LOBO

The dawn of the next day came cold and grey about Alcatraz, grey because the sheeted clouds that promised a storm were covering the sky, and cold with a wind out of the north.  When he lifted his head, he saw where the first rains had covered the slopes of the Eagle Mountains with tenderest green, and looking higher, the snows were gathering on the summits.  The prophetic thickening of his coat foretold a hard winter.

Now he was on watch with the mares in the hollow behind and himself on the crest rarely turning his head from a wisp of smoke which rose far south.  He knew what that meant.  Red Perris was on his trail again, and this was the morning-fire of the Great Enemy.  He had lain on the ground like a dead man the day before.  Now he was risen to battle again!  Instinctively he swung his head and looked at the place where the saddle had rested the day before, the saddle which he had worked off with so much wild rolling and scraping against rocks.

He nibbled the grass as he watched, or now and again jerked up his head to catch the scents which blow truer in the upper air-currents.

It was on one of these occasions that he caught an odor only vaguely known to him, and known as a danger.  He had never been able to label it but he knew that when the grey mare caught such a scent she was even more perturbed than when man rode into view.  So now he breathed deep, his great eyes shining with excitement.  What could this danger be which was more to be dreaded than the Great Enemy?  Yielding to curiosity, he headed straight up wind to make sure.

No doubt he thereby gave proof that he was unfitted to lead wild horses in the mountains.  The wise black of former days, or the grey mare now, would never have stopped to question, but gathering the herd with the alarm call, they would have busied themselves with unrolling mile after mile behind their flying heels.  Alcatraz increased his walk to a trot, promptly lost the scent altogether, and headed onto the next elevation to see if he could catch it again.  He stood there for a long moment, raising and lowering his head, and then turning a little sidewise so that the wind would cut into his nostrils—­which was a trick the grey had taught him.  The scent was gone and the wind blew to him only the pure coolness of dew, just sharpened to fragrance by a scent of distant sagebrush.  He gave up and turned about to head for the mares.

The step for which he raised his forefoot was not completed for down the hollow behind him he saw a grey skulker slinking with its belly close to the ground.  If it stood erect it would be as tall as a calf new-born.  The tail was fluffy, the coat of fur a veritable mane around the throat, the head long of muzzle and broad across the forehead with dark marks between the eyes and arching like brows above them so that the facial expression was one of almost human wisdom and wistfulness.  It was a beautiful creature to watch, as its smooth trot carried it with incredible speed across the stallion’s line of retreat, but Alcatraz had seen those grey kings of the mountains before and knew everything about them except their scent.  He saw no beauty in the lofer wolf.