ly well-known to
the cowboys and shepherds. They were frequently seen and oftener heard,
and their lives were intimately associated with those of the cattlemen,
who would so gladly have destroyed them. There was not a stockman on the
Currumpaw who would not readily have given the value of many steers for
the scalp of any one of Lobo's band, but they seemed to possess charmed
lives, and defied all manner of devices to kill them. They scorned all
hunters, derided all poisons, and continued, for at least five years,
to exact their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to the extent, many
said, of a cow each day. According to this estimate, therefore, the band
had killed more than two thousand of the finest stock, for, as was only
too well-known, they selected the best in every instance.

The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a starving state, and
therefore ready to eat anything, was as far as possible from the
truth in this case, for these freebooters were always sleek and
well-conditioned, and were in fact most fastidious about what they ate.
Any animal that had died from natural causes, or that was diseased or
tainted, they would not touch, and they even rejected anything that
had been killed by the stockmen. Their choice and daily food was the
tenderer part of a freshly killed yearling heifer. An old bull or cow
they disdained, and though they occasionally took a young calf or colt,
it was quite clear that veal or horseflesh was not their favorite diet.
It was also known that they were not fond of mutton, although they often
amused themselves by killing sheep. One night in November, 1893, Blanca
and the yellow wolf killed two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently for
the fun of it, and did not eat an ounce of their flesh.

These are examples of many stories which I might repeat, to show the
ravages of this destructive band. Many new devices for their extinction
were tried each year, but still they lived and throve in spite of all
the efforts of their foes. A great price was set on Lobo's head, and in
consequence poison in a score of subtle forms was put out for him, but
he never failed to detect and avoid it. One thing only he feared--that
was firearms, and knowing full well that all men in this region carried
them, he never was known to attack or face a human being. Indeed, the
set policy of his band was to take refuge in flight whenever, in the
daytime, a man was descried, no matter at what distance. Lobo's habit of