Jack Among the Indians; Or, A Boy's Summer on the Buffalo Plains

by George Bird Grinnell

"Do you think she's dead, Hugh?" said Jack.

"I expect so," said Hugh. "I've seen a heap o' cattle killed by just one bite from a wolf; often it didn't seem if 'twas a bad bite either. I've sometimes thought that maybe they was just scared to death. I expect, though, we'll find that cow dead." By this time the wolf had ceased to struggle, and Hugh, picking it up, threw it across his saddle, and they walked back to the cow and the other wolf, which lay within three feet of each other. As Hugh had thought, the cow was dead, though the wound in her flank did not seem to be a severe one. Evidently she had been chased for some distance, for on her neck and shoulders there was froth from the mouth, showing that she had run a long way. Hugh turned her over and looked at the brand on her side. "Well," he said, "it's one of Powell's cows. The wolves do seem to pick out his cows, and do him a heap o' harm. Nice cow, too; in good order. I hate to see this beef go to waste. I believe I'll butcher her, so she won't spoil, and maybe your uncle will want to send down a wagon to-morrow and bring the meat into camp. While I'm doing that, do you expect you could skin one of them wolves? I reckon you'd like to save them hides; they're in pretty fair order, for they haven't begun to shed out much yet. While you're doing it you might look and see where your bullets hit the wolf you shot at. I expect I can tell you why he didn't fall right off when you shot. You're out of practice, and you drawed your sight too coarse. You hit him both times, but kind o' creased him instead of hitting him where the life lay. You ain't forgot how to shoot, but you've got to learn your gun over again."

While Hugh was opening the cow and removing the entrails, Jack took out his pocket knife and began to skin the wolf. Luckily he had had his knife sharpened just before he left home, and so he worked pretty fast, and before Hugh had left the cow and begun to skin the other wolf, Jack was half through with his. They finished skinning at about the same time, and Hugh tied the two hides on the pack-horse; then he lit a pipe, sat down and smoked for a while.

"I don't grudge the time we took to kill these wolves," he said. "Killing wolves is part of the work on a ranch, just like taking calves out of a snow-bank, or branding colts is. It's something that's got to be did, and like all other work it takes time. Where did you find them bullet holes of yours, son?"

"I found them just where you said they'd be, Hugh. One of them had just cut the skin on the back, and the other went through just over the shoulders, and nicked one of the shoulder-blades."

"That's what I thought," said Hugh; "you've got to fire a few shots and learn over again just how to hold your gun, if you want to drive nails. Now, let's go along. I'd like to get to the ranch as near supper time as we can."

They mounted and rode on. The wind was now blowing so hard that, although they rode side by side, they could not talk to each other without shouting. The horses were fat and fresh, and mile after mile disappeared swiftly under their ringing hoofs. Every few minutes Jack saw some place that was familiar to him, and wanted to ask Hugh something about it, but a few attempts convinced him that it was useless to try to talk in the wind. Now and then a bunch of antelope were seen off to one side, or a jack-rabbit jumped up from under a sage brush, and raced off, or a single sage-hen rose from the ground and scaled off down the wind. As they climbed more slowly the divide which led up to the valley where the ranch was situated they passed through a village of prairie dogs. These had not long since awakened from their winter sleep, and were busy plucking the young grass, now just appearing above the ground, and only those nearest the road paid any attention to the horsemen. Now and then little bunches of horses were passed, still clad in their winter coats, which hung down a hand's breadth below their chins and necks and bellies. With them they could see now and then tiny colts, which kept close to their mothers' sides, feeling that only there were they out of danger. At the edge of the dog town a badger was seen, nosing along through the sage brush, and Jack reached down his hand to get his gun, but looking at Hugh saw him shake his head, and understood that he did not wish to wait.

The sun had nearly reached the western mountains when they rode down into the Swiftwater Valley, and though they galloped along at a good pace, it was long after dark before the lights of the ranch house met their eyes. A little later they halted before the barn.

"Now, son, you're here again, and this time I expect you don't need no looking after. We'll unsaddle here; you hang your things up on the old peg, and we'll leave the horses in the stalls to-night."

A few moments later, carrying their guns and Jack's bag, they stepped into the kitchen of the ranch, and were warmly welcomed by all hands.