For a long hour, on that November afternoon, my brother Ted had been standing at the gate below the ranch house, waiting and waiting, while the twilight filled the round hollow of the valley as water slowly fills a cup. At last the figure of a rider, silhouetted against the rose-colored sky, came into view along the crest of the rocky ridge. The little cow pony was loping as swiftly as the rough trail would permit, but to Ted’s impatient eyes it seemed to crawl as slowly as a fly on a window pane. Although the horseman looked like a cow puncher, at that distance, with his slouch hat and big saddle, the eager boy knew that it was the district doctor making his far rounds over the range. A swift epidemic had been sweeping over Montana, passing from one ranch to another and leaving much illness and suffering behind. Ted’s uncle and the cousin who was his own age had both been stricken two days before and it seemed that the doctor would never come.

“I’m glad you are here,” he said as the doctor’s pony, covered with foam and quivering with fatigue, passed through the open gate. “We have two patients for you.”

The man nodded.

“Fever, I suppose,” he commented, “and aching bones, and don’t know what to make of themselves because they have never been sick before? I have seen a hundred such cases in the last few days. It is bad at all the ranches, but the sheep herders, off in their cabins by themselves, are hit particularly hard.”

He slipped from the saddle and strode into the house, leaving Ted to take the tired pony around to the stables. It was very dark now and growing cold, but he felt warmed and comforted, somehow, since the doctor had come. He heard running feet behind him and felt a dog’s nose, cold and wet, thrust into his hand. It was Pedro, the giant, six months’ old wolf hound puppy, long legged and shaggy haired, the pride of Ted’s life and the best beloved of all his possessions. The big dog followed his master into the stable and sat down, blinking solemnly in the circle of lantern light, while the boy was caring for the doctor’s horse and bedding it down.

Ted’s thoughts were very busy, now with his anxieties about his uncle, now racing out over the range to wonder how those in the stricken ranch houses and lonely cabins might be faring. There was the ranch on Arran Creek—people there were numerous enough to care for each other. It might be worse at Thompson’s Crossing, and, oh how would it be with those shepherds who lived in tiny cottages here and there along the Big Basin, so far from neighbors that often for months they saw no other faces than the woolly vacant ones of their thousands of sheep.

There was one, a big, grizzled Irishman, whom Ted had seen only a few times. Nevertheless, he was one of his closest friends. They had met on a night when the boy was hunting, and he could remember still how they had lain together by the tiny camp fire, with the coyotes yelping in the distance, with the great plain stretching out into the dark, with the slender curl of smoke rising straight upward and the big stars seeming almost within reach of his hand in the thin air. The lonely Irishman had opened his heart to his new friend and had told him much of his own country, so unlike this big bare one, a dear green land where the tumbledown cottages and little fields were crowded together in such comforting comradeship.

“You could open your window of a summer night and give a call to the neighbors,” he sighed, “and you needn’t to have the voice of the giant Finn McCoul to make them hear. In this place a man could fall sick and die alone and no one be the wiser.”

His reminiscences had wandered farther and farther until he began to tell the tales and legends familiar in his own countryside, stories of the “Little People” and of Ireland in ancient times. Of them all Ted remembered most clearly the story of the white greyhounds of the King of Connemara, upon which his friend had dwelt long, showing that in spite of its being a thousand years old, it was his favorite tale.

“Like those dogs on Arran Creek, they were perhaps,” the Irishman said, “only sleeker of coat and swifter of foot, I’m thinking.”

“But they couldn’t be faster,” Ted had objected. “The Arran dogs can catch coyotes and jack-rabbits and people have called those the quickest animals that run.”

“Ah,” returned the other with true Irish logic, “those Arran dogs are Russian, they tell me, and these I speak of were of Connemara, and what comes out of Ireland you may be sure, is faster and fairer than anything else on earth.”

Against such reasoning Ted had judged it impossible to argue and had dropped into silence and finally into sleep with the voices of the coyotes and the legend of the lean, white Irish greyhounds still running like swift water through his dreams.

After that he had visited the lonely shepherd whenever he could find time to travel so far. Together they had hunted deer and trapped beaver in the foothills above the Big Basin or, when the sheep had to be moved to new pasture, had spent hours in earnest talk, plodding patiently in the dust after the slow-moving flock. The long habit of silence had taken deep hold upon the Irishman, but with Ted alone he seemed willing to speak freely. It was on one of these occasions that he had given the boy the image of Saint Christopher, “For,” he said, “you are like to be a great roamer and a great traveler from the way you talk, and those who carry the good Saint Christopher with them, always travel safely.”

Now, as Ted thought of illness and pestilence spreading across the thinly settled state, his first and keenest apprehension was for the safety of his friend. His work done, he went quickly back to the house where the doctor was already standing on the door-step again.

“They are not bad cases, either of them,” he was saying to Ted’s aunt. “If they have good care there is no danger, but if they don’t—then Heaven help them, I can’t.”

Ted came close and pulled his sleeve.

“Tell me,” he questioned quickly, “Michael Martin isn’t sick, is he?”

“Michael Martin?” repeated the doctor. “A big Irishman in the cabin at the upper edge of Big Basin? Yes, he’s down, sick as can be, poor fellow, with no one but a gray old collie dog, about the age of himself, I should think, to keep him company.”

He turned back to give a few last directions.

“I suppose you are master of the house with your uncle laid up,” he said to Ted again, “and I will have to apply to you to lend me a fresh horse so that I can go on.”

“You’re never going on to-night?” exclaimed Ted; “why, you have been riding for all you were worth, all day!”

“Yes, and all the night before,” returned the doctor cheerfully, “but this is no time to spare horses or doctors. Good gracious, boy, what’s that?”

For Pedro, tall and white in the dark, standing on his hind legs to insert an inquisitive puppy nose between the doctor’s collar and his neck, was an unexpected and startling apparition.

“That’s my dog,” Ted explained proudly; “Jim McKenzie, over on Arran Creek, gave him to me; he has a lot of them, you know. Pedro is only half grown now, he is going to be a lot bigger when he is a year old. Yes, I’ll bring you a horse right away, yours couldn’t go another mile.”

When, a few minutes later, the sound of hoofs came clattering up from the stables it seemed certain that there were more than four of them.

“What’s this?” the doctor inquired, seeing a second horse with saddlebags and blanket roll strapped in place and observing Ted’s boots and riding coat.

“My aunt and the girls will take care of Uncle,” the boy replied, “so I am going out to see Michael Martin. You can tell me what to do for him as we ride up to the trail.”

They could feel the sharp wind almost before they began climbing the ridge. So far, summer had lingered into November, but the weather was plainly changing now and there had been reports of heavy snowfalls in the mountains. The stars shone dimly, as though through a veil of mist.

“You had better push on as fast as you can,” advised the doctor as they came to the parting of their ways. “When a man is as sick as Michael, whatever is to happen, comes quickly.” His horse jumped and snorted. “There’s that white puppy of yours again. What a ghost he is! He is rather big to take with you to a sick man’s cabin.”

Pedro had come dashing up the trail behind them, in spite of his having been ordered sternly to stay at home. At six months old the sense of obedience is not quite so great as it should be, and the love of going on an expedition is irresistible.

“It would take me forever to drive him home now,” Ted admitted; “I will take him along to Jim McKenzie’s and leave him there with his brothers. I can make Arran Creek by breakfast time and ought to get to Michael’s not long after noon. Well, so long!”

The stars grew more dim and the wind keener as he rode on through the night. His pony cantered steadily with the easy rocking-horse motion that came near to lulling him to sleep. Pedro padded alongside, his long legs covering the miles with untiring energy. They stopped at midnight to drink from the stream they were crossing, to rest a little and to eat some lunch from the saddlebags. Then they pressed on once more, on and on, until gray and crimson began to show behind the mountains to the eastward, and the big white house of Arran at last came into sight.

Jim McKenzie’s place was bigger than the ordinary ranch house, for there were gabled roofs showing through the group of trees, there were tall barns and a wide fenced paddock where lived the white Russian wolfhounds for which the Arran ranch was famous. A deep-voiced chorus of welcome was going up as Ted and Pedro came down the trail. The puppy responded joyfully and went bounding headlong to the foot of the slope to greet his brothers. It was a beautiful sight to see the band of great dogs, their coats like silver in the early morning light, romping together like a dozen kittens, pursuing each other in circles, checking, wheeling, rolling one another over, leaping back and forth over the low fences that divided the paddock, with the grace and free agility of deer. Early as it was, Jim McKenzie was walking down to the stables and stopped to greet Ted as, weary and dusty, he rode through the gate.

“Sure we’ll keep Pedro,” he said when he had heard the boy’s errand. “Yes, we’ve a good many sick here; I’d have sent out on the range myself but there was nobody to spare. They tell me the herds of sheep are in terrible confusion, and most of the herders are down. Poor old Michael Martin, I hope you get there in time to help him. Turn your horse into the corral, we’ll give you another to go on with. Now come in to breakfast.”

Ted snatched a hurried meal, threw his saddle upon a fresh pony, and set off again. For a long distance he could hear the lamentations of Pedro protesting loudly at the paddock gate. The way, after he passed Arran Creek, led out into the flat country of the Big Basin with the sagebrush-dotted plain stretching far ahead. It seemed that he rode endlessly and arrived nowhere, so long was the way and so unchanging the landscape. Once, as he crossed a stream, a deer rose, stamping and snorting among the low bushes, and fled away toward the hills, seeming scarcely to touch the ground as it went. Later, something quick and silent and looking like a reddish-brown collie, leaped from the sagebrush and scudded across the trail almost under his horse’s feet.

“A coyote, out in the open in daylight,” he reflected, somewhat startled. “It must have been cold up in the mountains to make them so bold. That looks bad for the sheep.”

It was disturbing also to see how many scattered sheep he was beginning to pass, little bands, solitary ewes with half-grown lambs trotting at their heels, adventurous yearlings straying farther and farther from their comrades. Once or twice he tried to drive them together, but owing to his haste and his inexperience with their preposterous ways, he had very little success.

“There is going to be bad weather, too,” he observed as he saw the blue sky disappear beneath an overcast of gray. “I had better get on to Michael’s as fast as I can.”

He saw the little mud and log cabin at last, tucked away among some stunted trees near the shoulder of a low ridge. It looked deceivingly near, yet he rode and rode and could not reach it. White flakes were flying now, fitfully at first, then thicker and thicker until he could scarcely see. His growing misgivings gave place to greater and greater anxiety concerning his friend, while there ran through his mind again and again, the doctor’s words, “Whatever is to happen, comes quickly.”

It was past noon and had begun to seem as though he had been riding forever when he breasted the final slope at last, jumped from his horse, and thundered at the cabin door. The whine of a dog answered him within, and a faint voice, broken but still audible, told him that Michael was alive.

The cabin, so it seemed to him as he entered, was a good ten degrees colder than it was outside. Poor Michael, helpless and shivering on the bunk in the corner, looked like the shrunken ghost of the giant Irishman he had known before. Ted rekindled the fire, emptied his saddlebags, piled his extra blankets upon the bed and, with a skill bred of long practice in camp cookery, set about preparing a meal. Michael was so hoarse as to be almost unable to speak and so weak that his mind wandered in the midst of a sentence, yet all of his thoughts were on the care of his sheep.

“When I felt the sickness coming on me I tried to drive them in,” he whispered, “but they broke and scattered and I fell beside the trail—they must get in—snow coming—”

In an hour his fever rose again, he tossed and muttered with only fleeting intervals of consciousness. Ted had found food and shelter for his horse in the sheep shed, and had settled down to his task of anxious watching. The snow fell faster and faster so that darkness came on by mid-afternoon. He had tried to drive the old collie dog out to herd in the sheep, but the poor creature would not leave its master and, even when pushed outside, remained whining beside the door.

“He couldn’t do much anyway,” sighed Ted as he let him in again. “How those coyotes yelp! I wish, after all, that I had brought Pedro.”

Michael had heard the coyotes too and was striving feebly to rise from his bed.

“I must go out to them, my poor creatures,” he gasped. “Those devil beasts will have them driven over the whole country before morning.”

But he fell back, too weak to move farther, and was silent a long time. When he did speak it was almost aloud.

“With the cold and the snow, I’m thinking there will be worse things abroad this night than just the coyotes.”

He lay very still while Ted sat beside him, beginning to feel sleepy and blinking at the firelight. Eleven o’clock, twelve, one, the slow hands of his watch pointed to the crawling hours. Michael was not asleep but he said nothing, he was listening too intently. It was after one and the boy might have been dozing, when the old man spoke again.

“Hark,” he said.

For a moment Ted could hear nothing save the pat-pat of the snow against the window, but the collie dog bristled and growled as he lay upon the hearth and pricked his ears sharply. Then the boy heard it too, a faint cry and far off, not the sharp yelping of the coyotes, though that was ominous enough, but the long hungry howl of a timber wolf.

Tears of weakness and terror were running down the Irishman’s face.

“My poor sheep, I must save them,” he cried. “What’s the value of a man’s life alongside of the creatures that’s trusted to him. Those murderers will have every one of them killed for me.”

Ted jumped up quickly and bundled on his coat.

“Where’s your rifle, Michael?” he asked. “I don’t know much about sheep, but I will do what I can.”

“The rifle?” returned Michael doubtfully. “Now, I had it on my shoulder the day I went out with the sickness on me, and it is in my mind that I did not bring it home again. But there is the little gun hanging on the nail; there’s no more shells for it but there’s two shots still left in the chamber.”

The boy took down the rusty revolver and spun the cylinder with a practiced finger.

“Two shots is right,” he said, “and you have no more shells? Well, two shots may scare a wolf.”

If Michael had been in his proper senses, Ted very well knew, he would never have permitted without protest such an expedition as the boy was planning. As it was, however, he lay back in his bunk again, his mind wandering off once more into feverish dreams.

“If it was in the Old Country,” he muttered, “the very Little People themselves would rise up to help a man in such a plight. You could be feeling the rush of their wings in the air and could hear the cry of the fairy hounds across the hills. America is a good country, but ah—it’s not the same!”

Hoping to quiet him, Ted took the little Saint Christopher from his pocket and laid it in the sick man’s hand. Then he finished strapping his big boots, opened the door and slipped out quietly. Michael scarcely noticed his going.

The snow had fallen without drifting much, nor was it yet very deep. He hurried down the slope, not quite knowing what he was to do, thinking that at least he would gather as many sheep as he could and drive them homeward. But there were no sheep to be found. Where so many had been scattered that afternoon there was now not one. The whole of the Big Basin seemed suddenly to have emptied of them. Presently, however, he found a broad trail of trampled snow which he followed, where it led along a tiny stream at the foot of the ridge. As he turned, he heard again that long, terrifying howl coming down the wind. The sheep, perverse enough to scatter to the four winds when their master sought to drive them in, had now, it seemed, gathered of their own will when so great a danger threatened. Ted came upon them at last, huddled together in a little ravine where the sparse undergrowth gave some shelter from the snow. He could just see them in the dim light, their gray compact bodies crowded close, their foolish black faces seeming to look up piteously to him for help. They were very quiet, although now and then they would shift a little, stamp, and move closer. The cry of the wolf was stilled at last, but not because the fierce marauder was not drawing nearer.

Yes, as he stood watching, there slipped a swift dark shape over the opposite edge of the hollow and flung itself upon a straggling ewe on the outskirts of the flock. It was followed by a second silent shadow, and a third. The poor sheep gave only one frantic bleat, then all was still again save for the sound of a hideous snapping and tearing, of a furious struggle muffled in the soft depths of the snow. Ted raised the revolver and took careful aim, he pulled the trigger, but no explosion followed. Michael’s improvidence in letting his stock dwindle to only two cartridges might be counted upon also to have let those two be damp. Helplessly the boy spun the cylinder and snapped the hammer again and again, but to no purpose.

The sheep was down now, with one of the savage hunters standing over it, another tearing at its throat while the third was slipping along the edge of the flock selecting a fresh victim. Ted’s weapon was useless, yet he must do something, he could not stand and see the whole herd destroyed before his eyes. Perhaps he could frighten them away as one could coyotes: he was so angry at this senseless, brutal slaughter that he lost all sense of prudence. He waved his arms up and down and shouted at the top of his lungs. He saw the creatures drop their prey and turn to look up at him. He ran along the slope, still shouting, then, of a sudden, stepped into an unexpected hollow, lost his balance and fell headlong. One of the wolves left the flock and came creeping swiftly toward him, its belly dragging in the snow.

His cry must have carried far in the quiet of the night for it was answered from a great way off. A deep voice broke the stillness and another, the call of coursing hounds who have winded their quarry but have not yet found its trail. And mingled with the barking chorus there rose high the joyful yelp of a puppy who seeks his beloved master.

Ted, slipping in the snow, struggled to his knees and called again and again. The stealthy, approaching shadow crept a yard nearer, then paused to lift a gray muzzle and sniff the air. The second wolf, with slobbering bloody jaws, turned to listen, the flock of sheep snorted and stamped in the snow. A minute passed, then another. The boy managed to get to his feet. Then across the edge of the hollow, white against the dark underbrush, he saw the dogs coming, a line of swift, leaping forms, huge, shaggy and beautiful, their great voices all giving tongue together. Down the slope they came like an avalanche, one only separating himself from the others for a moment to fling himself upon Ted, to lick his face in ecstatic greeting and to rub a cold nose against his cheek. That nimble puppy nose it was that had lifted the latch of a gate not too securely fastened, and so set the whole pack free. Then Pedro ran to join his brothers who were sweeping on to battle. Wolfhounds are taught to catch, not to kill their quarry, but the thirst for blood was in the hearts of the dogs of Arran that night. There was only a moment of struggle, a few choking cries, and the fight was over.

Day broke next morning, clear and bright, with the chinook blowing, the big warm wind that melts the snows and lays the white hills bare almost in an hour. Michael Martin, fallen into a proper sleep at last, woke suddenly and sat up in his bunk. He startled Ted, who, rather stiff and sore from his night’s adventures, was kneeling by the fire preparing breakfast. The boy came quickly to his patient’s side to inquire how he did.

“It’s better I am in body,” the Irishman answered; “indeed I begin to feel almost like a whole man again. But—” he shook his head sadly, “my poor wits, they’re gone away entirely.”

“What can you mean?” Ted demanded.

Michael sighed deeply.

“After you were gone last night,” he answered, “even my wandering senses had an inkling of what a dangerous errand it was, and I got up from my bed and stumbled to the window to call you back. Yes, the sickness has made me daft entirely, for as sure as I live, I saw the white greyhounds of Connemara go over the hill. But daft or no—” he sniffed at the odor of frying bacon that rose from the hearth, “I am going to relish my breakfast this day. Eh, glory me, if there isn’t another of the creatures now!”

For Pedro, once more applying a knowing muzzle to the clumsy latch, had pushed open the door and stood upon the step, wagging and apologetic, the morning sun shining behind him. Long-legged and awkward, he stepped over the threshold and came to the bedside to sniff inquisitively at the little silver image that lay on the blanket. Michael could never be persuaded to believe otherwise than that Saint Christopher had brought him.