I hate to think of little calves being
torn and killed by lions and wolves. And it's dreadful to know bears eat
grown-up cattle. But I love the mourn of a wolf and the yelp of a
coyote. I can't help hoping you don't kill them all--quite."

"It's not likely, miss," he replied. "I'll be pretty sure to clean out
the lions an' drive off the bears. But the wolf family can't be
exterminated. No animal so cunnin' as a wolf!... I'll tell you.... Some
years ago I went to cook on a ranch north of Denver, on the edge of the
plains. An' right off I began to hear stories about a big lobo--a wolf
that was an old residenter. He'd been known for long, an' he got meaner
an' wiser as he was hunted. His specialty got to be yearlings, an' the
ranchers all over rose up in arms against him. They hired all the old
hunters an' trappers in the country to kill him. No good! Old Lobo went
right on pullin' down yearlings. Every night he'd get one or more. An'
he was so cute an' so swift that he'd work on different ranches on
different nights. Finally he killed eleven yearlings for my boss on one
night. Eleven! Think of that. An' then I said to my boss, 'I reckon
you'd better let me go kill that gray butcher.' An' my boss laughed at
me. But he let me go. He'd have tried anythin'. I took a hunk of meat, a
blanket, my gun, an' a pair of snow-shoes, an' I set out on old Lobo's
tracks.... An', Miss Columbine, I _walked_ old Lobo to death in
the snow!"

"Why, how wonderful!" exclaimed the girl, breathless and glowing with
interest. "Oh, it seems a pity such a splendid brute should be killed.
Wild animals are cruel. I wish it were different."

"Life is cruel, miss, an' I echo your wish," replied Wade, sadly.

"You have had great experiences. Dad said to me, 'Collie, here at last
is a man who can tell you enough stories!'... But I don't believe you
ever could."

"You like stories?" asked Wade, curiously.

"Love them. All kinds, but I like adventure best. _I_ should have been a
boy. Isn't it strange, I can't hurt anything myself or bear to see even
a steer slaughtered? But you can't tell too bloody and terrible stories
for me. Except I hate Indian stories. The very thought of Indians makes
me shudder.... Some day I'll tell you a story."

Wade could not find his tongue readily.

"I must go now," she continued, and moved off the porch. Then she
hesitated, and turned with a smile that was wistful and impulsive. "I--I
believe we'll be good friends."