They closed in on the steer and pulled him down. Silver raised her voice and gave the summons to the feast, the victorious cry of the wolf who has killed. Once more Flash tried out his voice and the lobo note rang out with hers. From far up the slope of the mountains to the north, as if an echo of their own call cast back to them, there came an answering cry. Then another. Several blended into one. The cry of the pack. They sounded closer and soon were answering from all along the face of the hills, assuring Flash and Silver that they were coming to the kill.
All up and down the valley, ranchers listened to this devils’ chorus and planned for ruthless, bloody war as soon as the sun should shine. This was no new thing to them. Each winter when the snow fell heavy in the north there was at least one scattering band of wolves that were lured across the mountains, coming down to the easier killing of the open range.
Two gray shadows came sliding through the night and fell ravenously upon the steer; then two more. Presently there were fourteen wolves tearing at the warm meat. They were gaunt with the pinch of famine and not until the last bone was picked did they quit the feast. As they ate
