“I never did realise before how big a fool a calf can be,” said Dig, reviewing his strenuous day. “But say! let’s smoke one of the hams.” “How?” demanded Chet. “Hang it over the fire, of course,” returned the sanguine Digby. “And who’s going to find the proper kind of wood to smoke it without merely blackening the meat with soot? And who’s going to sit up all night and watch the fire? Besides, it would take three or four nights to smoke a ham properly. I hope we’ll shoot other game before we get to Grub Stake.” “Oh, well, I only threw it out as a hint,” sighed Dig. “Nothing I say goes.” “Not even your maverick, eh?” chuckled Chet. They cleared up after supper and then Chet advised Dig to get into his blanket and get two hours’ sleep. “Don’t believe that wolf will be down here,” Dig mumbled. “No need to keep wa-wa-watch—Waugh!” and he stretched his jaws in a mighty gape. “All right,” returned Chet. “You’re welcome to your belief. But I’ll keep first watch, and if I hear nothing alarming, I won’t wake you up.” He was satisfied at first to go to the horses and see that they were picketed all right. He did not want either of them to get entangled in the rope and so get a burn. For that might lame them, and a lame horse on the trail is no happy chance. The howling of the wolf up in the hill made the horses restless; but the maverick finally got tired and lay down again, Chet returned to the fire. His chum was already breathing heavily. The activities of the day had tired him out. Dig wasn’t exactly “soft,” but he was not innured to an out-of-door life as Chet was. Besides, he had several pounds of superfluous flesh to carry around. His sleep was healthful, however; in the flickering firelight his bronzed face was calm. “Good old scout!” thought Chet, watching him. “And heaps of fun! But he’s as obstinate as a toad—one of those whom he says were chased out of Ireland! I don’t know what I’d do without Dig.” The evening had shut down now, damp and still. Frogs complained somewhere along the edge of the narrow stream. Sleepy birds croaked now and then. Night insects sang. Then came the long, haunting howl of the wolf from the heights. Every other sound seemed to hush while the howl endured. A reply came from far out on the prairie; then a third wolf took up the cry from another direction. The pack was gathering. Chet drew his heavy rifle closer and examined the hammer. It was well greased and the mechanism was working perfectly. But he put the rifle aside. He was not going to waste expensive ammunition on such useless creatures as wolves—if he could help it. It was on his pistol that he depended to drive off marauders. He spun the cylinder and then tucked in the sixth cartridge. It was fully loaded now and he laid the gun down upon his dry blanket. It was as dangerous as a loaded bomb, for the plainsman never carried a gun fully loaded unless in time of stress or peril.