The great plains lay hot and parched at sunset. Silent and lonely it was, too, for the drought of weeks had been so terrific that even the usually sociable little prairie dogs stayed in their holes to escape the scorching heat. At sunset they were beginning to liven up, and all other wild things which had stayed in the cool places were coming out. Between the dried, stunted clumps of mesquite trees, and the sagebrush patches, certain dark shadows skulked: the coyotes were starting off upon their nightly raids. The little prairie chickens had gone to roost, but the hooting of the small brown-barred owls which lived in the earth burrows, had begun among the sage-brush thickets. A coyote, stealing in and out along its trail, suddenly squatted upon its lean haunches, resting upon the raised dirt of a dog village. From this site it peered curiously off into the distance, for its bleary, green eyes saw something moving against the sky-line. What the coyote saw was this: a great, black, hulking, moving object was stumbling its way westward, following the last golden glow of the sunset, and, as the creature watched, it made out another, smaller figure, following close beside the large one. Then, after satisfying its curiosity the coyote raised its lean snout, and howled dismally from sheer disappointment, for that which he hoped might be game had turned out to be nothing but just an old, sick or wounded buffalo, followed by her little calf. The sight so disgusted the half-starved coyote, that it started in an opposite direction on a slinking run, for with all its meanness it will not pursue another which is wounded. The huge mother buffalo stumbled bravely on and on; she was very weak, for she still carried an Indian's arrow in her side. How she had managed to escape at all with her calf was a wonder. The herd had stampeded, and somehow, after they had gone, she found herself wounded, alone with her calf. Lowing to the little fellow, she encouraged it to follow her and all day they had journeyed over the long, hot trail. If she could only manage to find water, then she could wallow, and perhaps her stinging wound would heal. Occasionally she stumbled, almost breaking her leg as she plunged into the hole of some dog village which her glazing old eyes had not seen. Suddenly she raised her great shaggy head, and roared out a low cry of triumph; she had scented water. She urged on the weary, tottering steps of her calf, pushing him on ahead with her nose, lowing gently and affectionately, encouraging it to hold out a little longer, for soon they would come to the beautiful, longed-for water hole.