“Welcome, Mr. Wolf, welcome,” said he, with mimic sarcasm and a gesture which swept the plain.  “I’ve worked like a dog all day and the feast is ready.  Mrs. Wolf, will you have a hackberry plate, or do you prefer the scent of cottonwood?  You’ll find the tender, juicy kidney suet in the ash platters.  Each table seats sixteen, with fresh water right at hand.  Now, have pallets and enjoy yourselves.  Make a night of it.  Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow your pelts are mine.”

“Don’t count your chickens too soon,” urged Joel.

“To-morrow you’re mine!” repeated Dell, ignoring all advice.  “I’ll carpet the dug-out with your hides, or sell them to a tin peddler.”

“You counted before they were hatched this morning,” admonished his brother.  “You’re only entitled to one guess.”

“Unless they got enough to sicken them last night,” answered Dell with emphasis, “nothing short of range count will satisfy me.”

A night of conjecture brought a morning with results.  Breakfast was forgotten, saddles were dispensed with, while the horses, as they covered the mile at a gallop, seemed to catch the frenzy of expectation.  Dell led the way, ignoring all counsel, until Dog-toe, on rounding a curve, shied at a dead wolf in the trail, almost unhorsing his rider.

“There’s one!” shouted Dell, as he regained his poise.  “I’ll point them out and you count.  There’s another!  There’s two more!”

It was a ghastly revel.  Like sheaves in a harvest field, dead wolves lay around every open water.  Some barely turned from the creek and fell, others struggled for a moment, while a few blindly wandered away for short distances.  The poison had worked to a nicety; when the victims were collected, by actual count they numbered twenty-eight.  It was a victory to justify shouting, but the gruesome sight awed the brothers into silence.  Hunger had driven the enemy to their own death, and the triumph of the moment at least touched one sensitive heart.

“This is more than we bargained for,” remarked Joel in a subdued voice, after surveying the ravages of poison.

“Our task is to hold these cattle,” replied Dell.  “We’re soldiering this winter, and our one duty is to hold the fort.  What would Mr. Paul say if we let the wolves kill our cattle?”

After breakfast Joel again led the herd south for the day, leaving Dell at the corral.  An examination of the basins was made, revealing the fact that every trace of the poisoned suet had been licked out of the holders.  Of a necessity, no truce with the wolf became the slogan of the present campaign.  No mushy sentiment was admissible—­the fighting was not over, and the powder must be kept dry.  The troughs were accordingly sledded into the corral, where any taint from the cattle would further disarm suspicion, and left for future use.