Tom's suggestion was a good one and I did as he advised. Then hanging the hatchet and field-glass to my saddle, I mounted and rode away. Crossing the creek just below the beaver dam, where Jack was already looking out locations for his traps, I rode through the timber to look for the most convenient band of buffalo, and espied one that suited my purpose about a mile down the prairie bottom, strung out in single file on the trail, coming in to the creek for water. Recrossing the creek so as to keep out of their sight behind the timber, I rode down to a point that would intercept them and prepared to await my game. The place I had chosen to wait for them was an old buffalo crossing, the converging trails, deeply worn in the banks on either side, showing that it was much used. They would have to pass me here, and, again recrossing the creek to the north side, I rode down into the timber, tied my horse behind some bushes, and returned afoot to the crossing, being careful not to give the buffalo my wind. Soon they passed me, went on down, drank, and climbed the hills on the other side of the stream. As the young cattle filed past me I selected a yearling and, as he came opposite, shot him, and he dropped dead in the trail. The rest gave a jump or two and went on. I cut off the hind quarters and with some trouble put them on Prince. Then stripping back the skin from the fore quarters, I applied my solution of strychnine, a few drops here and there over the meat and entrails, and left them for wolf bait. Having left my meat at camp, I rode away on my scout, reaching camp again about sunset. Just after we finished supper the howling of a pack of coyotes--which we seldom noticed--prompted me to exclaim: "Make the most of your time, my lads, for if you happen to scent that bait I put out for you I'll be skinning some of you in the morning." The howling and barking of wolves was such familiar music to us that it seldom provoked remark, for we had scarcely passed a night since entering the buffalo range that we had not been serenaded by the shrill, discordant notes of the coyote, varied occasionally by the deeper bass of the big, gray buffalo wolves, or "lobos," as the Mexicans call them. Next morning Jack and I hurried through the work of watering and changing the animals to fresh grass, while Tom prepared breakfast. We were impatient to be off, and after the meal, taking our rifles in addition to revolvers, we started out to our respective tasks, Jack afoot and I on Black Prince. As I approached my wolf baits I disturbed a couple of coyotes--probably late comers that had but recently found the carcass, for they certainly gave no evidence of the effects of strychnine as they loped off on the prairie a little way and there sat on their haunches licking their chops and watching me as though reluctant to leave their feast.