ried along, full speed--while the terrier seemed to
be hanging on gamely to the coyote, or else the coyote had such a hold
on the terrier that the latter was unable to shake it. They continued
to roll over and over in a whirling bundle of fur.

"Better try a shot anyway, Phil," cried Jim in desperation. "You are
surer with the gun than I am. The dog is all in and it looks as if it
didn't really matter now which you hit anyway."

Phil threw the gun to his shoulder, took almost careless aim and
fired. It was a long shot and a difficult one for even an expert.

For a moment, it looked as if the bullet had gone wide. The next
moment it could be seen that something had been hit, but it was hard
to tell what. Then out of the scurry and whirl, the old terrier was
observed to get on top.

"Good boy!" cried Jim. "You got the right one!"

As they came up on the scene of the fight, they found their dog mauled
almost to ribbons, but he was still clinging gamely and worrying at
the throat of the dead coyote.

Jim spoke a word of praise to that remnant of a dog and separated it
from its late antagonist.

The excitement over, it wagged its stump of a tail, staggered for a
little, trembled, then lay down on the ice with a little whimper, in
absolute exhaustion.

The coyote was a huge brute of its kind and its coat was in perfect
condition.

Phil's shot of the previous night had passed through a fleshy part of
its hind quarters, without breaking any bones on its journey, but the
coyote had evidently bled almost to death before the terrier got at
it. This alone accounted for its inability to beat the old dog at the
very first turn of the encounter. The shot which killed it had gone
clean through its eye and out behind its ear.

Jim got out his knife and started in to skin the animal, while Phil
did what he could in the matter of lending first aid to the wounded
terrier.

On glancing casually along the surface of the ice, then away toward
their ranch, Phil noticed a vehicle drawn up at the front door.

"Jim,--there's a rig of some kind at our door. Looks as if we had
visitors!"

"Now who the Dickens can it be?" queried Jim, scratching his head as
he knelt beside the carcass of the coyote. "It's a sleigh. Christmas
Day and nobody to welcome them! Phil, you beat it back. I'll finish
this job and follow after you with the dog. He won't be able to go
fast and it is no use both of us waiting."

"All right!"

"Whoever they