Wolves have the habit of approaching every carcass they get the wind of, in order to examine it, even when they have no intention of eating it, and I hoped that this habit would bring the Currumpaw pack within reach of my latest stratagem.  I did not doubt that Lobo would detect my handiwork about the meat, and prevent the pack approaching it, but I did build some hopes on the head, for it looked as though it had been thrown aside as useless.

Next morning, I sallied forth to inspect the traps, and there, oh, joy! were the tracks of the pack, and the place where the beef-head and its traps had been was empty.  A hasty study of the trail showed that Lobo had kept the pack from approaching the meat, but one, a small wolf, had evidently gone on to examine the head as it lay apart and had walked right into one of the traps.

We set out on the trail, and within a mile discovered that the hapless wolf was Blanca.  Away she went, however, at a gallop, and although encumbered by the beef-head, which weighed over fifty pounds, she speedily distanced my companion who was on foot.  But we overtook her when she reached the rocks, for the horns of the cow’s head became caught and held her fast.  She was the handsomest wolf I had ever seen.  Her coat was in perfect condition and nearly white.

She turned to fight, and raising her voice in the rallying cry of her race, sent a long howl rolling over the canon.  From far away upon the mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo.  That was her last call, for now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and breath were devoted to combat.

Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank from afterward more than at the time.  We each threw a lasso over the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite directions until the blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed, her limbs stiffened and then fell limp.  Homeward then we rode, carrying the dead wolf, and exulting over this, the first death-blow we had been able to inflict on the Currumpaw pack.

At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode homeward, we heard the roar of Lobo as he wandered about on the distant mesas, where he seemed to be searching for Blanca.  He had never really deserted her, but knowing that he could not save her, his deep-rooted dread of firearms had been too much for him when he saw us approaching.  All that day we heard him wailing as he roamed in his quest, and I remarked at length to one of the boys, “Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was his mate.”

As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home canon, for his voice sounded continually nearer.  There was an unmistakable note of sorrow in it now.  It was no longer the loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail:  “Blanca!  Blanca!” he seemed to call.  And as night came down, I noticed that he was not far from the place where we had overtaken her.  At length he seemed to find the trail, and when he came to the spot where we had killed her, his heart-broken wailing was piteous to hear.  It was sadder than I could possibly have believed.  Even the stolid cowboys noticed it, and said they had “never heard a wolf carry on like that before.”  He seemed to know exactly what had taken place, for her blood had stained the place of her death.