, and although
encumbered by the beef-head, which weighed over fifty pounds, she
speedily distanced my companion, who was on foot. But we overtook her
when she reached the rocks, for the horns of the cow's head became
caught and held her fast. She was the handsomest wolf I had ever seen.
Her coat was in perfect condition and nearly white.

She turned to fight, and, raising her voice in the rallying cry of her
race, sent a long howl rolling over the canyon. From far away upon the
mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo. That was her last call,
for now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and breath were
devoted to combat.

Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank from
afterward more than at the time. We each threw a lasso over the neck of
the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite directions until
the blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed, her limbs stiffened
and then fell limp. Homeward then we rode, carrying the dead wolf, and
exulting over this, the first death-blow we had been able to inflict on
the Currumpaw pack.

At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode homeward, we
heard the roar of Lobo as he wandered about on the distant mesas, where
he seemed to be searching for Blanca. He had never really deserted
her, but, knowing that he could not save her, his deep-rooted dread of
firearms had been too much for him when he saw us approaching. All that
day we heard him wailing as he roamed in his quest, and I remarked at
length to one of the boys, "Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was
his mate."

As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home canyon, for his
voice sounded continually nearer.

There was an unmistakable note of sorrow in it now. It was no longer
the loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail; "Blanca! Blanca!"
he seemed to call. And as night came down, I noticed that he was not far
from the place where we had overtaken her. At length he seemed to find
the trail, and when he came to the spot where we had killed her, his
heartbroken wailing was piteous to hear. It was sadder than I could
possibly have believed. Even the stolid cowboys noticed it, and said
they had "never heard a wolf carry on like that before." He seemed to
know exactly what had taken place, for her blood had stained the place
of her death.

Then he took up the trail of the horses and followed it to the
ranch-house. Whether in hopes of finding her th