“Some of the boys took out a bunch.  But they split on deer tracks an’ elk tracks an’ Lord knows what all.  Never put up a lion!  Then again Billings took some out after a pack of coyotes, an’ gol darn me if the coyotes didn’t lick the hounds.  An’ wuss!  Jack, my son, got it into his head thet he was a hunter.  The other mornin’ he found a fresh lion track back of the corral.  An’ he ups an’ puts the whole pack of hounds on the trail.  I had a good many more hounds in the pack than you see now.  Wal, anyway, it was great to hear the noise thet pack made.  Jack lost every blamed hound of them.  Thet night an’ next day an’ the followin’ they straggled in.  But twenty some never did come back.”

Wade laughed.  “They may come yet.  I reckon, though, they’ve gone home where they came from.  Are any of these hounds recommended?”

“Every consarned one of them,” declared Belllounds.

“That’s funny.  But I guess it’s natural.  Do you know for sure whether you bought any good dogs?”

“Yes, I gave fifty dollars for two hounds.  Got them of a friend in Middle Park whose pack killed off the lions there.  They’re good dogs, trained on lion, wolf, an’ bear.”

“Pick ’em out,” said Wade.

With a throng of canines crowding and fawning round him, and snapping at one another, it was difficult for the rancher to draw the two particular ones apart so they could be looked over.  At length he succeeded, and Wade drove back the rest of the pack.

“The big fellar’s Sampson an’ the other’s Jim,” said Belllounds.

Sampson was a huge hound, gray and yellow, with mottled black marks, very long ears, and big, solemn eyes.  Jim, a good-sized dog, but small in comparison with the other, was black all over, except around the nose and eyes.  Jim had many scars.  He was old, yet not past a vigorous age, and he seemed a quiet, dignified, wise hound, quite out of his element in that mongrel pack.

“If they’re as good as they look we’re lucky,” said Wade, as he tied the ends of his rope round their necks.  “Now are there any more you know are good?”

“Denver, come hyar!” yelled Belllounds.  A white, yellow-spotted hound came wagging his tail.  “I’ll swear by Denver.  An’ there’s one more—­Kane.  He’s half bloodhound, a queer, wicked kind of dog.  He keeps to himself....  Kane!  Come hyar!”

Belllounds tramped around the corral, and finally found the hound in question, asleep in a dusty hole.  Kane was the only beautiful dog in the lot.  If half of him was bloodhound the other half was shepherd, for his black and brown hair was inclined to curl, and his head had the fine thoroughbred contour of the shepherd.  His ears, long and drooping and thin, betrayed the hound in him.  Kane showed no disposition to be friendly.  His dark eyes, sad and mournful, burned with the fires of doubt.

Wade haltered Kane, Jim, and Sampson, which act almost precipitated a fight, and led them out of the corral.  Denver, friendly and glad, followed at the rancher’s heels.