of the tail worthy of her best days, she lashed out behind
and planted both her pretty little feet on the ribs of the grey chief
with such a portentous whack that he succumbed at once. With a gasp,
and a long-drawn wail, he sank dead upon the snow; whereupon his amiable
friends--when quite sure of his demise--tore him limb from limb and
devoured him.

This was a fortunate respite for Vixen, most of whose remaining strength
and pluck had been thrown into that magnificent fling. Old Duncan, had
he seen it, would probably have styled it a "goot Highland fling."

But the respite was not of long duration. Their leader formed but a
mouthful to each of the pack.

When done, they returned to encircle their victim again, lick their
chops, and wait.

Evening was drawing on, and a sort of grey desolation seemed to be
creeping over the plains.

A decided thaw had been operating all that day, rendering the snow soft.
If the mare had only known the advantage thus given to her, a
successful effort at escape might have been made. When snow on the
prairie is frozen with a hard crust on the surface, the light wolf can
run easily on the top of it, while the heavy horse breaks through at
every stride and is soon knocked up. The case is reversed when a thaw
softens the surface, for then the short-legged wolf flounders helplessly
in its depths, while the long-limbed and powerful horse can gallop
through it with comparative ease. But the good mare, intelligent though
she was, did not consider this fact, and the wolves, you may be sure,
did not enlighten her. Besides, by that time she was well-nigh
worn-out, and could not have made a vigorous run for life even over a
good course.

Gradually, a worthy lieutenant of the old grey chief began to show
symptoms of impatience, and the hungry circle closed in. Vixen looked
up and whinnied slightly. It seemed a pitiful appeal for help from the
human friends who had cared for her so well and so long. Perchance it
was the last wail of despair--a final farewell to the green fields and
the flowering plains of memory.

Whatever it was, an answer came in the form of several dark specks on
the horizon. Vixen saw them, and whinnied again in a decidedly
different tone. The wolves also saw them, and moved about uneasily.

On came the black specks, increasing in size as they drew near. The
wolves looked at each other inquiringly, moved still more uneasily,
appeared to hold a consultation, a