“Wild turkey or deer. Maybe both, if you like. But it's well to take wild meat slow. An' turkey--that 'll melt in your mouth.” “Uummm!” murmured Bo, greedily. “I've heard of wild turkey.” When they had finished Dale ate his meal, listening to the talk of the girls, and occasionally replying briefly to some query of Bo's. It was twilight when he began to wash the pots and pans, and almost dark by the time his duties appeared ended. Then he replenished the campfire and sat down on a log to gaze into the fire. The girls leaned comfortably propped against the saddles. “Nell, I'll keel over in a minute,” said Bo. “And I oughtn't--right on such a big supper.” “I don't see how I can sleep, and I know I can't stay awake,” rejoined Helen. Dale lifted his head alertly. “Listen.” The girls grew tense and still. Helen could not hear a sound, unless it was a low thud of hoof out in the gloom. The forest seemed sleeping. She knew from Bo's eyes, wide and shining in the camp-fire light, that she, too, had failed to catch whatever it was Dale meant. “Bunch of coyotes comin',” he explained. Suddenly the quietness split to a chorus of snappy, high-strung, strange barks. They sounded wild, yet they held something of a friendly or inquisitive note. Presently gray forms could be descried just at the edge of the circle of light. Soft rustlings of stealthy feet surrounded the camp, and then barks and yelps broke out all around. It was a restless and sneaking pack of animals, thought Helen; she was glad after the chorus ended and with a few desultory, spiteful yelps the coyotes went away. Silence again settled down. If it had not been for the anxiety always present in Helen's mind she would have thought this silence sweet and unfamiliarly beautiful. “Ah! Listen to that fellow,” spoke up Dale. His voice was thrilling. Again the girls strained their ears. That was not necessary, for presently, clear and cold out of the silence, pealed a mournful howl, long drawn, strange and full and wild. “Oh! What's that?” whispered Bo. “That's a big gray wolf--a timber-wolf, or lofer, as he's sometimes called,” replied Dale. “He's high on some rocky ridge back there. He scents us, an' he doesn't like it.... There he goes again. Listen! Ah, he's hungry.” While Helen listened to this exceedingly wild cry--so wild that it made her flesh creep and the most indescribable sensations of loneliness come over her--she kept her glance upon Dale. “You love him?” she murmured involuntarily, quite without understanding the motive of her query. Assuredly Dale had never had that question asked of him before, and it seemed to Helen, as he pondered, that he had never even asked it of himself. “I reckon so,” he replied, presently. “But wolves kill deer, and little fawns, and everything helpless in the forest,” expostulated Bo. The hunter nodded his head. “Why, then, can you love him?” repeated Helen.