“It’s not likely, miss,” he replied.  “I’ll be pretty sure to clean out the lions an’ drive off the bears.  But the wolf family can’t be exterminated.  No animal so cunnin’ as a wolf!...  I’ll tell you....  Some years ago I went to cook on a ranch north of Denver, on the edge of the plains.  An’ right off I began to hear stories about a big lobo—­a wolf that was an old residenter.  He’d been known for long, an’ he got meaner an’ wiser as he was hunted.  His specialty got to be yearlings, an’ the ranchers all over rose up in arms against him.  They hired all the old hunters an’ trappers in the country to kill him.  No good!  Old Lobo went right on pullin’ down yearlings.  Every night he’d get one or more.  An’ he was so cute an’ so swift that he’d work on different ranches on different nights.  Finally he killed eleven yearlings for my boss on one night.  Eleven!  Think of that.  An’ then I said to my boss, ’I reckon you’d better let me go kill that gray butcher.’  An’ my boss laughed at me.  But he let me go.  He’d have tried anythin’.  I took a hunk of meat, a blanket, my gun, an’ a pair of snow-shoes, an’ I set out on old Lobo’s tracks....  An’, Miss Columbine, I walked old Lobo to death in the snow!”

“Why, how wonderful!” exclaimed the girl, breathless and glowing with interest.  “Oh, it seems a pity such a splendid brute should be killed.  Wild animals are cruel.  I wish it were different.”

“Life is cruel, miss, an’ I echo your wish,” replied Wade, sadly.

“You have had great experiences.  Dad said to me, ’Collie, here at last is a man who can tell you enough stories!’...  But I don’t believe you ever could.”

“You like stories?” asked Wade, curiously.

“Love them.  All kinds, but I like adventure best. I should have been a boy.  Isn’t it strange, I can’t hurt anything myself or bear to see even a steer slaughtered?  But you can’t tell too bloody and terrible stories for me.  Except I hate Indian stories.  The very thought of Indians makes me shudder....  Some day I’ll tell you a story.”

Wade could not find his tongue readily.

“I must go now,” she continued, and moved off the porch.  Then she hesitated, and turned with a smile that was wistful and impulsive.  “I—­I believe we’ll be good friends.”

“Miss Columbine, we sure will, if I can live up to my part,” replied Wade.

Her smile deepened, even while her gaze grew unconsciously penetrating.  Wade felt how subtly they were drawn to each other.  But she had no inkling of that.

“It takes two to make a bargain,” she replied, seriously.  “I’ve my part.  Good-by.”

Wade watched her lithe stride, and as she drew away the restraint he had put upon himself loosened.  When she disappeared his feeling burst all bounds.  Dragging the dogs inside, he closed the door.  Then, like one broken and spent, he fell face against the wall, with the hoarsely whispered words, “I’m thankin’ God!”