were interested enough to want to have a look at him. That means he’s a sort of dark horse, singled out already as a newcomer who may prove to be a dangerous competitor. I don’t think I ever saw a hound that created so much stir ahead of the trials. By the way, have you entered him for the bench show?” “No, we haven’t,” answered Johnny. “He’s only in the field trials.” “Then why not enter him tonight?” suggested Mr. Jones. “I’m no judge, but I think he’s got the best conformation of any hound I’ve seen so far, except for all those scars. He’s a magnificent specimen! He’s eligible if he runs in the trials. The bench show will be held the day after they close. Don’t miss the chance to try him anyway. You might surprise some of the wise guys who run useless hounds just because they look pretty and win ribbons on the bench. It’s that way every year. You’ll see a hound named Ranter entered in the trials who couldn’t trail a fox for a mile, but who walks away with the bench show honors. It’s a crime. Your hound won’t have a chance against him for he’s perfect, but you might get one of the other bench prizes. Let me enter him for you.” Mr. Jones became very enthusiastic and soon half convinced Johnny and Marshall that it was at least a sporting thing to try. After some more argument they agreed, and Mr. Jones jotted down the names of Reddy’s father and mother, and their owner. Then he put on his hat and hastened up the street.

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“He’s that way!” laughed Mrs. Jones. “I can see that he’s taken your Reddy to his heart and is going to bet on him against the whole field. Well, it begins to be exciting!” It was much more exciting on the following morning. Reddy had slept in the living room of the house and was in high spirits when everyone came down before it was light for very early breakfast. He knew perfectly well that this meant a hunt of some kind, and capered around the little room until, to save the chairs from being broken, Johnny sent him outside. There he romped with Mr. Jones’ hounds in the best of good humor until it was time to paint his entry number, 35, on both of his sides before putting him in the automobile and starting for the trials. Mr. Jones showed the way by leading in his car, and soon they had joined a procession of cars loaded with men and hounds, all going in the same direction. Beside a particularly beautiful little lake all the cars were parked among the live oaks, and soon disgorged excited hounds on leashes. Two men, already on horseback, directed things and saw to it that the crowd, mostly on foot, gathered on a sandy ridge near-by. Mr. Jones had horses waiting at the side for Marshall, Johnny and himself. The Master of Hounds, on a little chestnut horse, rode up and called the number of each hound to make sure all were present and arranged in a semicircle facing him. At his signal they were to be unleashed all together. By the time the sun, like a great red ball, was rising above the horizon, everything was in readiness. Amid a sudden hush, the Master held up his hat, then threw it down shouting, “Let them loose!” And suddenly every hound was free. They started forward, confusedly at first in a slow-moving mass, then gained confidence and began to run toward a bushy hollow dead ahead of them, with three judges riding at each side and a short distance behind, hustling their horses into positions from which they could see everything that the hounds were doing. Two hounds that yelped continuously without reason, were noted as babblers, while those that

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kept noses to the ground and quietly hunted, were given credit. Among the latter was Reddy, but he held himself very much aloof from the others and was the only one that headed to the right when they entered the bushy hollow. Johnny knew why. The breeze was from that direction and gave him a better chance to catch any scent. With eighty-seven hounds drawing through a thicket, something was quite sure to happen. Suddenly there was a melodious, longdrawn-out note from the center, then a chorus of hound voices, and presently a great babel as the bulk of the big pack ran in from all directions to join those that had found the fresh trail of a fox. One of the officials who was acting as Field Master, kept the spectators in check until the lead hounds had burst from the far side of the scrub and were well away, with a long line of slower hounds stringing out behind. Then everyone ran, or if he was on horseback, galloped. Mr. Jones, red-faced and happy, was trying to keep his pair in view. They had been well up among the leaders. “It’s the best start I ever saw! A fox in the first cover!” he shouted to Johnny. The latter and Marshall had galloped with the others, vainly looking for Reddy who had last been viewed going into the scrub. Neither could see what had become of him. Certainly he was not with the pack. Just then the last of the judges, who had held back to watch for stragglers, galloped past them. Johnny, his hopes all at once completely crushed, watched the judge ride after the pack whose baying now was coming in a thrilling wave of sound which filled the woods. After all, he thought, who could blame Reddy for not following a pack of hounds that were strangers to him? It had been almost foolish even to hope that he would do it without any previous experience to guide him. “Sorry Johnny!” called Marshall. “What do you think we can do?” “Not much, I guess. You go ahead with the others and I’ll scout around to see whether he went back.” As Johnny turned he could hear the big pack, in roaring full cry, circling the sandhills toward the other

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side of the lake. He galloped back to the parked automobiles without seeing anything of Reddy, and as the pack was clearly audible to the left, he thought that the red hound might have joined it by this time. Taking one more look around, he low-spiritedly decided to head for the other hounds. Reddy, if not with them now, would surely be counted out anyway. Letting his horse pick its own path through the open woods, he tried to enjoy the hound music, which, at the distance of about a mile, gave a perfect blending of all kinds of tones. With such a chorus it would have been impossible to distinguish even Reddy’s mighty roar. When at length he caught up with the spectators, the clamor, however, had died down to an occasional bay. The hounds were in a large group, standing or lying around a burrow, some even rolling in the grass, while the judges allowed their steaming and badly winded horses to calm down. In vain he looked for Reddy. The judges were still observing the hounds and noting how they acted toward a fox run to earth. It was a colorful scene amid the scattered pines in the bright, mercilessly hot sunlight. Many of the handlers among the group of spectators, looked sympathetically toward Johnny as he passed, and a couple cracked good-natured jokes at his expense, well knowing that Reddy, the dark horse, had not been in the running at all. What a flash in the pan he had proved to be! The colossal hound from the West; the killer of wolves and mountain lions! Johnny said nothing and tried hard to show no sign of the disappointment which he felt. Mr. Jones joined him and tried to be cheery, but quickly gave it up. He was bursting with pride because one of his hounds had been the first to reach the burrow after the fox had holed. That meant much toward winning the cup and gave him a decided advantage over all of the others. A rangy black and tan named Doctor, had been second; he was a winner of prizes in a number of trials and still was expected to win in the coming final tests. “Keep your eye on Doctor,” was a favorite expression.

THE FOX HOUND FIELD TRIALS

Marshall joined Johnny, but scarcely ventured to look at him; he felt very badly, especially as he knew that in one way he was to blame; the right kind of training had not been given Reddy. The judges soon were mounting their horses and preparing to move on, the Master of Hounds blowing his horn to call the hounds from the burrow. The cavalcade swung to the right and headed for another bushy hollow; the hounds quickly going ahead and hunting again, but suddenly bunching together oddly. In the midst of them was a strange animal trying to make its way through the woods. There was such a disturbance that the judges spurred their horses forward. What they saw was Reddy, and he was dragging something while holding off the other hounds with a series of bloodcurdling growls. “Boys, he’s got a fox!” someone shouted. Then excited voices rose on all sides for the spectators liked surprises and here was a dramatic one. Reddy certainly was bringing in a big dead gray fox which, held by the neck, dragged between his front feet and made travel very slow, even without the crowding pack. The Field Master held up his hand to stop the crowd. “What’s the meaning of this?” the Master of Hounds asked brusquely. “Did anyone check on number 35?” He walked his horse toward Reddy, but Reddy did not like this and turned away. He had made his kill for Johnny, and as the ranger had not come to him, he had brought it to Johnny and no one else. He did not see him in the crowd and was ready to retreat lest someone steal the fox. Johnny had dismounted and was walking forward. Reddy looked at him for a moment, recognized his walk and came straight to him with tail wagging joyfully. He let go his hold as soon as Johnny took the fox by the leg, and capered about him in his excitement at having safely delivered his burden. Johnny handed the gray, bushy-tailed animal to the Master of Hounds who examined it and made sure it was freshly killed. The spectators tried to come close enough to see what was happening, and

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they were still speechless with surprise; so strange was the whole affair that no one seemed to know what to do. All at once Mr. Jones began to laugh; then the tension broke and everyone laughed and cheered. “That’s the most remarkable thing I ever saw at a trial,” commented a little red-faced man to Johnny. “It won’t count in his favor though; they’ll eliminate him for not sticking with the pack. Too bad! You’ve got a fine hound!” Johnny knew the little man meant well and he thanked him. But, this being in the middle of the five-hour hunt, nothing was said by the Master about what the judges might decide. At a blast from his horn, a long musical note, the crowd again broke into action and the cavalcade moved through the sunbathed pine woods to the next bushy hollow. The more high-strung hounds dashed forward furiously; the babblers raised their voices in aimless clamor, while the wise ones went seriously and methodically to work on the maze of paths and conflicting odors. Wild hogs, black, red and spotted, were disturbed and sent galloping away amid much grunting and the baying of several unruly hounds. The judges were busy with their pencils. What fox scent remained from the previous night had been so weakened by the sun and the dry air that no trail could be straightened out and followed. Therefore, the hunt was carried to the next lake where the scrub was thicker and higher. Here the huge pack scared up a fox, more by its noise than anything else, and took the fresh trail in a long line across the scrub and then through the pine woods. Reddy was in the midst of things this time. When the fox broke cover, he was well back with the bulk of the hounds, and when the trail led away over the open pine woods, his huge form seemed hemmed in by lesser ones. He resented the interference and rushed almost savagely to win clear of it. In great bounds he overtook hound after hound until in the lead with two of them, the great Doctor and Mr. Jones’ Trailer who were so fast that he could not keep to the scent and at the same time outrun them. When the fox, still well ahead, made a turn, Reddy turned too as if

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on a pivot, while the other two rushed on, but quickly saw their mistake and swung after him. Now, however, Reddy had the lead and he ran as he had so often run in the North and the West in great, long, swinging leaps that left the others yards behind. Before the fox could reach the next scrub, Reddy was almost on his tail, running then by sight not scent. The little hunted animal watched him from the tail of his left eye, and seeing that he was completely outclassed; sprang into an oak that had many low branches. Up to the very top he climbed, almost like a cat, with Reddy tearing at the trunk and trying to leap after him. Up dashed the whole line of yelling hounds, followed by the judges. Again pencils were busy. “Leave him,” ordered the Master of Hounds after all had collected, “we’ll pick up another.” It was no easy matter to call or drive some of the hounds away from the tree, Reddy in particular, but at length they moved on and in the next scrub started two foxes. The pack divided and it was noticed at once that Reddy, Doctor and the Jones hound stayed together and again staged a terrific run which once more ended in a tree with Reddy leading the others. The other fox of the pair was such an artful dodger that he escaped his contingent of hounds. By this time, those who were on foot were worn out, and everyone satisfied with the amount of hunting and ready to quit. The horn was blown and hounds called, the next trial being scheduled for the following morning at daybreak. Johnny and Reddy were the center of attraction, and the former received no end of truly sincere congratulation, even from Mr. Jones and the owner of Doctor, though it was evident that no one thought number 35 had a chance after his bad break on the first run. Johnny, however, felt as proud of Reddy as anyone could have felt. “The cup’s in the bag!” whispered the perspiring but happy Mr. Marshall jubilantly. He was optimistic enough to think that the earlier mishap had been erased in the minds of the judges.

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“I wonder,” answered Johnny. “There are some in the gallery who are talking about not yet having seen Reddy do anything except run a fox after other hounds had started it.” The crowd gradually filtered back to the automobiles and then returned to town where the judges were to gather and determine which hounds had survived this first day’s test. Long afterward, Johnny heard what transpired in the judges’ room. The Master of Hounds was recording each judge’s notes on the various hounds by their numbers. When number 35 was reached, there was an ominous silence at first. According to the rules, number 35 was eliminated by refusal to run with the pack when it “found.” Hunting on his own hook was an unpardonable offense. There was one among the judges who had had his eye on Reddy when the pack started off on its run; this was the man who had stayed behind to check on the stragglers. Up to this point he had said nothing, but now he spoke up. “I saw number 35 working his own line in the scrub, and I believe he was on the trail of his fox when the pack opened up on the other one. As I see it, he was correct in sticking to his line regardless of the others, and I believe that it was just by bad luck that the other hounds didn’t follow him. In the scrub, no one could see just what was happening, and the full cry drowned out any tonguing that number 35 might have made.” Silence followed. The Master jotted this down, looked around the circle for any word of dissent, studied his notes, then remarked that number 35 had qualified for the second test. When the announcement was made on the bulletin board, Mr. Jones, good sport that he was, led a burst of cheers that followed, and was the first to congratulate Johnny and Marshall. Everyone laughed some more in fine good humor, and the strange exploits of the big red hound were the main topic of conversation in the whole town. Of the eighty-seven that started, only thirty-nine remained in the running.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

May the Best Win >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THAT NIGHT EVERYONE SLEPT LIKE LOGS. THE MORNING BROKE WARM and misty. This time the start of the hunt was arranged at a long lake completely hidden in dense scrub. The thirty-nine selected hounds were taken first to the middle of a pine wood where their work on stale trails could be observed. Oddly enough, such was the excitement surrounding this unusual trial that the field of followers was even larger than on the first day, the handlers of eliminated hounds coming along just to see the sport and the outcome. And Reddy’s fame had brought many villagers on foot and on horseback. Reddy crouched beside Johnny and waited impatiently for the signal to go. In walking to the chosen starting place, he had kept his nose busy and already noted a trail which he could scarcely hold himself back from following. The Master gave the signal. “Go it, Reddy,” whispered Johnny, and the big hound gave a bound, not forward like the others, but on the back track to the trail he had crossed far behind them. Every eye seemed on Reddy while he streaked away as if going home, quitting, like any yellow cur. The judges watched him until he was out of sight, then turned their attention to the pack which had fanned out and was drawing the scrub. It took the pack two hours to start and run down a fox, and Reddy had not been seen again. When the fox took to a burrow, the laurels of the run went to the great Doctor, who was in the lead, with Mr. Jones’ favorite hound second. Again number 35 was surely eliminated! Johnny said nothing to anyone and no one said anything to him. They dared not, for they felt [151]

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too sorry for him. The crowd prepared to move on when suddenly some of the hounds began to prick up their ears and start away in twos and threes, all in the same direction. The judges watched in surprise. Then someone shouted that he heard baying somewhere far away. So great was the tension that one and all started after the hounds, those on horses galloping; and what they found was Reddy baying at a big bobcat in a crotch of a live oak beside the long lake. The other hounds took up the cry and made a great clamor around the ancient, moss-covered tree. There was plenty of excitement, much arguing. Had Reddy done the right thing? Was this fox hunting? What about the rules that declared only fox or wolf legitimate game? These were sportsmen, and it all ended in a general demand that since a bobcat was a very bad actor among game and young pigs, he be chased out of the tree, given a fifteen minute start and then hunted by the whole pack. If he treed and escaped them again, he would be allowed his liberty unmolested. That seemed like a sporting and highly interesting proposition, and there was such unqualified approval and enthusiasm that the officials had to agree. Hounds were called off and taken well back in the pine wood. Then two of the more nimble men climbed the oak and rather timidly chased out the snarling spotted cat which leaped all of the way to the ground and ran into the heart of the scrub. He was as large as an ordinary hound and well able, as those who saw him knew, to put up a terrible fight with tooth and claw. The Master, entering into the spirit of the unusual performance, held his watch, and fifteen minutes later gave the signal, whereupon the hounds came dashing to the scrub and, after circling, caught the scent and were off in a really wild chorus, Reddy in the middle of them. This big cat could run! He went the whole length of the lake, then dodged the pack and came back through the scrub, leaping over many of the low bushes in his path. The thrilled crowd caught glimpses of him, and then it saw the big red hound thundering along unerringly on the trail. These two, the cat and Reddy, seemed all alone, the hunted

MAY THE BEST WIN

and the hunter in a race to the finish. Cheers went up. Suddenly there was a scraping of bark, and the gallery saw the bobcat climbing a tree that rose out of an arm of low scrub growth. Four, five, six feet went the cat above the scrub, when up from the bushes burst Reddy in one of the most prodigious leaps anyone had seen a hound make. It seemed impossible that he could reach the climbing animal, but he caught it by the left foot and pulled it down. The two went out of sight in the bushes together. Rules to the contrary, it seemed likely that number 35 was still in the running. When it was over, the Master fastened the big cat to his saddle and the hunt moved to new ground. Here the hounds hunted an hour on cold trails before starting a fox, an artful one, that dodged around a thick scrub until Reddy grew cagey and tried the wolf trick of going around a bunch of bushes to the right when the fox went around it to the left. They met and the hunt was over. Again, a big discussion in the gallery. Reddy had not kept to the trail. Yes, but he had been in the lead behind the fox and had made the kill on his circling without being assisted by any other hound driving the fox. Well, anyway, the judges would decide. The hunt continued. The next fox they raised from his bed was the canniest of all. He seemed to know exactly where the various members of his family were hiding and took pains to lead the hounds to one after another of them until foxes and hounds were running in every direction, the pack having split up wherever fresh trails were found. The judges had a hard time to keep track of the different little groups, and finally called the hunt off, the usual five-hour period having elapsed. The horn brought back a number of the hounds, but others continued to run, though the judges left them and returned to town. Johnny, with Marshall’s aid, stopped Reddy who was leading three fast hounds in a run after the original fox. None of the men could tell the foxes apart, but Reddy’s unerring nose had kept him on the right trail, and he was just about as fresh as when he started and fairly tearing over the ground. He minded Johnny’s call, however, and reluctantly

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stopped. The great question was whether the judges would decide that the red hound’s unusual but brilliant work had qualified him to continue. Many clustered around the bulletin board as ten numbers were being written by the Master. Johnny held his breath. The tenth was thirtyfive! Somehow the news went around that the highest scoring went to Doctor, Mr. Jones’ Trailer and Reddy, though no one could learn which of the three was ahead. It looked like a tie between them for first honors so far. There would be another day of sport, with all the best hounds pitted against each other. And that day dawned quite like any other day with the rising sun looking through the pines at the biggest gallery of the week, out to see what the big red hound of the West could do against the fastest that the East and the South had to offer. Would Reddy conform to the rules? Or would he disqualify himself with some wild new idea. The gallery was backing him to win—unless; at that word everyone began to hedge, not knowing just what to expect from him, but fearing it nevertheless. The Master’s hat dropped and they were started on their last lap of the trials. They ran toward the nearest scrub, noses down but not as low as when they were actually trailing. Each knew that the scrub would be the surest place in which to strike a trail. The watching gallery saw the tips of their tails waving among the low palmettos and moving fast toward the open wood on the other side. There was no sound from any of them. When they came out of the scrub, they raced to the next scrub, hunted it and raced jealously to still another. Here there was delay. The tails were close together as they worked on a very stale trail. Suddenly Reddy raised his head and looked all around. He saw that the scrub had a heavily covered knoll on its left edge, the kind of place in which a fox usually made his day bed, and to this wise Reddy ran without further pottering.

MAY THE BEST WIN

No sooner had he entered it than a roar electrified all who heard. A fox was started! Reddy had again broken all rules in leaving a trail, but had scored. As a break for Doctor, the fox ran straight to him along a path in the scrub and almost jumped down his throat; but Doctor, taken by surprise, missed and had to turn and try to run him down. The fox dodged to the right and got out of sight quickly, then started across the pine woods with Doctor fifty yards behind and Reddy, followed by the others, coming fast. They hit the edge of a blue lake and lost the trail, up and down they ran, then in circles. Suddenly Doctor plunged into the water and swam; far ahead, almost in the middle of the expanse of water, was a moving gray object. Reddy saw the black and tan’s splash, took one sniff at the water to make sure he was right, and plunged in after him. Both hounds made the water fairly boil. The fox, with his bushy tail floating behind him, was doing his best. He kept one eye on his pursuers and the other on the far bank as he churned to safety. His feet found the shallows, he made several plunges and was in the grass that separated the water from the first bushes. Behind him raced Doctor, with Reddy gaining but still yards behind. The other hounds were nowhere to be seen. Doctor reached the bank, shook his black body and went almost screaming through the grass. Reddy struck bottom, splashed water in every direction, and was right after him. With the wet trail so fresh it reeked, both hounds ran furiously, heads breast high. Reddy drew up to Doctor and for a few moments ran beside him neck and neck, the two glaring at each other with ears back. The fox circled to the left to reach the scrub again, and as that was Doctor’s side, he had the inside of the circle and the advantage over Reddy. He crowded out Reddy at the edge of the scrub and was the first to reach the hog path that the fox had taken. Down this he raced so hard that he came near enough to see his bedraggled prey ahead, while Reddy, directly behind, could not possibly pass him in the very narrow path through the bushes, and had to run second when Doctor closed in fast for the kill. The whole race hung in the balance, with Doctor holding all the advantage, when Reddy suddenly gathered his great legs under him, leaped forward and fairly

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sailed over Doctor’s whole body to gain the lead! In four more terrific jumps, he caught up to the fox, lunged forward and hurled it into the air to save himself from being tripped at such speed. The fox lay where he fell. There was a hush and then loud cheering as the gallery, which had been able to see almost the whole performance, realized that the trial was over and a new king crowned, a worthy one, the like of which they had never before seen. Johnny was swamped with hearty backslapping and handshaking, and had to pretend that his horse was unruly in order to get away. He felt elated, not on his own account but for Reddy whom all were calling “the wonder hound.” That night he received the solid silver, two-handled cup amidst an ovation that made the assembly hall re-echo. After it had died down, the eldest of the judges, a man with almost white hair, made a speech praising the contesting hounds, the sportsmanship of the men who handled them, and the helpfulness of those whose planning had enabled the trials to be run so smoothly. Then he turned to Johnny and led him back to the middle of the little platform in front of the crowd. “Fellow fox hunters,” he said in his slow, fine voice, “in all my experience as a judge, from coast to coast and from the North to the South, I have never seen a hound the equal of the one raised and trained by our friend here from the West. I am glad to have been with you, and I am more than glad to have seen such a hound do his stuff. I think you all agree with me when I say that this has been the most interesting, the best field trial that we fox hunting men gathered here have ever held.” He waited for the hand clapping to die down and then continued: “Our modest friend has not talked about the former exploits of his great hound. I have heard a few of them from one of his close companions, and I hope that he will tell us in his own words the story of Reddy.” In front of at least three hundred people, Johnny stood for

MAY THE BEST WIN

a few moments so confused that he could scarcely collect his thoughts. “I don’t know just what to say,” he told them at last. “Anyway, the story isn’t mine to tell. It belongs to a wolf, back in Alberta, a black wolf we called the King who raised Reddy from a little miserable pup that I lost in the mountains. When I got him back more than a year later, he was what you see today. He knew the woods, the mountains and the plains. He knew how to fight a grizzly or catch a rabbit. I have never seen him lose a trail. Wherever I go he goes, but someday he will be back in the mountains of Alberta for,” and here Johnny hesitated, “I know that though he likes me, his heart is still, and always will be with the King—that great old Alberta wolf.” When Johnny walked from the platform, the crowd was too moved to think of cheering. There were many there who loved their hounds and knew just how a man felt when he talked like that. It was all very unusual. The chairman rapped with his gavel. “Remember, everybody,” he called out, “tomorrow at ten we hold the bench show. Meeting adjourned ’til then.” Tomorrow at ten! With what pride and hope the owners of beautiful hounds fussed over their entries, washed and groomed them, trimmed their toenails. There were a number of classes for different ages and sexes, but the main event was the judging of the all-age class for male hounds. It was in this one that Reddy was entered. If he won, he would then come up against the winners of the puppy and the all-age female classes. After that he would face champion Rantor for the title of Grand Champion. When Reddy, held by Johnny on a leash, was lined up with fourteen others in the roped-off ring, Marshall, who was on the side lines, fidgeted about in his nervous way. First he was sure there was no hound as physically perfect as Reddy, and then equally sure that with such competition he had no chance, especially as he was over the standard height. The judge gave him one good look, opened his mouth to see his

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teeth, and motioned him to one side while he concentrated his attention on the others which were perfectly trained to stand on their toes with elbows in, head and tail up. Finally it narrowed down to three, then to two. The judge made their handlers walk these about and then trot and run with them. He motioned one of the two to go to the side, only a fine red tick hound remained. The ringside audience began to clap, but the show was not over. Reddy, whom the judge had already sized up as at least the equal of the best of the group, was called back to the wooden platform in the middle of the ring and placed beside the red tick. Johnny did not know quite what to make of it, but he began to get excited when the crowd hustled and shoved to get a better view, and the judge started to compare the two hounds with utmost care. Red tick and Reddy! Presently he straightened up, took several ribbons from the assisting steward and presented the blue to Johnny. He smiled at the ranger’s surprise for he could see that here was a novice who did not know the perfection of the hound he was showing. Following that, it was almost a foregone conclusion that Reddy would win against the best male puppy and the best in the two classes for females, which he did amidst more applause. After a lull in the proceedings, famous old Rantor was led into the ring by a portly man whose manner suggested that, of course, there was no hound like Rantor. Rantor was white, except for a small black saddle and tan colored head and neck. He walked stiffly and proudly and struck poses whenever he stood still. When he and Reddy were on the platform together, there seemed to be nothing else in the world except these two, standing there like statues while the judge looked at them from every angle. Finally, however, the judge shook his head and told Johnny to straighten Reddy’s pose; the big hound was at ease, almost slouching. Johnny tried, but could not make him stay stiff-legged and haughty like Rantor. Again the judge shook his head and a triumphant gleam came into the eye of Raptor’s owner. Even Rantor curled his aristocratic lip at Reddy, for it was plain to him as well as the others that he had won

MAY THE BEST WIN

preference of some kind. Marshall was fidgeting worse than before. And then something happened. A growing dislike for the disdainful Rantor who stood there sneering at him, began to make Reddy, goodnatured as he usually was, bristle from pent-up feelings of rage. He began to straighten, his muscles hardening in his great legs, his head going up and his tail arching. The judge was on his way to the ribbon counter when, through the corner of his eve, he caught Rcddy ‘s new stance. He turned and looked, then came back to the hounds. Deep in Reddy’s chest was a rumble as he stood there, wolflike, on his dignity, daring the other hound to make a hostile move. There was something wild, terrible and yet magnificent about him. The judge ran his hand across the high shoulders, put some of his weight on the middle of Reddy’s back; this time it did not sag the fraction of an inch. He pressed harder and harder, then gave it up. Once more he stood a few feet away and looked at the two superb hounds, and there was a light in his eyes. Slowly he backed to the ribbon counter, reached for the prize, came forward and again stood looking at those two perfect animals, each the embodiment of strength and grace, each watching the other out of the tail of his eye and hating him. Johnny, kneeling beside Reddy and never taking his eyes from him lest there be a battle which he could not stop, suddenly sensed a loosening of the ringside tension. Then there was great clapping. He looked up and saw a many-colored ribbon in his hand and, scarcely believing his eyes, had to squeeze it to make sure it was real. He laid it on Reddy’s shoulders and stood up to have a better look at the effect; and in that instant the defeated champion struck, straight for Reddy’s throat. Shouts of warning sounded from all sides. Reddy whirled, quicker than a flash, quicker perhaps than the King from whom he had learned defense. His shoulder and body struck the other when he was completely off balance and threw him sideways from the platform so that he rolled over and over in the dirt. Johnny gripped Reddy around the neck with all his power, and held him immobile while Rantor was being pulled away.

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Marshall was no longer jittery. He was throwing hat, coat and everything he could lay his hands on into the air in crazy celebration. Everybody was congratulating everybody else as if all had won. It was a spectacularly popular award, and Reddy, the wolf dog, scarred hero of a hundred wilderness fights, was the acclaimed champion of champions, winner both in the field and on the bench. What greater could one hound do? Johnny pondered it but had no answer as he changed his grip to something like a grizzly bear’s hug.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The First Loyalty >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

REDDY WAS BACK IN SOUTH FLORIDA. MONTHS HAD ELPASED SINCE THE field trials and spring was already evident in the new growth on the trees and the colorful flowers of hibiscus, oleander and humbler shrubs. The days were sunny and hot and the breezes full of pleasant odors. It was only natural that the mockingbirds were bursting with song and everything and everybody feeling the exhilaration which comes with the change from the drab months to those with color and new life. But Reddy was listless and low-spirited. He lay most of the day at the threshold of the cottage, his head on his paws and only his eyes following the movements of those around him. At first no one took much notice of this, but as his doleful attitude continued, it soon became a matter of general concern. Johnny, who was working hard on new fences and lawn grading, tried to cheer him, but did not accomplish much; Reddy would always wag his tail and stand up but show none of his former enthusiasm. Finally, even Mr. Marshall said that something should be done about it. And then Johnny received an air mail letter from Alberta! It arrived at breakfast time when he and the Marshall family were at table discussing whether the time had come to go back to the ranch. The letter was one of those short, official ones stating that the office of ranger in the Little Sheep Creek section of the Athabaska Valley was open, and asking whether Johnny cared to apply for it. “In other words,” suggested Marshall, “your old position is offered to you. Well, you know what to tell them. You have a position with me [161]

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which I hope will last a lifetime. You need not think of the wilds of Alberta any more.” Johnny appreciated this. He had been treated as a close friend and taken into a very delightful home by people whom he thoroughly liked and admired, but for some reason, which he himself could not analyze, he wanted more than anything else in the world to be back in the Alberta mountains guarding the forests and the wild animals that needed protection to survive, rising with the sun to look out upon a world of peaks where there was no sign of man, retiring at night under the soft sheen of the northern lights to sleep without a care. The call of the wild—that was what best described it; but it was centered in the cool Alberta mountains which he knew so intimately, and in his former happy duties as a ranger there. While he had not admitted that he had been homesick, the coming of the letter, coupled with the knowledge that spring would soon be creeping gloriously over the mountains, brought things to a head. He and Reddy had that in common he knew—homesickness, or else why had the big active hound begun to mope about the place so dejectedly? Johnny had always suspected that Reddy missed the King, and in his unusually alert mind would never forget him. The fact that the hound had not cared to be at all friendly with dogs other than his sisters and brother proved that he was different from the ordinary. Having been with the big wolves and known them so intimately, he seemed to feel disdainful of dogs and almost hostile to them. Johnny thought of all this as he sat regarding Reddy after breakfast. The hound’s big eyes, as usual, never left his face and seemed to say, “I have put all my trust in you and I know that you will always do the best you can for me.” Something in the depths of those eyes haunted Johnny; there was much that seemed unusually human about this strange, faithful, lovable hound that among men had given allegiance to him alone. “I owe something to you, old friend,” thought Johnny. “I think I know what you want and I’m going to try to give it to you! And the strange thing about it is that I want it too!” He sought out Marshall

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and told him that he was going back to Alberta—with Reddy. Marshall nodded. “I knew you would,” he said simply. “Your spirits go up and down with Reddy’s. The hound has that effect upon you, and he is forcing you now. His will is so powerful that he almost has me going too. I have watched him year in and year out just as you have, and I have seen him trying hard to make the best of things as they came along. He had one great desire—to please you. That carried him along until now, but I believe he never forgot Alberta for one minute. And now it’s got the better of him and I really believe he’ll pine away and die unless you take him back. And I believe too that his wolf friend is mixed up in the thing.” Johnny’s decision was something that concerned every member of the family. For the next few days they all talked about it and knew that it would make a decided change in their lives. They would miss Reddy every moment, beginning with the early morning when they came to breakfast and were greeted by him, each in turn, with such friendly enthusiasm and evident joy in seeing them again after the night’s separation that they were at once put in a good humor that lasted all day. As for Johnny, he knew that he was making the most fateful decision of his life, particularly as he was beginning to fall in love. Patricia was not such a child as he had at first imagined, and in the last year she had seemed to grow much older quite suddenly. He and she had always had a liking for each other, and now that a separation was coming, Johnny, who had never before been affected that way, felt a decided heartache. That she shared his feeling to some extent at least was shown only in the affection which she lavished more than ever upon Reddy who, wise clog that he was, took it very impersonally as if knowing full well that he was just being made a “go between.” Rather sad were those last few days, but not too sad, and then Johnny and Reddy were off for Alberta by train, Reddy riding in the baggage car in an especially made crate from which Johnny released

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him for a walk whenever the train made a lengthy stop. It took nearly a week to complete the long journey with all its transfers from one railroad to another. Johnny had written to Mac, but he had given him no date, for he planned to have the train stop at Mac’s little station and to step out quite casually just to surprise him and to get the kind of hearty greeting which he somehow craved for his return. And it happened exactly as he had hoped it would. The train blew a warning whistle which brought Mac out on the platform before it slowed up after rounding the bend. Johnny swung off the train almost on top of him, and after a first look of incredulity, was given a rousing series of punches as Mac danced around him shouting, “You old boss! It can’t be!” Reddy was released from the crate and nearly went wild, jumping and baying and prancing about the men. “Suppose you want to stay at the Castle,” grinned Mac, “to get sort of acclimated before you go to your palace up on the creek.” Johnny thought he was jesting when he said palace, but later when he and Mac rode to the ridge he found out this was not the case. The government had not just rebuilt the burned cabin, it had erected a real little bungalow with a hot-water heater and all sorts of conveniences. Johnny could not believe his eyes. Also, Mac had hurriedly brought in a few pieces of furniture, dishes, cooking utensils and bedding as well as a fair amount of groceries, the kind he knew Johnny liked. “Just to sort of start you right,” he said apologetically but with sparkling eyes because of the pleasure which he saw in Johnny’s face. Besides Johnny’s old riding horse, Mac gave him one to carry packs and helped him make both horses comfortable in the stable shack, for though the good month of May was well under way, the nights in the peaks were still too cold for horses to be turned out to take care of themselves. Reddy came in for some of Mac’s attention. “He’s a great dog! From the paper clippings you sent me so often, I gather he’s licked the varmints and dogs of just about the whole

THE FIRST LOYALTY

continent, clear down to the tip of Florida. He looks it. He’s bigger and a lot more powerful than when he left here, or perhaps I’ve forgotten his size. Sometime I want to see those two-handled silver cups you wrote he’s won. I didn’t tell you that poor Bess is dead. Poison. Yes, someone spread it all around the mountains last year at trapping season, you being away. It just about cleaned up the foxes and wolves. By the way, it occurs to me I haven’t seen or heard the King since then; I guess they got him too.” Johnny looked up slowly, his brows knitting. “The King gone! Was it Bill and Mose?” “I shouldn’t wonder.” “Then,” said Johnny, “I’m afraid they’ve at last succeeded in hitting Reddy.” And he glanced at the hound lying in the middle of the room with his head resting quietly on his front paws but his eyes ever watchful, “We’ll have to wait and see.” “What are you talking about anyway?” asked Mac completely mystified. “I’m not sure I know myself,” answered Johnny, “but I have a feeling Reddy will go back to the wolves.” “And you’ll let him?” “Yes,” said Johnny slowly, “I’ll let him; for later, when it’s over, he’ll come back to me and then he’ll stay.” “What do you mean by ‘when it’s over’?” “Mac, he’ll go with the wolves as long as the King is alive or until he’s hunted the ground all the way to the Porcupine and can’t find him. I come second to the King. He and I both found that out down in the States.” “If I didn’t know you so well, old boss, I’d say you were cracked in the head. You’re saying an animal can think and remember just like you can.”

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Johnny shook his head. “Reddy’s no ordinary animal,” he replied quickly. “His loyalty is so strong that it carries him to greater heights mentally than those which the ordinary animal can reach. At first he seemed only to miss the wolf; that was bad enough. Now I think he misses him and also worries about him. The first phase was selfish, the second largely unselfish and the stronger of the two. I may be all wrong, of course, but he and I are very close to each other and sort of in full sympathy and understanding. You get what I mean? But he’s not one to rush things. He’s lying there quietly enough making sure I’m all right—I, his second loyalty—but you can notice that his heart is pounding. He’s thinking of tomorrow when he intends to start off on his hunt.” “Phew,” whistled Mac, “don’t let anyone else know how nutty you are!” Then he added, “I think I’ll stick around just to see how wrong you can be. If it happens that way and the hound goes wild again, I’ll bet the authorities will go wild too!” Johnny, regardless of everything, slept like a log that night and woke in the morning dreaming that he was in Alberta, only to find that it was true! Mac was fussing with pots and pans and soon had good ham and eggs and coffee on the table. He said little during the meal, his eyes continually wandering to Reddy who ate the slices of ham he was given and then lay down as before. Presently, when the dishes were cleared away, Johnny went to the door. Instantly, Reddy arose and stood beside him. Slowly Johnny opened it and stepped outside with Reddy still keeping beside him. Together they stood on the path and looked across the valley and over the snow-streaked mountains beyond. Then Reddy went several paces down the path in the direction of the place where as a pup he had been dumped from the back of the pack horse. Mac stayed in the doorway, an odd, strained expression on his usually jovial face as he watched. He sensed at last that a near tragedy might be unfolding before his eyes, the separation of a man and his dog, perhaps forever. He knew loneliness and what it meant in the

THE FIRST LOYALTY

mountains to lose the companionship of a devoted animal one loved. He had gone through that when his fine old white-faced riding horse whom he had had as an almost constant companion for years, fell and broke a leg, and later when Bess died of the poison, lying on blankets in his little cabin while he tried so hard to save her. “Don’t let him go, old boss. Hold on to him you locoed fool,” he growled to himself. “Where will you ever get another like him!” Reddy had stopped and was looking first down the slope, then back at Johnny. His fine head was held high but his tail was no longer jauntily above his long back. He walked a few steps further and stopped again. Johnny called him and he hurried back. The ranger sat down on a flat rock and gently smoothed the hound’s soft-coated head and ears, looking into his honest, troubled eyes and trying to smile. “Good-by, old friend,” he said very quietly. “And remember, whether or not you find him, I’ll be waiting for you.” It was just as if the hound understood the words. He licked first one, then the other of Johnny’s hands, turned away and trotted down the path without a backward glance, but with such unhappiness in the way he carried himself that even Mac could see that he was suffering. The two men remained where they were for many minutes. They saw the hound appear from the timber in the valley below and begin the ascent on the other side. His nose was far forward, his tail straight out behind, and he was loping fast, silently, and with caution—Reddy was a wolf again. A cow moose and her leggy, very young calf leaped up and trotted suddenly from low bushes in his path. Reddy looked at them but did not change his pace or direction. Soon he was entering timber once more. The men strained their eyes but lost all sight of him. Presently, clearing his throat gruffly, Mac turned around and busied himself in the bungalow. Johnny sat on the stone for a long time.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

On the Trail of the King >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

HOUR AFTER HOUR, REDDY, WITH THE EXCITEMENT OF HIS QUEST AMONG these old, still familiar haunts driving him on, loped up one valley and down the next, then on to others with nose taking in every kind of scent, and searching for just one thing, the trail of the King. Marmots noted him, ran to the mouths of their safe burrows among the rocks, and stopped there to whistle as he passed. Caribou scented him and snorted a warning. Mountain sheep and white goats gazed at him from the higher basins. All of them soon saw that his mind was not on hunting them, so, scarcely disturbed, they returned to their feeding and climbing. Coyotes, however, more suspicious and hostile than the other animals, watched him guardedly from their lookouts, then quickly circled to cross and study his tracks. Of the big wolves, there seemed no sign. He found no fresh kills of game, no wolf trails, not even the faintest scent, but he continued, shifting his general direction more to the north. By the time the shadows were long and heavy, he had grown very tired and footsore, the easy life in the South and the long rail trip having softened him. And for the first time that day, he felt hungry, so empty indeed that when he almost ran over a porcupine, he stopped and circled it hopefully, wondering whether to risk its terrible defensive quills in a quick attack. The slowmoving quill pig had bristled and was watching him with its little rodent eyes. When he came too close, it simply swung its barbed tail viciously and made him leap back like any other foe. The deliciousness of the big porcupine’s fat body, however, filled his nostrils, and he circled very close, though warily, jumping aside as again and again the dangerous tail was swung at him. Porky’s barbed [168]

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armor was almost impregnable everywhere except around the stomach and nose. Porky, of course, knew this, so crouched firmly on his stomach when really scared, and jammed his nose under his body between his forelegs, thus making a quill-laden ball of his forty pound body. When the hound so much as scratched at the ground near-by, the vicious tail was swung so accurately that it would have made a pincushion out of a less agile adversary. Reddy saw that ordinary attack against the quills in this defensive position was far too risky, so he crouched directly in front of the animal, watching it and waiting for some kind of lucky break. Porky was thoroughly frightened, but when nothing more happened, his self-assurance returned and, being an impatient creature, he wanted very much to be on his way. Every now and then he lifted his head just enough to have a sly squint at the hound, then quickly ducked it between his forelegs again. The hound did not move. Puzzled, and thinking he had cowed the enemy, he took longer and longer looks until Reddy saw his chance, plunged forward and caught just the tip of the black nose with his teeth. Then he backed very quickly, dragging the surprised porcupine with him and keeping the prickly one from twisting around and getting in a lick with its terrible tail. He backed all over the little glade regardless of the quill pig’s weight and the furious fight it put up; he pulled it this way and that until the raging porky began to tire and its over-fat muscles to go soft. Then Reddy suddenly swung it over on its back and had the unprotected furry underside uppermost. He shifted his hold like lightning, and without a quill in his skin, soon was having a life-giving feast. After that, he sought a clump of bushes and stretched out to rest on a full stomach, and so weary were his limbs that he stayed there until dawn. He awoke, however, with a start, for strong in his nostrils was the unmistakable smell of wolves. Rising slowly and stiffly, Reddy slipped to the edge of the thicket and looked out with little except his head showing. He could see only scattered rocks and grass tufts, but he did not move any further, for his

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nose still told him the wolves were close, and he guessed that they were watching him and probably hostile. Minutes passed. Two golden eagles appeared in the sky and circled far overhead without once flapping a wing. Then a lean gray wolf rose from the rocks and in the misty light of the growing day, walked toward him. At once, Reddy responded by going forward to meet it. This was the proper formality; but he had scarcely made half a dozen steps when a bigger wolf bounded forward from a hiding place at the side. Reddy stood stock still with head and tail up to give the best possible impression of formidable height. Both wolves then approached warily and walked around him. The smaller one was a young, shy she-wolf, but the larger was an arrogant male, already angered by the mere scent of dog in his precinct. He had picked up the trail and followed it. Reddy knew that he must fight, and he struck first, a quick slash at the male’s shoulder which made the wolf shy away, exposing his flank. Rip went Reddy’s teeth, and the greatly surprised male, in the act of rising on his hind legs for a plunge downward on the hound, felt such a stinging pain that he bounded sideways to be out of reach. After that, though he strutted around evilly and showed his long white teeth, the real fighting spirit was all out of him, for this held promise of being much more of a battle than he had expected. Reddy did not push his good luck. He walked slowly away with a warning growl or two and, when far enough, began to trot and then to lope, leaving the wolves confused and not quite sure what they wanted to do. He found that at last he was in good wolf country, for wherever he went now he found wolf scent. Hopefully scrutinizing all the tracks and wolf signposts in his path, he worked his way still farther north. Only a few times had he been as far as this from Little Sheep Creek in mountains that were very rugged and valleys heavily wooded, except where avalanches had ploughed furrows down some of the steeper slopes. Here the rude diggings of grizzlies, in their hunting of marmots,

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gophers and squirrels, were fresh and plentiful, showing that man did not come often or at all to molest them. In a very somber, narrow canyon, a band of great rams could be seen grazing along the very edge of the timber, and solemn, long-faced moose, single, or in twos and threes, were feeding sometimes on all sides of him. He flushed mountain ptarmigan from their nests, and brightly colored harlequin ducks from pools in the streams. Such eggs as he found, he cracked with his teeth to be able to lap up the contents without the shells. What a wonderful country! Why should he leave it at once, why not tarry a while? But night found him still traveling, still hopefully on his hunt. There being no moonlight, he finally curled up in the lee of a fallen tree to rest until morning, a place where the wind eddied and brought him scent from every direction so that no wolf, bear or other possible enemy could sneak up unnoticed. He was on his feet even before the red squirrels and Canada jays began their usual clamor, and he was hunting now for food. When he spotted a spruce grouse, still sleepy as it strutted across a moose path, he stalked it with all the care and perseverance of a cat until it lowered its head to pick up a seed, then, so quick was his rush, that the grouse did not see what struck. Yes, this was ideal country for many kinds of game, but again he was on his way, a little less confident than at first, almost confused by his inability to find any sign of the King, yet just as determined. But when he reached a river he had never before seen, he stopped beside its steep bank and for the first time felt uncertain what to do next. All about him were bleak canyons and snow-patched mountains, except where the swift little river wound its way; and against him blew a cold north wind bringing low clouds that promised either snow or rain before night. While he sat there on his haunches, he could hear the distant howl of wolves. He looked back; a hostile band of them made up of young ones or those that did not remember him, might already be collecting on his trail and following it, for there were a number of voices, and the howling came from behind. If they followed him, it would be because

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the scent of a lone dog made them dangerous. The longer he listened, the more uneasy he became. This was no place in which to fight against a malicious pack. He took a good look at the river and plunged into it, the icy current carrying him swiftly downstream in spite of his swimming and plunging toward the far bank. And when at last he reached the other side, the banks were so steep that he could not gain a footing and had to drift further. Several times he was swept against rocks and whirled around in circles until dizzy as well as tired and glad to land on a gravel bar hundreds of yards below his starting point. Pulling himself out of the water, he shook the drops out of his coat and plunged into the nearest thicket where he lay down until he got back his breath. The howling of the wolves had ceased, for they had lost his trail at the river and were searching the woods along both banks. Presently he heard them again and knew that he must run to a safer place somewhere among big rocks where he could not be surrounded. But the howling grew less distinct and he soon realized that they had come across other game and had forgotten about him for the present. Slowing down at once to an easy trot, he came back to the river bank where there was a

moose path that he could follow in order to travel as fast as possible out of their neighborhood. He began to lope and was making good time when suddenly he saw a wolf running along the far bank parallel to his path. It was in the shadow, but he sensed that it had seen him and was deliberately keeping pace with him. At once he stopped and crouched in the bushes. The wolf did the same, then cautiously walked out to the very edge of the water and gazed across it inquiringly. It was a big wolf, black as coal. Reddy watched it standing there, and queer feelings stirred in him. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he walked out of the bushes on his side of the river and stood just like the wolf, straining his eyes and nose to verify the recognition which, after two years, was seething in his brain. Each knew the other and yet was not quite sure about it or certain what changes had occurred in their relationship. Between them was a sixty-foot stretch of gurgling water edged by tall spruce trees behind which towered the mountains. What setting could have been more perfect, and what moment more opportune for their

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meeting? Excitement rose in Reddy. He pranced along the bank, whining and then baying with ungovernable surge of feeling. Suddenly he leaped into the water and swam faster than ever before, buffeting the current so successfully that he was across in almost no time and bounding up the bank. Yet when the two approached each other along the edge of the river, they became suddenly awkward and shy; and of such power was the training of the wild that for minutes they walked around each other stiff-legged in the usual manner of wolves, getting acquainted all over again. Then Reddy burst forth once more in wild prancing and capers, and all at once the big wolf joined in and the two went baying and roaring, side by side into the forest. Such was the noise, that they drew the attention of the other wolves who began filtering silently through the woods on all sides, not in any hostile way now, but inquiringly and almost sympathetically, for the contagion of good spirits was affecting them too, and anyway, they had just finished feasting and were in good humor. They were a wild lot, grays, browns and even blacks, slant-eyed and lean, come together from various parts of the mountains for a few hours of wild hunting only to scatter again to rejoin cubs too young as yet to follow them. They knew the King and they accepted Reddy as a curiosity that for some reason was associated with him and protected. They might look askance at Reddy for a while, but eventually would regard him as belonging among their kind. He had been properly introduced and virtually reinstated as a wolf. The King, always the great wanderer, led Reddy several miles down the valley of the little river to a region of open glades. Here were several small bands of caribou and many mule deer, the latter among the scattered patches of timber. Again, in quite the old way, Reddy went racing after a buck while the King cut in ahead of him and quickly made one of his flying kills so that they could eat their fill and rest. And again the coyotes nosed around them and had to be kept in order by swift charges and plenty of growling. Later, from a giant rock,

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they looked down on a wide valley full of game, and noting a big grizzly, pretended to attack him just for the fun of it and because whatever they did together was interesting and exciting and like the old times which both remembered. Once more, free, thrilling days in the wilderness, the seemingly endless mountains around them and they the lords of all they surveyed. Together, they could make any animal move out of their way; together they could hunt and feast at will. The King as a rule kept silent, but Reddy’s voice was like a bugle, resounding day or night whenever the urge to run swept over him. And at that sound lordly moose and deer and caribou and mountain sheep, as well as all the smaller game, stood at attention, for each knew that his might be the trail that was being followed. And though they were not wantonly molested, they realized, one and all, that they must beware of the hound who never lost a trail and traveled always in the company of the great black wolf. Back in the valley of Little Sheep Creek, Johnny went about his work as usual, through the summer and the autumn and then the winter. He listened to the harsh calling of the moose, the yapping of coyotes, the screaming of eagles and the gentle whistle of the marmot, but he heard no wolf, for the experience with the poison of the year before had marked the valley in their canny minds as a place to be avoided, a place where mysterious and terrible death awaited their kind. And Johnny sighed sometimes, but he understood and often tried to visualize what Reddy was doing and whether he had found the King.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Last Stand of the Wolf >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE WARM MONTHS HAD SEEMED WONDERFUL TO REDDY, BUT WHEN, with winter, one snow after another came to clutter up the trails, and subzero weather hung day after day over the mountains, he found it difficult to keep from freezing unless he stayed in the spruce thickets where there was no wind and he could make a comfortable bed by burrowing under the snow. His coat had grown thick and long, but it lacked the heavy fur which covered the wolves, and it was not much protection to his feet. Nevertheless, he was contented. Food was always obtainable, for the hunting was still good as well as exciting. Beside smaller game, the moose had congregated along the banks of the little river and the sheep had come down from the bleak cliffs to live in the upper edge of the timber. Late each afternoon he and the King would come out of their cozy thicket and go scouting, first among the deep paths of the moose, then up through the timber to the higher benches where the sheep and sometimes the woolly, white goats could be waylaid before they took alarm and dashed for the safety of the precipices. More often now, it was Reddy who took the lead, for the big wolf who was beginning to show gray about his muzzle, was finding that he often missed his hold when he tried to seize and throw his quarry. To a wolf, nothing was more important than good teeth, and the King’s were not nearly as sharp as formerly; hard usage had worn them down. Without help from a companion, he would have had a hard time that winter. Reddy sensed the change, and who can say that he had not sensed it dimly when he was far away in Florida. But the big wolf’s old-time spirit was there still, showing itself in everything he did, driving him [176]

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to try again and again to hunt and fight just the same way as always. He had “lorded it” over the wolves for such a long time that they rarely questioned his strength and fitness; his supremacy was almost a tradition and would remain so until, by some mischance, some trick of fate, the wolves were able to see that he was failing. When that time came, they would turn on him in a body and show no mercy. Two Indians ran a line of traps through the King’s chosen territory that winter and made a big catch of fox, beaver, mink and ermine. Their traps were small and at first they did not try for coyotes and wolves, but the thieving coyotes learned to rob the traps of the toothsome furbearers and almost forced the men to do something about it. Retribution came in the form of wire snares, and no one knew better than the Indians how to set these cruel contrivances. Almost uncannily they picked out the best trails and made sets here and there until the forest bristled with them, and the King began to worry and hesitate to go charging through his old domain in his hunting. Sometimes he would come across a coyote struggling frantically in a wire, or the body of one hanging lifeless in the air. More often he would turn aside just in time to miss being caught himself, or he would see Reddy in danger. There was nothing for him and Reddy to do except move, and so move they did, fifteen miles up the river, into the territory of one of the wolf packs where there was no scent of man, white or red. Here they found few animals to hunt and much trouble with the wolves who came to share in all their hunting, so again they moved and kept on moving from place to place until they came to a valley that exactly suited them. There was a fair-sized stream, clammed here and there by beavers, and there was a wonderful moose yard with paths through the willows as numerous as streets in a little town. The King trotted in a great circle to make sure that there were no signs of man, and then he led Reddy part way up a mountain to a heavily wooded basin where the two could make warm beds in safety. Below them they could see the dark bodies of moose moving among the bushes, and around them flocks of mountain sheep and goats.

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Except for the cold, it was ideal. Reddy caught and ate his first beaver in this valley. The busy creatures, in order to reach the best willows, had made a little road from a spot in the stream where a warm spring kept the ice away, up the slope a distance of more that fifty yards. At night they shuffled up the road to cut down willows with their chisel teeth and haul branches and small logs down to the water and under the ice to the deep entrance of their house in front of which they could store them in the water until the bark was needed for food. Reddy and the wolf, while scouting hungrily early one evening, heard a beaver noisily gnawing and stalked him. He caught their scent and down his road toward the water hole, but Reddy who was nearest burst upon him from snow-covered evergreens and found to his surprise that though he was the size and shape of a porcupine, he had no sharp quills and was very good food. Until the beavers became too wary, he and the King caught one every night. After that the two explored the mountains and found several big caves in which from the odor it was evident goats stayed during stormy weather, and a smaller one which a grizzly was sleeping peacefully behind a bank of snow. The warm spring used by the beavers, contained salts of the kind craved by the hoofed animals, which accounted for the presence of so many moose and for paths leading to it from many directions, bringing others of the deer tribe from neighboring valleys even in this time of deep snow. The King knew from experience that game paths such as these would sooner or later bring danger too, so he was always on guard. Nevertheless, life in this little valley was quiet and happy for many days. The change came very suddenly on a blustery afternoon in March. Without warning, the valley suddenly seemed full of running wolves, gaunt, ravenous, alien wolves from the far north such as rarely were seen. They scattered the moose which Reddy and the King has not molested, killing one and sending the others tearing through the lower forest. They climbed the cliffs and charged the flock of goats that was clustered in one of the big caves, killing right and left anything that could not escape to the precipices, and over each carcass they fought.

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They ran up and down all of the game paths hunting anything and everything that could be eaten, and even attacked the sleeping grizzly. Then, still ravenous and almost rabid, they found Reddy and the King. A dozen of them came loping swiftly into the basin and immediately surrounded the two, closing in on them without formality and attacking just as if, because they were safe in numbers, they expected to kill or bully every animal in their way. The King and Reddy backed up against a mass of interlaced spruce branches, side by side, and went to work with a will to chop up any crazed wolf that wanted to fight. One after another charged them recklessly, only to be slashed or mauled and go back to howling. The King’s legs were wide apart and bent in a half crouch, his great head ready to strike, quick as a snake’s whenever he saw his chance. Reddy, too, crouched to protect the lower parts of his body, and showed his formidable array of teeth in white rage as he met and hurled back wolf after wolf. Snarls, growls and howls, deep and terrible, or shrill and piercing, filled the air, and the snow became filthy with blood and hair and rolling dark bodies. In their hurry and crazed fury, the wolves made one mistake. The place being narrow, they usually charged singly, thus giving the pair a chance to work together instead of separately. When the King caught a fighting wolf by the left side of the head, Reddy would slash the right side that was unprotected, and sometimes nearly shear off an ear. The King would send the wolf rolling. There was no time to go into a clinch to the death with any wolf; with such a crowd of frantic creatures to swarm on top of the combatants, anything of that kind would have been fatal. The noise brought up more wolves and fresh attacks, and soon made the little basin the seething center of all the excitement in the valley. But it could not last indefinitely. The wild horde was finding the fight too tough and long drawn out to be any fun, and so all at once it was nervously scattering and quitting the valley with as much of a rush as that with which it had invaded it, leaving Reddy and the King so breathless and exhausted they could scarcely have held their own any longer.

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For some time they lay panting and cooling off, at the same time licking their wounds. Then they got to their feet and stiffly walked about to sniff at the relics of the battle. Twice the King flopped down in the snow, but rose again. The third time he went down he stayed there, and tried vainly to reach with his tongue a wound in his right side behind his great ribs. At first Reddy did not know that anything was really wrong, but presently he came to investigate, and lay down beside his companion to lick away dark blood that oozed from a small hole in the rough skin. It was a deep hole that was not just through the flesh but in the abdominal cavity where his tongue could not enter to staunch the bleeding. He licked and licked but still the blood trickled slowly. At last, however, the hair, plastered over the little hole, seemed to heal it and Reddy stood up again, but the wolf remained lying there, gazing across the valley to the mountains beyond in a strange, faraway look. Reddy stood beside him and looked too, but all he could see were the tops of evergreen trees and beyond them the seemingly endless mountains under their blanket of snow. Late that night Reddy left the King’s side and wandered down into the valley where everything was defiled by the tracks and stench of the alien horde. Gone were the moose and other big animals. However, in a remote corner, he found a lone porcupine on its solemn way from a cozy cleft in the rocks to a jack pine whose bark was one of its favorite foods, and once more he was forced by necessity to brave villainous barbs and make a meal of quill-pig. One mouthful he carried all of the way back to the black wolf who took it in his jaws, but laid it down beside him. Soon afterward the wolf rose stiffly and walked to a better resting place in the spruce thicket where he stayed three days without moving more than a few yards. Early on the fourth evening, when the air remained tempered by the hot sun of midday, the King raised himself from his bed and started in a slow walk into the valley and then across to the mountains beyond, the mountains at which he had been gazing. He took the easiest way, along moose paths and wherever he could find a beaten trail, until well up among the rocks on one of the mountain passes. Here he dropped

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down in the snow and stayed until the following noon with the hound curled up beside him and shivering from head to foot. It was very much the same on the following night, and the next, and during many more nights, though each time he went a shorter distance until he moved only a few yards at a time. Always he headed in the same direction—east—and always he traveled as if in a dream, scarcely turning his nose to left or right. Reddy hunted hard. The snow was melting fast in daytime and freezing as soon as the sun set. Running was easy now and Reddy ran as he had never run before, partly because the deer, sheep and goats were able to go fast too, and partly because his nerves were on edge and he wanted to forget that once great, wonderful companion, now lying almost always among the rocks and bushes instead of bounding beside him or in the lead. When he made a kill, he ate sparingly and carried pieces of meat to the King, who sometimes ate and sometimes just mouthed the food and dropped it. It was water the wolf seemed to crave, for he ate little pieces of snow all through the day and night. Reddy did not make a kill every day; usually he returned again and again to the same carcass until he or the coyotes, eagles and wolverines had finished it. Sometimes Reddy fought the coyotes and chased them for miles through the mountains, but his heart was not in the work and he did not care whether he caught them. The King was terribly thin, almost like a skeleton with black, matted fur draped over the poor bones, and Reddy, too, was thin, though his muscles were hard and his thick coat as smooth and well-kept as ever. Often he threw himself beside his comrade and tried to lick his fur into shape, but almost immediately it would be rough and matted again. The worst time they had was in crossing streams. The ice was broken up and water from the snow fields often flooding the banks, but somehow the wolf would win his way across and lie on the far bank slowly licking the drops out of his fur until ready to move on a little further.

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April was nearly over when they came over a pass and could look down at a wide valley, well wooded and somehow inviting. There was much less snow here and little sign of ice in the river that wound through the mazes of the forest. It was a broad river for the mountains, and where it was not white with foam and spray, it looked blue in the early morning light. The King dropped down on his stomach and lay for hours looking at the valley, and at last there was peacefulness in his pose and something like the old gleam in his eyes. Towards evening Reddy left him to go hunting, and when he returned the wolf was no longer there. Nose to earth, Reddy trailed him down the slope a short distance then to the right among the rocks and to a steep canyon where footing was very precarious. But the wolf appeared to know his way for he had gone to a narrow path that led along the face of the cliff. Here Reddy saw him, almost dragging his body along the ledge, stopping to rest, and then with indomitable spirit dragging himself further. Suddenly he stopped as if exhausted and lay down for some time, but again he half rose and forced himself forward. When Reddy looked again, he was no longer visible, and the hound, searching the rocks vainly, was confused and frightened. He edged his way along the ledge and found that it ended where the wolf had last been seen, and Reddy looked down the face of the cliff and his legs began to tremble. He turned away, but caught a trace of the wolf’s scent and quickly searching, discovered a fissure in the decaying rock, a narrow cave which bore signs of having been at one time enlarged by some animal. Lying within the cave facing the entrance, his nose on his paws, lay the great wolf. Reddy stood there as if petrified, and the wolf’s eyes seemed fixed on him, but they were looking through him and far beyond, past the canyon walls to the broad, beautiful valley. After a long time Reddy slowly backed away and sat down on his haunches among the rocks. The moonlight softly flooded the scene, and the peaks on all sides showed clearly against the sky. There would be sheep and goats somewhere among those peaks, and deer and moose

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and caribou in the timber below. Reddy would hunt hard and bring meat to the King. He was strong and could run his prey to earth and still manage to climb the canyon with tidbits that were so fresh the wolf could not resist eating them. He stood up and made his way down the mountain. At dawn Reddy was back again on the ledge, carrying a piece of deer meat in his mouth. Carefully he picked his way to the cave where the wolf still lay, and dropped the meat beside the massive black head. The wolf did not stir and Reddy felt puzzled. Quickly he left the cave and went hurrying back to the deer’s carcass where he found a wolverine already at work and fiercely chased it away. This was the King’s meat and he would bring a piece this time that the King would certainly want to eat. Again he climbed to the cave and dropped his burden beside the first piece, waiting for the wolf’s head to move toward it and the great jaws to open. At length Reddy whined and stirred the meat with his nose to show that it was all right. He walked away and then back again. All through the day he did this, never going far before something impelled him to return. Through the night he wandered about the canyon, returning to the cave at intervals to sit and look at the King and the untouched meat that lay in front of him. When dawn began to break and the stars to vanish in the sky, he pointed his nose towards the peaks and howled. It was the long, sad call that Johnny had once heard him make, the one used by a lonely or lost wolf. The howl rose and fell and trembled, then drifted away to nothingness. And after a little while, Reddy walked slowly from the canyon and straight up the mountain with tail down and never a backward glance. The sun rose over the mountains and sent reflections shimmering over every bend in the river. The Canada jays screamed among the spruce trees and the chipmunks, released from their winter quarters, scurried among the rocks. Green things were pushing up from the earth on all sides. Spring was in the air. From the canyon the great black wolf continued to look out at the

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wilderness he loved, the peaks he had seen so often, the shimmering, silver river, the forests, the cozy glades—the beautiful valley of the Porcupine. His feet would never again beat the paths of the moose and the deer, or his roar echo from one mountain to another; but did he really care? Here, in this cave he had lived with his mate through the happiest, grandest years of his life; here he had come again, at last, to stay forever when the end was near.

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CHAPTER TWENTYONE

A Man and His Dog >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

A YOUNG RANGER NAMED FARLEY, TAKING SUPPLIES TO HIS CABIN IN THE mountains, caught sight of an animal that resembled a wolf trotting up a ravine. In thinking about it later, he recalled that it lacked a wolf’s bushy tail and the usual upright ears, also that in spite of the noise his horses’ iron shoes made in clicking against stones in the trail, it did not take alarm and bolt for cover. Instead, it had seemed entirely oblivious of him and everything else, for it had looked neither to right nor left, and had followed its course almost mechanically. He pondered the incident and decided that it might be some Indian’s dog, if not an oddcolored wolf, and soon he let the matter pass from his mind. He was the first and only man who saw Reddy during his year in the mountains, and he saw him in a transition stage soon after he left the Porcupine, when he was drifting about aimlessly, no longer having particular interest in the wilds, and yet holding back from giving way to the natural instincts of a dog. The indomitable spirit of the black wolf was still a part of him. Lonely and sick at heart, he wandered around the mighty domain of the King, visiting all the old familiar places in a listless, yet restless way which left him always unsatisfied. When he hunted, he never felt like raising his voice, and when the hated coyotes came sneaking around as soon as he had turned his back on the remains of a kill, he often lacked the will to drive them off. The timber wolves gave him little attention now, for they were taking care of cubs and were scattered in pairs all around the mountains watching over their dens and enjoying the easy hunting that came with spring. He met them occasionally, old wolves whom he had seen [186]

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again and again, and they were friendly but seemed always in a hurry and anxious to go about their business. It was almost as if he were an outcast, with no friend, no place in the busy life of the vast wilderness. For many days he drifted this way, sleeping alone in remote thickets when tired, and waking to roam further, though always avoiding the valley of the Porcupine. Then all at once, in the middle of a calm, moonlit night, a different feeling surged over him. It was as if he suddenly waked up and could not understand why he had been wandering aimlessly so long and so alone. The coyotes were yapping on that night, horned owls were calling, but they stopped when they heard what they thought was a wolf howling. It began with Reddy standing on a high rock looking across a valley to far peaks and giving the lonely call again and again until the whole world seemed to echo it and the air vibrate. A tingling sensation ran up and down his spine and through his brain, clearing away the numbness and leaving him strangely free from his former doubts and misery. With a quick surge of emotion, he gave the old-time roar and sprang down from the rock. In full cry, his soul released, he began to run, not in any helter-skelter manner, as on the trail of a beast of the forest, but purposefully toward a goal. Presently he ceased to bay though continuing on his way, as straight as the mountains would permit and with scarcely ever a stop for river or precipice or food. Johnny was marking off Saturday, May 18th, on the calendar nailed to the wall of the bungalow’s main room, while Mac sat at ease near the stove digesting a good dinner and blowing out clouds of pipe smoke while he watched him. “It’s been a good winter,” said Mac as if the silence oppressed him, “and I never saw a more decent spring.” “Yes,” answered Johnny after a pause, “we can’t complain.” “And yet,” said his friend, “you are talking of leaving the valley. When do you plan to go? Right now when there isn’t much work on hand?”

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“No. I’m not going for a while. You know I’m not.” Mac shook his shaggy head and tamped down the ashes in his pipe with a gnarled thumb. “Yes, I know. You think about going away, and you’re restless as a cat, but you won’t leave that wolf dog. Why, hang it, man, he left you! Oh, well, I’m with you on it, I guess. He wasn’t just a dog. He sort of got me going too.” After a pause, he cleared his throat and asked the all-important question that was on his mind. “You sort of—have ideas —about getting married back there in Wyoming?” It was asked so bluntly, though hesitatingly, that Johnny had to laugh. “Mac,” he said, “let’s face one thing at a time. The truth is, I don’t want to go back to Wyoming without Reddy. I couldn’t leave while there is a chance of his coming back. Every day, that chance grows less, but there’s still reason to hope. Perhaps you wouldn’t understand it, but I’d miss him and not feel happy if I left now, and the people down there would feel the same way if I came alone. His life and mine are sort of woven into each other.” A twinkle lighted up Mac’s eyes. “You don’t mean to say he helps your courtin’?” And he laughed delightedly. Johnny ignored the question, but frowned. “Mac, if all I’ve heard about the King is true, he’s somewhere around fourteen years old. You know what that means in the mountains. He’s getting gray and tired and his teeth are wearing down. He’ll be forced to rely on younger wolves to lead and hunt and fight against the world while he just trails along for whatever they feel like leaving to him. Don’t you see what that will do to a high-strung old leader like him? He won’t be able to stand it for long. He won’t bear being pushed around. Perhaps Reddy is his only companion, and if that’s true, I’m sure the great old fellow is being well treated. But if the two are running around with the wolves, there will be fighting all the time, with Reddy taking the King’s part against the bullying of the others. Something is bound to happen. I expected it in March when hunting is always so

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hard. Now, I don’t know quite what to think. Reddy may not have found him, or something may have happened to Reddy or to both of them. There’s been no sign of them in the valley all these months, and no one has reported seeing them anywhere. I have thought of taking a trip and trying to locate Reddy, but I’ve been afraid that in my absence he might turn up here, find me gone and never come back again. What would you do?” Mac was fussing with his old pipe and wondering how to put into words what had been on his mind for some time. He was not of a sentimental nature, but something about his friend’s attachment for the hound and the strange link between these two and the black wolf, had seemed to spell tragedy from the beginning, and had stirred his sympathy deeply. He cleared his throat, and as if not satisfied with the start, cleared it again. “If I give you good advice, will you follow it?” he asked. Johnny hesitated a few moments, then nodded his head. “Yes, I’ll follow it.” “Then,” said Mac quickly, “go back to Wyoming at once. Give up this job. You’ll never enjoy it again. Things have happened that you just can’t shake from your thoughts. The mountains haven’t changed, but you have. Back of it all is the King; if he hadn’t found Reddy as a pup on the trail that night, you would be just a ranger; but he raised Reddy, and Reddy started you on a new life. You’ll never be a real ranger again. “You did more than anyone else would have done for a dog when you brought him back here, but he was changed too. I can’t see how he could be a wolf again even if he found the King, and the chances are he didn’t find him. And what could a dog do alone in these mountains in winter? If he were alive, you’d know it somehow. He’s gone, and if you have any sense, you’ll leave now and not mope around the valley any longer. The wolf has done his part, Reddy has done his; now you will have to get along without them in the new life that they opened to you.”

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Mac had never before talked as long as this. He leaned back and smoked while Johnny sat quite still thinking. “It’ll soon be getting dark, old boss. I’m leaving for the Castle,” Mac said at length. “Mac,” Johnny’s voice was very low, “tomorrow stop the southbound train for me, will you?” Mac stood looking at him, then quickly turned away. “I’ll stop it,” he answered throatily, and turned to the door. Presently the slow, rhythmic click of his horse’s hoofs could be heard on the stony trail. Johnny thought of his own horses and walked outside to have a look at them and make sure that they had sufficient feed for the night. They had been grazing in the valley most of the day and had come to the corral in the late afternoon. Then he prepared his own supper of canned vegetable soup, flapjacks, ham and preserves. He was in such a thoughtful mood that he did not remember to make coffee. After washing and drying the dishes, he sat near the stove, reviewing in his mind the long years that he had lived in the valley, lonely years all of them, but none so lonely as this one. Mac was right, he thought. Poor Reddy! Sitting there in the overheated room, with only one little lamp burning, he fell asleep and dreamed. He was in Wyoming riding on the ranch, with Reddy trotting beside the horse ready to obey his slightest command. Then he was feverishly hunting for Reddy in the Everglades, and after finding him, was starting off for the field trials with the good-bys from Mrs. Marshall, Bob and Patricia ringing in his ears. Then Reddy was ill and he was saying good-by again and leaving for Alberta, and once more he was saying good-by, this time to Reddy as he went down the mountain path to find the King. And the King himself appeared, near a river among the mountains and ran to Reddy, the two meeting joyfully and loping off together into the forest. It all seemed real, even when Johnny waked up and, looking around, realized that he was in his little house beside the stove which had gone

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out, leaving the room very chilly. He started to get up, and touched his foot against something on the floor. It moved just a little in the dim light, and Johnny leaned suddenly forward, not understanding whether he was still in a dream, for beside him with his head on his paws lay Reddy. Johnny stooped and ran his hand across the powerful shoulders and over the fine head, his fingers fumbling. Then Reddy rose to his feet and laid his muzzle on his master’s knee, his eyes seeking Johnny’s and looking into them long and solemnly while Johnny stroked his ears and talked to him. When the chill in the room again caught Johnny’s attention and he saw that the door was ajar, he guessed that the latch had not caught and that Reddy had pushed it open. While he was closing it, the big hound lay down again with a finality that had something almost pathetic about it. Reddy had come home from his wanderings to stay. Johnny stood quite still looking at him, with an odd catch in his throat. “I think I know how you feel, old chap,” he thought. “You are like me, through now with your work in the mountains, for your greatest friend, your first loyalty, the King, is dead.”

THE END

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