Boldly the coyotes darted out of thicket and bush, and
many lambs never returned to their mothers. Gaunt shadows hovered always
near; the great timber-wolves waited in covert for prey. Piute slept not
at all, and the dog's jaws were flecked with blood morning and night.
Jack hung up fifty-four coyotes the second day; the third he let them
lie, seventy in number. Many times the rifle-barrel burned his hands.
His aim grew unerring, so that running brutes in range dropped in their
tracks. Many a gray coyote fell with a lamb in his teeth.
One night when sheep and lambs were in the corral, and the shepherds
rested round the camp-fire, the dog rose quivering, sniffed the cold
wind, and suddenly bristled with every hair standing erect.
"Wolf!" called Mescal.
The sheep began to bleat. A rippling crash, a splintering of wood, told
of an irresistible onslaught on the corral fence.
"Chus--chus!" exclaimed Piute.
Wolf, not heeding Mescal's cry, flashed like lightning under the cedars.
The rush of the sheep, pattering across the corral was succeeded by an
uproar.
"Bear! Bear!" cried Mescal, with dark eyes on Jack.
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