“That proves he was on his way home when he scented that lame wolf; and perhaps chased him into that bunch of timber,” remarked Frank, as he turned in the saddle and saw the following steer.
They soon sighted the white-washed buildings of Circle Ranch. Trees gave a grateful shade in places; but from far off on the plain a traveler could catch glimpses of the home of the Haywoods, and the headquarters of the largest stock-growers in all Arizona.
When the two boys drew up in front of the ranch house they found Frank’s father sitting in a chair on the piazza. He had not as yet fully recovered from his broken leg.
“Hello! Frank, back again so soon?” he called out, as the boys drew rein and jumped to the
ground. “What brought you back in such a hurry? And it seemed to me I heard some sort of firing away out to windward. Was that you?”
“Just what it was, dad,” replied Frank. “We were chasing a wolf, and trying to beat him at dodging. He was an old chap; but after a few trials we knocked him over; and he’ll never pull down another calf for us.”
“I wish we could get rid of all our troubles as easily as that, Frank,” remarked Colonel Haywood, as he glanced at the dead animal which his boy dragged up near the steps of the piazza.
“We never would have seen him, I reckon, sir,” Bob spoke, “only for a steer that had him cornered in a little bunch of timber and brush, and was daring him to come out. Frank guessed the wolf might be a little lame, which was why he didn’t appear. That proved to be so when we scared him into running. But Frank nailed him, all right, you may be sure—caught him just back of the foreleg, when he turned aside at my shot. It’s a trick I hope to learn some day.”
“So a steer held him up, eh?” went on the stockman. “It isn’t often any of them will do that, Frank.”
“Well, you can expect anything of Old Baldy!” remarked Frank, quietly.