“They’re coming again,” said Joel, breathlessly listening for the distant howling to repeat.  “The fire ought to hold them at a distance until nearly morning.  Let’s feed the horses and turn in for the night.”

Daybreak found the boys at the corral.  No wolves were in sight, but on every hand abundant evidence of their presence during the night was to be seen.  Nearly all the cattle were resting, while the remainder, principally mother cows, were arrayed in battle form, fronting one of the recesses under the combing rim of snow.  On riding within the corral, the dread of the excited cows proved to be a monster wolf, crouching on a shelf of snow.  He arose on his haunches and faced the horsemen, revealing his fangs, while his breast was covered with tiny icicles, caused by the driveling slaver during the night’s run.  His weight was responsible for his present plight, he having ventured out on the fragile comb of snow above, causing it to cave down; and in the bewilderment of the moment he had skurried to the safety of the ledge on which he then rested.

It was a moment of excitement.  A steady fire of questions and answers passed between the younger and older brother.  The wolf was in hand, the horns of a hundred angry cows held the enemy prisoner, and yet the boys were powerless to make the kill.  The situation was tantalizing.

“Can’t we poison him?” inquired Dell, in the extremity of the moment.

“Certainly.  Hand it to him on a plate—­with sugar on it.”

“If Mr. Paul had only left us his pistol,” meditated Dell, as a possibility.

“Yes, you could about hit that bank with a six-shooter.  It’s the risk of a man’s life to wound that wolf.  He’s cornered.  I wouldn’t dismount within twenty feet of him for this herd.”

“I could shoot him from Dog-toe.  This is the horse from which Mr. Paul killed the beef.  All trail horses are gun-proof.”

“My, but you are full of happy ideas.  We’ve got to let that wolf go—­we can’t make the kill.”

“I have it!” shouted Dell, ignoring all rebuffs.  “Dog-toe is a roping horse.  Throw wide the gates.  Give me a clear field, and I’ll lasso that wolf and drag him to death, or wrap him to the centre gatepost and you can kill him with a fence-stay.  Dog-toe, I’m going to rope a wolf from your back,” added Dell, patting the horse’s neck and turning back to the gate.  “Show me the mettle of the State that bred you.”

“You’re crazy,” said Joel, “but there’s no harm in trying it.  Whatever happens, stick to your saddle.  Cut the rope if it comes to a pinch.  I’ll get a fence-stay.”

Ever since the killing of the beef, Dell had diligently practiced with a rope.  It responded to the cunning of his hand, and the danger of the present moment surely admitted of no false calculations.  Dell dismounted with a splendid assurance, tightened the cinches, tied his rope good and firm to the fork of the saddle tree, mounted, and announced himself as ready.  The cattle were drifted left and right, opening a lane across the corral, and Dell rode forward to study the situation.  Joel took up a position at the gate, armed only with a heavy stay, and awaited the working out of the experiment.