irregularly from the outlying farms. And here,
while crossing a wide pasture known as Smith's Lots, an amazing thing
befell. Of course Timmins was not particularly surprised, because his
backwoods philosophizing had long ago led him to the conclusion that
when things get started happening, they have a way of keeping it up.
Days, weeks, months, glide by without event enough to ripple the most
sensitive memory. Then the whimsical Fates do something different,
find it interesting, and proceed to do something else. So, though
Timmins had been accustomed all his life to managing bulls,
good-tempered and bad-tempered alike, and had never had the ugliest of
them presume to turn upon him, he was not astonished now by the
apparition of Smith's bull, a wide-horned, carrot-red, white-faced
Hereford, charging down upon him in thunderous fury from behind a
poplar thicket. In a flash he remembered that the bull, which was
notoriously murderous in temper, had been turned out into that pasture
to act as guardian to Smith's flocks. There was not a tree near big
enough for refuge. There was not a stick big enough for a weapon. And
he could not bring himself to shoot so valuable a beast as this fine
thoroughbred. "Shucks!" he muttered in deep disgust. "I might 'a'
knowed it!" Dropping Lone Wolf's chain, he ran forward, waving his
arms and shouting angrily. But that red onrushing bulk was quite too
dull-witted to understand that it ought to obey. It was in the mood to
charge an avalanche. Deeply humiliated, Timmins hopped aside, and
reluctantly ran for the woods, trusting to elude his pursuer by timely
dodging.

Hitherto Lone Wolf had left all cattle severely alone, having got it
somehow into his head that they were more peculiarly under man's
protection than the sheep. Now, however, he saw his duty, and duty is
often a very well-developed concept in the brain of dog and wolf. His
ears flattened, his eyes narrowed to flaming green slits, his lips
wrinkled back till his long white fangs were clean bared, and without
a sound he hurled himself upon the red bull's flank. Looking back over
his shoulder, Timmins saw it all. It was as if all his life Lone Wolf
had been killing bulls, so unerring was that terrible chopping snap at
the great beast's throat. Far forward, just behind the bull's jaws,
the slashing fangs caught. And Timmins was astounded to see the bull,
checked in mid-rush, plunge staggering forward upon his knees. From
this positio