HIGH over the crest of Bald Knob the storm clouds had gathered. A dull, uncertain, ghostly light lay upon the land, for the moon was at its full, though hidden by the driving wrack. Directly in the mouth of Devil’s Gorge, where it debouched upon the low-lying pastures of the hill-farmers, a gaunt figure was standing. It was neither fox, nor wild-cat, nor dog, for it was bigger than any of these. In the fantastic shadows which the wild night cast the figure seemed monstrous, grisly. Its eyes burned with a basilisk glare; its head was broad, with a long, tapering muzzle; its shoulders were strong, and its lean legs stood firmly upon the earth. Moment by moment the storm grew fiercer. It rushed among the great trees on the knob-side, and tore the leaves hissing from the tossing branches. A blinding flash of lightning corkscrewed the gloom, followed by a terrible peal of thunder. Immediately there was a crash from far up the slope. An oak tree had fallen before the wind. The figure standing in the mouth of Devil’s Gorge crouched as under a blow, turned its head and glared in the direction of the sound, then glided out into the open with lowered muzzle and drooping tail.

The gray wolf knew his mind and his business well. Depending largely on guile for success in his hunting, yet there were times when wit and fleetness were of no avail, and his great strength alone had won him through. His ribbed sides bore many a scar, black and hairless, where a dog’s tooth had furrowed its way through his hide. So, with added craft on account of his many battles, he had come to skulk more, holding meat won by stealth equally as good as that fought for, and realizing as he grew older that in time he would be overcome. This was new territory he was treading now; a virgin field wherein he hoped to find rich harvest. Nor was disappointment in store for him.

Guided by that precious instinct which is the eternal heritage of all the wood-kind, the spectre-like shape moved briskly across some gullied foot-hills, climbing, slipping, leaping, and crept through a brush-fence just as the lowering clouds opened, and the rain began to pour in driving torrents. As the water beat upon his back and plastered the hair to his lean sides, the old forager began to move faster and with less desire for concealment, for well he knew that human beings would not dare thrust their noses out on such a night. It was all his own, and he could work his will unhampered. Through coarse clumps of wire-grass and stray patches of clover he went, casting his sharp eyes neither to right nor left, for he was fully aware that his gentle prey would never wander around in an open field on such a night as this. Near a corner in the farther end of the pasture rose a great black bulk; when the lightning flashed the gray wolf could see it, and something white at its base besides. It was a straw rick, the result of last year’s wheat harvest, and it afforded some protection from the wrath of the elements. Towards this the marauder went, relentlessly, steadily. Some two rods from it he stopped, crouched, and waited. Presently a vivid glare lit up the drenched landscape, and there, huddling in the lee of the rick, was a flock of sheep, crowded together and shivering from the wet. Dense darkness followed the lightning’s flash, and under its cover the robber drew nearer, nearer, nearer. Now, through the gloom and the sheets of rain he could make out the cowering forms—for they had already scented danger, though powerless to resist it. Closer yet crept the shape of death, his empty stomach dragging the ground so low had his body sunk. The sheep pressed with short, jerky movements against their straw shelter, wild-eyed, helpless. They felt the danger, but did not know how to combat it. Then the climax came, as swiftly as a bolt from the sky. A dim shape was projected through the night; there was a bleat choked short off and a wild scurry of feet flying blindly from danger. One ewe alone remained, prostrate upon the ground, while at her soft throat keen fangs tore, and a curved red tongue lapped up the warm blood as it flowed. The gray wolf was skilled in strategy. He knew that when a sheep-dog turned traitor and began to harry the flocks, he never went beyond the throats of his victims, and took only one a night. So the killer lay and drank the rich life-current as it came; drank until even his ravenous hunger was appeased. Then gnawing tentatively at the draggled wound he had made, he arose and turned his besmeared visage towards the dark line of knobs which was his hiding-place and his home. A short time later, when the summer storm was dying away in the east and the thunder was but a growling echo, a gaunt figure entered the mouth of Devil’s Gorge and became engulfed in the black shadows which hung over it.

Five hours later the sun came up into a sky of purest blue. With it arose the hill-farmers, strong from their long night’s rest for the day of toil. One there was who mounted his piebald saddle mare, with a bucket balanced on his saddle-bow, and went to salt his sheep. At the bars one was missing; an unusual thing. He called and called again, the cry which had never failed to bring her before. But there was no answer. Then the farmer urged his horse forward and began the search. Around the field he went, and at last drew up at the straw rick. There lay the lost one, dead. He dismounted and made an examination. Her throat was wofully mangled and torn, but there was no other hurt upon her. “A sheep-dog’s gone wrong!” was the man’s audible comment, as he arose and mounted his horse again to summon his fellow-farmers.

They came to the scene of the slaughter, one and all, for sheep-raising was their most paying industry, and sheep-murder was a crime to which there was attached one penalty and one only—death. The ewe lay as the killer had left her, limbs straight and stiffened, head back, and that awful, damning wound in her white throat. One by one they came and looked, those rugged, gnarled, horny-handed hill-men. One by one they shook their heads. “A sheep-dog done it,” was the one remark; “an’ be he mine, I’ll kill ’im myself!” Then arose the question, how to detect the culprit? Each dog had followed his master and each was called up and examined, but nothing was proven. Every mouth was clean and fresh; there were no clots of wool nor blood-stained noses. And each man breathed a sigh of relief when his favorite was exonerated, for “Love me, love my dog” is never more exemplified than in the sheep-raising districts, where, with almost human intelligence, the four-footed retainers care for the flocks entrusted to their care. The meeting was preparing to break up when some one discovered a track in the rain-soaked ground. It was fully four inches across, and the claw to each toe was plainly marked. It was useless to fit a dog’s foot to that colossal track. Some strange animal had assaulted the flock, and there was not a heart but beat easier when they found this out. For a farmer to kill his dog required a sacrifice almost as great as that which Abraham made when he prepared to offer up Isaac.

So, amid wild conjectures and impossible theories, the farmers dispersed. That very night another flock was visited and one taken from it. The raider left no clue. He came, slew one sheep and drained its blood, then went his way and the darkness hid him. The farmers met again and held council. It must be a dog, they said, for it killed like a dog. Anything else would do away with half a dozen sheep, or more. But the meeting resulted in nothing, because there was nothing to do except keep a sharp lookout. The next night the same thing happened, and the next, and the next, and so on for a week. Always a different flock, but always one sheep was claimed, one only. Then it was the farmers took to sitting up of nights and gathering their flocks under shelter. This invisible scourge bade fair to devastate their folds, and strenuous action must needs be taken. That first night of watching one went to sleep at his post along towards morning, and when the call of a neighboring cock awakened him at sunrise, it was to find one of his yearlings dead not ten feet from him. The destroyer had crept in while he slept and laughed at the loaded gun across his knees, while proceeding to feast on the choicest of his flock. Then alarm changed to terror. What was this dreadful thing which came at night and which left no trace behind? No one could answer, and the deeper the mystery grew, the more the farmers quaked and wondered.

But later, upon a night when the moon was waning, another had seen a huge gray object gliding towards the lot in which his sheep were corralled. Then haste got the better of judgment, and the man fired before the marauder got within good range. The result was only a handful of coarse drab hair found upon the ground the next morning. Then hounds were brought and put upon the trail. They followed it, mouthing, to the entrance of Devil’s Gorge, and there lost the scent on the boulders and the pebbly soil. But this gave a clue to the men. Their enemy dwelt somewhere within the gloomy recesses of that mighty cleft in the hills. So thither they came, night by night, and watched the entrance of that dismal place. But when they returned, unsuccessful, to their homes in the morning, it was to discover that one of their unguarded flocks had been entered, and a member of it lifeless. So dismay seized them, for it seemed that they were helpless before the subtlety of this mysterious assassin. Their nicest plans were frustrated, and their schemes brought to naught.

Then traps were laid, cunning devices of wood, and pitfalls, screened with leaves and dry limbs. Sometimes these were found sprung, sometimes unmolested, but sprung or set, they never claimed a prey. Whatever it was that worried their sheep seemed proof against all their wiles. Still the nightly visits continued, and dead mutton lay everywhere, and the buzzards darkened the sky in their circling flight. It was as though a plague had come upon the land. Driven to desperation, the farmers took their guns and fell to patrolling the dark ravines, especially Devil’s Gorge, whither it was surely known the destroyer had at one time gone. They found nothing, though day by day they went in numbers and scoured the defiles of the knobs. That for which they sought remained in hiding, and came forth only when the generous mantle of night covered his movements.

Among the many who had suffered from the nocturnal prowler’s depredations was one of sterner mould than his fellows. A tall, bony-faced, austere man, who talked little and thought much. And his thinking led him to this. When, in the ceaseless round of slaying, three of his sheep had been taken, he mounted his horse one day without a word to any one, and rode into town. When he came back after nightfall, he brought with him a huge steel trap, big enough to hold a bear. The next morning he arose while the stars were yet shining, whistled his dog, and started on foot to Devil’s Gorge, taking the trap with him. The dog went in advance and after him the man, struggling through the damp hollow with his heavy burden over his shoulder. Day dawned on the peaks above them, and filtered faintly down into the depths through which they toiled. Suddenly the dog came rushing back to his master, his bushy tail between his legs and his whole body a-quiver from fright. The man quickened his pace and pushed forward grimly, drawing a large revolver from his pocket at the same time. Rounding a bend in the gorge, he came upon that which had sent the shepherd dog cowering back. Perched upon a large boulder was a monstrous wolf, gray and grim in the half light. Raising his arm the man fired, but the wolf leaped just before the flash and ran in the other direction. The man followed as quickly as he could, and presently saw the big form disappear in a hole up the sloping side of the cliff. The entrance of this den was worn as by the constant passing of feet, and the man felt that he had found the home of his enemy. So he set his trap, right under the lip of the crevice, cunningly hiding it with dead leaves and the rubbish of the woods, and securing the strong chain to the trunk of a dwarfed black oak. The first step the monster took on his next raid would make him a prisoner; the steel gyves would hold him fast until his foes came and killed him.

In the dead of night, when the moon had climbed the towering peak of Bald Knob, and the hill-farmers below kept silent watch for the coming of the raider, a face appeared in the cleft on the side of Devil’s Gorge. There was the craft of a lifetime in the burning eyes as they suspiciously swept the ground immediately in front of his den. There was nothing to awaken distrust except the tumbled condition of the earth, but the old wolf hesitated. Then hunger, the one law which the wood-folk know not how to disobey, drove him out. He rested one foot gingerly upon a bed of leaves, leant a little more weight to it as he prepared to draw the other one forward, and just then two bands of steel arose up out of the ground and gripped him nearly to the knee. With a deep howl of wrath and terror the old warrior fought for his freedom. Around and around he tore, gnashing with impotent teeth at that awful thing which held him like a vise. For the space of an hour he wrenched and struggled, then suddenly realizing the futility of his efforts, he crouched upon his belly to rest. It was near morning when he accepted the last resort, and began the heroic task of freeing himself.

Before sunup, the man who had set the trap came with exultation on his face, confident of victory. He found the trampled ground, the sprung trap, and fastened in it the fore foot of a large wolf with part of the leg, which had been gnawed in two just below the knee. The spoiler of the folds had baffled them to the end, but the flocks were never more disturbed.