It soared through the air like a thing of life, twisting as gracefully and sinuously as a serpent. For an instant the wide loop hovered over the gray, swiftly running animal. Then it fell suddenly, and settled over and around the seemingly doomed animal. But White Fang, king of the pack, was too old a villain to be caught so easily. He leaped through the loop of Ted's lariat like a circus performer through a hoop. But Stella's rope whizzed through the air and caught the old fellow unawares. Then it seemed as if all the forces of wild nature had been turned loose. The wolf leaped into the air as he felt the rope tighten around his neck, and threw himself here and there with a violence inconceivable, snapping at the rope and trying to sever it. But Stella's lariat was of Mexican rawhide, and even White Fang's sharp teeth had no effect on it. The rope tightened and slacked in the struggle, and, had it been of ordinary texture, it would never have stood the strain. Ted had ridden up to the plunging beast, and began to belabor it with his quirt, to take the spirit out of it. The wolf had never felt the sting of a whip before. It was such a new experience to it that it stopped bucking in sheer amazement. But Ted did not discontinue, and the wolf slunk upon the ground, its wild nature thoroughly tamed for the time. "Stop!" cried Stella. "Let us see what he will do now." Ted rode away, and the wolf sat up on its haunches, and, lifting its head toward the mountains, gave a long, wailing, dismal howl. "He knows he's done for," said Ted. "That's his death song." "Let him do what he will," cried Stella. Presently White Fang rose, tried to shake the rope from his neck, and when he found that he could not do so, got up and started on a trot toward the mountains. "Follow him," cried Ted. "He's leading us home. Who can say what we will find there?" They followed the wolf through coulees and over rocky ridges in the foothills, and through a canon at the base of Sombrero Peak. They climbed rocky paths, higher and higher up the side of the peak. White Fang's captors followed him silently. No more did he try to escape from the rope. He seemed to have given up hope, and was going home to die. At last they arrived at the wall of a precipice, along which ran a narrow ledge just wide enough for their ponies to travel. The path was well worn, as if many animals, including men, had passed that way. Suddenly it dawned upon Ted where the wolf was leading. Where but to the rendezvous of the band of the Gray Wolves? He straightened up and looked to his revolvers, and then the wolf slunk around a bend on the cliff's side and walked into a cave. Ted followed him closely, and stopped in the entrance in amazement. Just within sat Mowbray propped against the side wall, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes half glazed with approaching death. But he stirred as Ted appeared, and groped about for his revolver. "Stop!" cried Ted. "The game's up!"