Several days had passed since the fight at Helen Mowbray's house, and Ted Strong and the broncho boys were again at the Bubbly Well Ranch.

The remains of Helen Mowbray had been laid to rest near the major's ranch house in a little lot surrounded by a low fence, and her treasure was safely stored away in the safe in the major's bedroom.

The period of their visit to the ranch house was past, but still they stayed to help the major to get word of his brother Frederic Caruthers, alias Fancy Farnsworth, alleged to be the worst man in Arizona.

Where he might be none knew, of course, but Ted was of the opinion that he was still somewhere in Arizona, and not far away, either.

He could not have told why he believed so, but he had one of his "hunches" to that effect, and believed it as surely as if he knew it for a fact.

Ted had seen his hunches turn out true so often that he did not attempt now to distrust them.

Somehow, he felt that everything was to come out all right some day, and that he would find Farnsworth, or Frederic Caruthers, to be more exact, and Ted always reproached himself when he thought of the young fellow by his false name.

One morning Ted awoke before the dawn, sitting upright in bed, listening for a sound, but heard nothing unusual.

This was one of Ted's habits—to be aroused by some unknown sense in the night when danger threatened.

Hearing nothing, he got out of bed, and sat on its edge and listened again.

"Wonder what waked me?" he muttered to himself. He was not in the least sleepy, as he would have been if he had wakened naturally.

"I don't think I was dreaming," he continued to mumble to himself. "And it wasn't a noise. Must have been a hunch. Guess I'll get up and see if there's anything wrong about here."

He slipped swiftly into his clothes, and sauntered through the living room.

It was just beginning to get light outside, and the windows were gray, while all else in the room was still dark.

He opened the door and stepped out into the chill morning.

Then he heard a noise, but so faint that it couldn't have been that which had disturbed him from his sound sleep, he thought.

But as the sound came nearer on the clear, thin morning air, and he recognized it and realized its significance, he knew that it was this fine, almost indistinguishable sound that had penetrated in some mysterious manner to his inner ear and called him from his sleep.

It was the cry of a hungry and angry wolf.

At last he located the sound off to the east, but as yet he could see nothing, for it was not yet light enough, and a thin mist, like a mirage, hung over the surface of the sandy prairie and obscured the view.

For a long time he stood listening to the long-drawn and savage howl, thinned out by the distance and mist, but he knew that it was coming nearer, and that the animal that was making it was not only hungry, but that it was a master wolf. It was none of the gaunt, half-starved, cowardly brutes that follow in the pack and take what the master wolf leaves of the scraps of the murdered calf or sick cow or sheep which the leaders of the pack have pulled down.

He had heard before the yells of these kings of the packs of savage prairie wolves, and they were masterful indeed, and could easily be distinguished above the feebler pipings of the wolf rabble.

Suddenly the sun came up and the mists disappeared as by magic, and it was light.

Ted looked steadily toward the place from which the howls had come when it was dark, and saw a spot against the earth.

It was either a pony or a cow, and it was in trouble, for it came on very uncertainly, running sideways, stopping for a moment to kick, then running on again.

Ted immediately saw what was the matter. It was being pursued by the wolves he had heard.

The wolves were running with it, perhaps had been chasing it all night, and were snapping it its heels, trying to hamstring it.

He thought it was a small, lean cow from this distance, and wondered at its courage, and if it would last until it got close enough to where there were human beings to be safe from further pursuit.

At first he thought of going inside and putting on his coat and boots and getting his arms and starting out toward it on his pony. But this was too much trouble, and he stood watching the tragedy of the plain, hoping for the plucky animal that was doing its best to outrun and outwit the wolves, for they were close enough now for him to see that there were four of the gray devils of the prairie.

But only one of them was worthy of a second look—a great, gray brute much larger than his mates and twice as courageous.

Ted thought it strange that the wolf king was not doing as the others did; that is, running up behind their victim and making a slash at his legs with their razorlike fangs, then retreating with a whining howl when they felt the heels of the poor brute they were tormenting.

No, the big wolf was leaping high into the air from the side, evidently trying to reach something that was fastened to the pony's back—for now Ted was able to distinguish what it was.

It was a bay pony, rather small, and almost all in with fatigue.

Something baggy was tied to its back, which resembled a bundle of old clothes.

Once, as he watched, Ted saw the pony go to its knees, actually tired out and weak.

But it was up again, and struggling bravely on again.

"Plucky little beggar," muttered Ted, in admiration. "Wish I had taken my first hunch and ridden out to help it. By Jove, it's not too late yet!"

Without going into the house Ted jumped to the ground and ran out to meet the pony and its enemies.

It did not occur to him that he was not armed until he was halfway to them. Then he felt in his pocket and found his big-bladed knife.

Taking this out, he sprang open the big blade and carried it loosely.

He had stooped and picked up a large stone, which he carried in his hand.

When he came close enough he hurled the stone at the wolves, and a dull thud, followed by a shrill, dog-like howl of pain, told him that he had countered on the rib plate of one of the nasty brutes. Then he let out a wild yell, and three of the wolves turned and fled.

Not so the king of the pack.

He stopped for a moment and stared at Ted with his pale-green eyes. Then, with a long howl of defiance, he sprang again at the pony, which had picked up courage at hearing a human voice and was coming on more briskly.

Suddenly Ted recognized the pony.

It was the major's Christmas gift, and Ted once more gave voice to an exultant yell, which only served to increase the fury of the wolf's attack at whatever was fastened to the pony's back.

Ted knew that Fred Caruthers, as he tried always to call the young brother of the major, would send the pony back some day, and now his faith had been rewarded.

When he became aware of the identity of the pony he ran faster, and was soon within a few feet of it.

He naturally expected that the wolf would now beat a retreat, as wolves met singly and in this fashion generally turn tail and split the wind for home when attacked by man.

But the big wolf simply turned his attention from the pony to the boy, and stood as if carved out of gray granite, his head held high in the air, and his eyes blazing like two pale-green lights.

"By Jove, I think the brute is going to stand and fight!" said Ted to himself.

Taking advantage of the situation, the pony trotted past Ted, who scarcely gave it a look, and went on to the corral back of the house.

"So it's going to be a fight," said Ted, advancing cautiously toward the wolf. "All right, old chap; I'll give you something to think about, if I do not leave you on the ground entirely incapable of thinking. I wish I'd gone after my Winchester now. That would have made it too short, though. Come on, now. All I have is a short knife blade against four sharp fangs, and you are as brave as the devil himself."

The wolf had not stirred except that his nose was constantly working as he sniffed the air for Ted.

Ted knew that a wolf that will stand and fight a man by himself is possessed of more than ordinary courage and brains, and, therefore, he was on the lookout for the tricks of the fight.

It was well that he was so versed, for before he was quite ready for it the wolf, without a sound, leaped straight through the air at his throat. He had just time to dodge aside, and make a vicious swipe with his knife.

But his blade did not touch the wolf, whose leap carried him several feet past Ted. Had the wolf succeeded in striking Ted, they would inevitably have gone down together, and Ted would have had none the best of it.

But the battle between Ted, the skilled huntsman and wolf exterminator, and the wily wolf, whose scarred hide told of many battles with bull and dog, wild cat and man, serpent of the desert, and the eagles of the mountains, when, in his dire hunger, he had raided their families.

The wolf slid a few feet, then swung himself around like a top and came at Ted again.

Ted was wiser this time, and dodged just out of the way. At the same time he gave a vicious side lunge with the knife, and he felt it enter the wolf's hide. There was a ripping sound, and he knew he had added a scar to the brute's large collection.

The wolf was now thoroughly angry, and snarled its fury as it wheeled once more to the attack.

Ted turned to meet it as it rushed toward him, but as he did so he heard a shout from the ranch house and turned his head in that direction for an instant.

But that instant was the critical one, and before he could get around again to face the wolf it was upon him.

Ted felt it strike his chest a mighty blow with its head, and staggered backward.

It suddenly came to him that if he got under the wolf its teeth surely would get to his throat, and that one snap of those saber-sharp teeth would settle the business for him.

He tried to protect his throat with his left arm as he felt himself toppling, but could not get it up far enough because the wolf's body and head interposed.

But he was slashing away with his knife in a frenzy of despair, and, apparently, was doing some execution, for every time he struck the wolf let out a little whine of angry pain.

But the wolf had all the best of it now, and as Ted's foot slipped on some pieces of dry grass he went down with the heavy brute on top of him.

He could feel it nuzzling at his neck for a toothhold on his throat, but he kept his chin pressed close to his neck, and, although the wolf chewed his shirt to pieces, it had found no room to get its teeth into the boy's flesh.

Ted had no time now to play with the knife. It was not up to him to conquer the wolf now, but to keep it from taking his life.

Had his revolver been with him he could have ended the fight with a couple of shots, even if the brute seemed to have a dozen lives, for he knew that had any one of the knife thrusts which he had planted in the wolf's body been given to an ordinary specimen of the species the fight would have been over long since.

The wolf was standing on him, and its weight crushed him.

All he could do in self-defense was to try to get the wolf by the throat with his bare hands and to choke it.

But the hair about its throat was a thick, almost impenetrable mass of heavy, thick-growing bristles, on which Ted's hands had apparently no effect at all.

Ted was in a pretty tight place, and he fully realized it.

The wolf was working hard to get at his windpipe, and the teeth were getting closer and closer to the vital spot.

Ted's arm, where he tried in vain to get it between himself and the wolf, was gashed in a dozen places, and the blood was all over him. His clothes had long since been torn into shreds.

The wolf was getting tired also, as well it might, for, probably it had been running all night, and had been long without food, so that it was no discredit to its enormous strength that it was weak and weary.

But neither was Ted as strong as usual, for the ball which had creased his rib had cost him lots of blood.

In the hearts of both of them, however, there was strength enough, and it was that which kept them fighting long after both of them were tired and winded.

The wolf knew, as well as did Ted, that if it ever got to his throat there would be strength enough for it; the strength that comes from blood.

Ted was wishing that some one would come.

He had heard a cry. Why didn't whoever had called out come at once?

He couldn't last more than a minute longer, and the strong, murky smell of the beast was turning him faint, as the wolf seemed to be gaining in strength and savagery.

Presently he knew the reason. He felt that his side was wet.

His wound had opened again, and he was bleeding.

The wolf had smelled his blood, and it had renewed its strength and courage, while it weakened and took the life out of Ted.

Suddenly there was a crash of hoofs on the sod. Stella's clear voice rang out, and the swish of a quirt came through the air.

That was all Ted remembered, except that he felt relieved of the weight of the wolf, which was running like a streak of gray lightning toward the hills.

His eyes opened, and he saw Stella bending over him, and managed to stagger to his feet, congratulating himself as his hand went to his throat that he had at least saved it from the white fangs of his enemy.