“That’s what Mr. Quince means by that expression of his, ’running like a scared wolf,’” said Joel, as he reined in old Rowdy.

“When will we put out the poison?” breathlessly inquired Dell, throwing his mount back on his haunches in halting.

“Just as soon as they begin to hang around.  Remind me, and we’ll look for tracks around the corral in the morning.  My, but they were beauties!  How I would like to have one of their hides for a foot-rug!”

“The first heavy snow that comes will bring them out of the sand hills,” said Dell, as they rode home.  “Mr. Paul said that hunger would make them attack cattle.  Oh, if we could only poison all three!”

Dell rambled on until they reached the stable.  He treated his mind to visions of wealth, and robes, and furry overcoats.  The wolves had located the corral, the winter had barely begun, but the boys were aware of the presence of an enemy.

A complete circle of the corral was made the following morning.  No tracks were visible, nor were any wolves sighted before thawing weather temporarily released the range from the present wintry grip.  A fortnight of ideal winter followed, clear, crisp days and frosty nights, ushering in a general blizzard, which swept the plains from the British possessions to the Rio Grande, and left death and desolation in its pathway.  Fortunately its harbingers threw its menace far in advance, affording the brothers ample time to reach the corral, which they did at a late evening hour.  The day had been balmy and warm, the cattle came in, gorged from a wide circle over buffalo grass, the younger ones, as if instinctive of the coming storm and in gratitude of the shelter, even kicking up their heels on entering the gates.  The boys had ample time to reach headquarters, much in doubt even then whether a storm would strike or pass away in blustering threats.

It began at darkness, with a heavy fall of soft snow.  Fully a foot had fallen by bedtime, and at midnight the blizzard struck, howling as if all the demons of night and storm were holding high carnival.  Towards morning a creeping cold penetrated the shack, something unknown before, and awoke the boys, shivering in their blankets.  It was near their hour for rising, and once a roaring fire warmed up the interior of the room, Joel took a peep without, but closed the door with a shudder.

“It’s blowing a hurricane,” said he, shivering over the stove.  “This is a regular blizzard—­those others were only squalls.  I doubt if we can reach the stable before daybreak.  Those poor cattle—­”

The horses were their first concern.  As was their usual custom, well in advance of daybreak an attempt was made to reach and feed the saddle stock.  It was Joel’s task, and fortifying himself against the elements without, he announced himself as ready for the dash.  It was less than a dozen rods between shack and stable, and setting a tallow dip in the window for a beacon, he threw open the door and sprang out.  He possessed a courage which had heretofore laughed at storms, but within a few seconds after leaving the room, he burst open the door and fell on the bed.