ELOS CONKLIN had caught four of the six miscreants of the wolf pack which so long had troubled the stock range. Lop-Ear, the leader, had succumbed to skill and luck. The wolver’s task was therefore probably accomplished, for the two remaining members of the band, the slender half-breed wolf-dog and the female, would hardly have the strength or ability to carry on a proportionately destructive career, even if they still had the will to continue their raiding. The trapper could at least now return to the Bell Brand ranch, for he would do well to report to Wool-Head and his association employers the results of his campaign.
Accordingly, Conklin took up his traps and snares, broke camp and, making his packs for the sawbucks of the carrier animals, prepared for departure. He left the four chief skins of his major victims outside the other bundles. When he had loaded his animals he tied the skins of the wolves to the top bundles where they would dangle, flaunting the broken ear, the tawny giant, and the dark and handsome youngster hides where the sun would shine on them, and perhaps some passing vulture circling over the desert of the Flats of the Dancing Maids would see them. The truth is he wanted those trophies to be seen when he should swagger over to the Bell Brand outfit and nonchalantly begin to slip the bridle and loosen the cinches of his saddles.
But a surging and overwhelming desire came to him to find some good excuse for going along the slope of the Singing Bird mountains, thus to come down from the north to Wool-Head Dan Plack’s ranch outfit. He refused to acknowledge to himself the motive which was urging him to this. At the same time he was aware in the depths of his understanding of a transformation which had taken place in his heart during the lonely months of his isolation and wolf hunting.
Pretty Shells had started a new train of thought in the depths of his subconsciousness. As he hesitated over several plans for his visit he removed the four lobo pelts from their banner fastenings and made them into a neat and inconspicuous bundle lashed like the others to the common bulk of the loads. He looked his camp site over, making sure he had left no dish or tool behind, swept the cañon and the mountains with a farewell swing around of appreciative gaze and cracked his quirt to startle his little cavalcade on their way.
Emerging into the breadth of the long valley with its ceaseless parade of the Dancing Maid whirlwinds he looked wonderingly across the Flats to see on the far side where the ranch stood. It would be nearly twice as far to go around by the foot of the Singing Birds timber line. Snow made a lace collar along the high slopes following the line below the dark green timber belt. He swung his pack horses to go that greater distance however. His resolution did not come from the desire to show Pretty Shells the skins of the lobos he had outwitted. Indeed, at the moment the wolves had nothing to do with it. Their capture was no longer a considerable feat. It was merely a bit of by-play in the scheme of lives.
“I’ll go tell Pretty Shells she’s right!” he explained to himself in so many words as he cut across the head of the Flats of the Dancing Maids in the direction of the place where he knew he would strike the entrance of the wagon trail into the woods, which were now silhouetted against the acreages of snow wherever openings were visible behind the shapes of the trees.
That was a long day. The blow of each hoof rang on the ground, which was mostly frozen, like drum-sticks on vibrant rawhides. The air seemed thin as it was clear. It dragged like razor blades across the skin, leaving its sting at every invisible gust. The sky was blue, with no moisture crystals in it to give a milky tinge. Except for the horses and the man there did not seem to be one living thing anywhere in all the enormous field of vision, not from the crest of the Singing Bird mountains rising white and jagged against the northern sky, nor anywhere down the south lee to where the edge of the desert valley dipped beneath the horizon. But against the Sparkling Dawns the ranch suggested the living that might be—its blocks of fields and the toy-like buildings.