“Hardly that, either,” declared his chum, decidedly. “You see these old steers size up a coyote as a harmless thing, not worth wasting time over. Now, if it were a wolf that would be another thing. A steer hates a mountain wolf like poison. Seems like they know how the gray rascal is always hanging around, waiting to pull down a calf when the chance comes.”
“So I’ve been told,” declared Bob; “Ted related an instance where a steer and a wolf had a battle over the body of a heifer the robber had stolen.”
“Yes, I happened to see that fight; and the steer won out, too. The wolf was as mad as they make ’em, and wouldn’t quit. He grabbed the steer several times by the nose, but couldn’t hold on. And finally the steer managed to pin him to the ground by one horn. After that it was all over with Mr. Wolf.”
“But see here, Frank, supposing there is a wolf
in that bunch of timber and scrub? He’s been sneaking around, thinking to get a dinner while the cowboys are away on the other side of the ranch, twenty miles from here. But a wolf can outrun even the fastest steer, can’t he?”
“I reckon he can, every time,” admitted Frank.
“Then why wouldn’t this beast make for his home in the mountains; tell me that, please?” persisted Bob.
“Oh! there might be a reason,” his chum rejoined, as he continued to watch the actions of the steer. “In the first place, this might happen to be a particularly bold wolf; and having started out to get a dinner, he hates to give up the idea just because a silly old steer prances around his hiding place, and dares him to come out into the open.”
“But there might be another reason?” pursued Bob, always eager to learn.
“If it is a wolf,” Frank continued; “he might happen to be lame, and not feel like taking chances on the open with a lively old steer. That would explain it, you see.”