By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in safety, and after securing him with a collar and a strong chain, we staked him out in the pasture and removed the cords.  Then for the first time I could examine him closely, and proved how unreliable is vulgar report where a living hero or tyrant is concerned.  He had not a collar of gold about his neck, nor was there on his shoulders an inverted cross to denote that he had leagued himself with Satan.  But I did find on one haunch a great broad scar, that tradition says was the fang-mark of Juno, the leader of Tannerey’s wolf-hounds—­a mark which she gave him the moment before he stretched her lifeless on the sand of the canon.

* * * * *

I set meat and water beside him, but he paid no heed.  He lay calmly on his breast, and gazed with those steadfast yellow eyes away past me down through the gateway of the canon, over the open plains—­his plains—­nor moved a muscle when I touched him.  When the sun went down he was still gazing fixedly across the prairie.  I expected he would call up his band when night came, and prepared for them, but he had called once in his extremity, and none had come; he would never call again.

* * * * *

A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of a broken heart; and who will aver that this grim bandit could bear the threefold brunt, heart-whole?  This only I know, that when the morning dawned, he was lying there still in his position of calm repose, but his spirit was gone-the old king-wolf was dead.

* * * * *

I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy helped me to carry him to the shed where lay the remains of Blanca, and as we laid him beside her, the cattle-man exclaimed:  “There, you would come to her, now you are together again.”

REDRUFF

THE STORY OF THE DON VALLEY PARTRIDGE

I

Down the wooded slope of Taylor’s Hill the Mother Partridge led her brood; down toward the crystal brook that by some strange whim was called Mud Creek.  Her little ones were one day old but already quick on foot, and she was taking them for the first time to drink.

She walked slowly, crouching low as she went, for the woods were full of enemies.  She was uttering a soft little cluck in her throat, a call to the little balls of mottled down that on their tiny pink legs came toddling after, and peeping softly and plaintively if left even a few inches behind, and seeming so fragile they made the very chicadees look big and coarse.  There were twelve of them, but Mother Grouse watched them all, and she watched every bush and tree and thicket, and the whole woods and the sky itself.  Always for enemies she seemed seeking—­friends were too scarce to be looked for—­and an enemy she found.  Away across the level beaver meadow was a great brute of a fox.  He was coming their way, and in a few moments would surely wind them or strike their trail.  There was no time to lose.