armed.

His thoughts regarding the buffalo were sober ones. These buffaloes, he realized, now that there was time to think of it, were not in every sense of the word wild buffaloes. They ranged a wide preserve. They were watched over by buffalo rangers. They might not be killed except in a grave emergency. One who did kill a woods-buffalo was liable to a term in prison.

“But this,” he assured himself, “was a grave emergency.”

But what was this? Even as he stood there thinking there came the crack of hoofs once more. A lone buffalo was passing. A youngster, half-grown and almost spent, he limped painfully after his fast disappearing companions.

And after him came gray streaks in the failing light. Once more the boy’s bow sang. A gray form plunged to the snow and went rolling over and over. A second followed the first. He, too, had felt the sting of the boy’s arrow. And now they were gone, all gone. The tumult died to a murmur, then silently ceased to be.

“Wolves,” the boy grumbled, as he touched a gray form at his feet, “the scourge of the North, killers of all that is good, beautiful and useful among living things. I did what I could for that poor, limping young buffalo. Here’s hoping it was enough. If it was, it evens matters up.” He looked at the fallen buffalo.

“Too bad,” he murmured, “but there was no other way. That plane means more, a hundred times, to human kind than does a buffalo. It has saved human lives, by transporting them to hospitals. It will save others and, please God, I shall have a part.”

Having in this manner adjusted his thoughts and feelings regarding his immediate surroundings, he considered the future.

Prospects were not bright. “No gas,” he told himself. “It&rs