ll be merciful to give the old fellow a shot," said Joe. "Them
varmits are sure to finish him at last."

Joe raised his rifle as he spoke, and fired. The old bull gave his last
groan and fell, while the wolves, alarmed by the shot, fled in all
directions; but they did not run far. They knew well that some portion,
at least, of the carcase would fall to their share, so they sat down at
various distances all round, to wait as patiently as they might for the
hunters to retire. Dick left the scene with a feeling of regret that
the villanous wolves should have their feast so much sooner than they
expected.

Yet after all, why should we call these wolves villanous? They did
nothing wrong--nothing contrary to the laws of their peculiar nature.
Nay, if we come to reason upon it, they rank higher in this matter than
man, for while the wolf does no violence to the laws of its instincts,
man often deliberately silences the voice of conscience, and violates
the laws of his own nature. But we will not insist on the term, good
reader, if you object strongly to it. We are willing to admit that the
wolves are _not_ villanous, but, _assuredly_, they are unlovable.

In the course of the afternoon the three horsemen reached a small creek,
the banks of which were lined with a few stunted shrubs and trees.
Having eaten nothing since the night before, they dismounted here to
"feed," as Joe expressed it.

"Cur'ous thing," remarked Joe, as he struck a light by means of flint,
steel, and tinder-box,--"curious thing that we're made to need sich a
lot o' grub. If we could only get on like the sarpints, now, wot can
breakfast on a rabbit, and then wait a month or two for dinner! Ain't
it cur'ous?"

Dick admitted that it was, and stooped to blow the fire into a blaze.

Here Henri uttered a cry of consternation, and stood speechless, with
his mouth open.

"What's the matter? what is't?" cried Dick and Joe, seizing their rifles
instinctively.

"De--grub--him--be--forgat!"

There was a look of blank horror, and then a burst of laughter from Dick
Varley. "Well, well," cried he, "we've got lots o' tea an' sugar, an'
some flour; we can git on wi' that till we shoot another buffalo, or
a-ha!"

Dick observed a wild turkey stalking among the willows as he spoke. It
was fully a hundred yards off, and only its head was seen above the
leaves. This was a matter of little moment, however, for by aiming a
little lower he knew that he must