It seemed, at first, that “The Last Stand” was to be repeated. There were the same jagged pinnacles and scrubby pines, held in the fierce grip of the frozen chinook. The same? But there was a difference, not to be explained, perhaps, but certainly to be felt. The Little Doctor's hills were jagged, barren hills; her pines were very nice pines indeed. Chip's hills were jagged, they were barren--they--were desolate; his pines were shuddering, lonely pines; for he had wandered alone among them and had caught the Message of the Wilderness. His sky was the cold, sinister sky of “The Last Stand”--but it was colder, more sinister, for it was night. A young moon hung low in the west, its face half hidden behind a rift of scurrying snow clouds. The tiny basin was shadowy and vague, the cut-bank a black wall touched here and there by a quivering shaft of light. There was no threatening cow with lowered horns and watchful eye; there was no panic-stricken calf to whip up her flagging courage with its trust in her. The wolves? Yes, there were the wolves--but there were more of them. They were not sitting in a waiting half circle--they were scattered, unwatchful. Two of them in the immediate foreground were wrangling over a half-gnawed bone. The rest of the pack were nosing a heap pitifully eloquent. As before, so now they tricked the eye into a fancy that they lived. One could all but hear the snarls of the two standing boldly in the moonlight, the hair all bristly along the necks, the white fangs gleaming between tense-drawn lips. One felt tempted to brace oneself for the rush that was to come. For two days Chip shut himself in his room and worked through the long hours of daylight, jealous of the minutes darkness stole from him. He clothed the feast in a merciful shade which hid the repugnance and left only the pathos--two long, sharp horns which gleamed in the moonlight but were no longer threatening. He centered his energy upon the two wolves in the foreground, grimly determined that Slim should pray for a Gatling gun when he saw them. The third day, when he was touching up the shoulders of one of the combatants, a puff of wind blew open the door which led to the parlor. He did not notice it and kept steadily at work, painting his “brand” into a corner. Beneath the stump and its splinter he lettered his name--a thing he had never done before. “Well--I'll be--doggoned!” Chip jumped half out of his chair, giving his lame ankle a jolt which made him grind his teeth. “Darn it, Chip, did YOU do that?” “It kind of looks that way, don't it?” Chip was plainly disconcerted, and his ankle hurt. “H--m-m.” The Old Man eyed it sharply a minute. “It's a wonder you wouldn't paint in a howl or two, while you're about it. I suppose that's a mate to--doggone you, Chip, why didn't yuh tell us you painted that other one?” “I didn't,” said Chip, getting red and uncomfortable, “except the cow and--”