Twilight was yet on the desert as he came in sight of the goats. There they went, trailing across the purple levels to the long, black, wavering line of cottonwoods, behind them, two herders. Faster he pulled himself along, giving a quick little bark, now and then, that ended in a howl. But he was not able to cross the summit of the ridge from which he looked. And so he dropped down upon a red-black stretch of glassy lava. For hours thirst had cruelly assailed him. As often in times past he had drunk from rain-filled pockets in the sandstone, he now licked feverishly at the still blistering rock. There night found him. Between his lappings, he lay flat, being too hurt and weary to hold himself up. His muzzle was toward the flock and he could see the place of its lying down. For there burned the evening fire, a dot of light on a vast sheet of blackness. He shivered, giving puppy-like barks, as when, a whelp, he tagged his foster mother, the she-goat; he lifted his muzzle to the stars and mourned. Behind him, other cries answered--faintly, against the wind. He perked his ears, listening. _Yip! yip! yip! yip! yip!_--the running cry of prairie wolves on a scent! He looked down upon the level, where sparks were flying up from the Old Woman’s fire. Once more, rallying all his strength, he tried to make headway toward the goats. Once more, he could not cross the ridge. He whined helplessly. Nearer and nearer sounded the coyote cries behind, dulling a little as the pack descended into a draw, redoubling in strength when they came out upon higher ground. And now they were so near that Little Watcher could hear their short pantings as they loped forward. And now he could see them coming his way through the dark. With a growl, he sat up, ears laid back, hair on end. _Yip! yip! yip! yip! yip!_ Up from behind the pine-covered Tunichas rose the moon--full, white, spreading a day-like radiance upon the great slopes and levels of the desert. From the brush shelter among the cottonwoods, the Old Woman and the Boy lifted their eyes to look, and saw, silhouetted against it, at the summit of the lava stretch, a lone coyote, seemingly seated upon its haunches. The squaw got to her feet, wristlets and chains tinkling, and leaned to peer among the goats. The Boy sprang up, too, his gaze toward the ridge top. “Little Watcher!” he called anxiously; “Little Watcher!” Then into the moonlight on the distant summit they saw other wolf forms race; and as these centred to where the lone coyote sat, saw him struggle forward to meet them. And through the desert night, there came a shrill yelp of defiance--then a wrangle of exultant cries. MISSY AND I