Next year, two other hunters appeared, determined to win the promised bounty.  Each believed he could destroy this noted wolf, the first by means of a newly devised poison, which was to be laid out in an entirely new manner; the other a French Canadian, by poison assisted with certain spells and charms, for he firmly believed that Lobo was a veritable ‘loup-garou,’ and could not be killed by ordinary means.  But cunningly compounded poisons, charms, and incantations were all of no avail against this grizzly devastator.  He made his weekly rounds and daily banquets as aforetime, and before many weeks had passed, Calone and Laloche gave up in despair and went elsewhere to hunt.

In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful attempt to capture Lobo, Joe Calone had a humiliating experience, which seems to show that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, and had absolute confidence in himself.  Calone’s farm was on a small tributary of the Currumpaw, in a picturesque canon, and among the rocks of this very canon, within a thousand yards of the house, old Lobo and his mate selected their den and raised their family that season.  There they lived all summer, and killed Joe’s cattle, sheep, and dogs, but laughed at all his poisons and traps, and rested securely among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while Joe vainly racked his brain for some method of smoking them out, or of reaching them with dynamite.  But they escaped entirely unscathed, and continued their ravages as before.  “There’s where he lived all last summer,” said Joe, pointing to the face of the cliff, “and I couldn’t do a thing with him.  I was like a fool to him.”

II

This history, gathered so far from the cowboys, I found hard to believe until, in the fall of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the wily marauder, and at length came to know him more thoroughly than anyone else.  Some years before, in the Bingo days, I had been a wolf-hunter, but my occupations since then had been of another sort, chaining me to stool and desk.  I was much in need of a change, and when a friend, who was also a ranch-owner on the Currumpaw, asked me to come to New Mexico and try if I could do anything with this predatory pack, I accepted the invitation and, eager to make the acquaintance of its king, was as soon as possible among the mesas of that region.  I spent some time riding about to learn the country, and at intervals, my guide would point to the skeleton of a cow to which the hide still adhered, and remark, “That’s some of his work.”

It became quite clear to me that, in this rough country, it was useless to think of pursuing Lobo with hounds and horses, so that poison or traps were the only available expedients.  At present we had no traps large enough, so I set to work with poison.