The Penroof Brothers, like most
live cattle-men, had given up all attempts at poisoning and trapping,
and were trying various breeds of Dogs as Wolf-hunters, hoping to get a
little sport out of the necessary work of destroying the pests.

Foxhounds had failed--they were too soft for fighting; Great Danes were
too clumsy, and Greyhounds could not follow the game unless they could
see it. Each breed had some fatal defect, but the cow-men hoped to
succeed with a mixed pack, and the day when I was invited to join in a
Mendoza Wolf-hunt, I was amused by the variety of Dogs that followed.
There were several mongrels, but there were also a few highly bred
Dogs--in particular, some Russian Wolfhounds that must have cost a lot
of money.

Hilton Penroof, the oldest boy, "The Master of Hounds," was unusually
proud of them, and expected them to do great things.

"Greyhounds are too thin-skinned to fight a Wolf, Danes are too slow,
but you'll see the fur fly when the Russians take a hand."

Thus the Greyhounds were there as runners, the Danes as heavy backers,
and the Russians to do the important fighting. There were also two or
three Foxhounds, whose fine noses were relied on to follow the trail if
the game got out of view.

It was a fine sight as we rode away among the Badland Buttes that
October day. The air was bright and crisp, and though so late, there
was neither snow nor frost. The Horses were fresh, and once or twice
showed me how a Cow-pony tries to get rid of his rider.

The Dogs were keen for sport, and we did start one or two gray spots in
the plain that Hilton said were Wolves or Coyotes. The Dogs trailed
away at full cry, but at night, beyond the fact that one of the
Greyhounds had a wound on his shoulder, there was nothing to show that
any of them had been on a Wolf-hunt.

"It's my opinion yer fancy Russians is no good, Hilt," said Garvin, the
younger brother. "I'll back that little black Dane against the lot,
mongrel an' all as he is."

"I don't unnerstan' it," growled Hilton. "There ain't a Coyote, let
alone a Gray-wolf, kin run away from them Greyhounds; them Foxhounds
kin folly a trail three days old, an' the Danes could lick a Grizzly."

"I reckon," said the father, "they kin run, an' they kin track, an'
they kin lick a Grizzly, maybe, but the fac' is they don't want to
tackle a Gray-wolf. The hull darn pack is scairt--an' I wish we had our
money out o' them."

Thus the men grumbled and discussed as