the best of his ability but he did not have the trained eyes of a woodsman, so failed to note all the signs. One thing he was sure of, it was probably not the work of the wolves for nothing had been seen of the gray pack since the loss of Old Two Toes.
When he conducted his uncle, Hank Brodie, to the spot, this veteran trailer at once pointed out the large track in the soft dirt close to the heifer. It was as large as the palm of a man's hand with the fingers outspread. At the perimeter of the track were five large claw prints.
"What do you make of that, son?" inquired Hank Brodie pointing to the unmistakable sign.
"Whew," returned Larry, "how did I ever overlook that? He must be a whopper whatever he is."
"It is Old Ephraim," his uncle returned. "That is the frontier name for the great Rocky Mountain grizzly. We certainly got an important visitor this time, but we will wait and see what he will do. I don't think he will be as bad as the wolves."
But Old Ephraim was hungry and the Crooked Creek calves and yearlings tasted good to him so he killed a fresh one every day. Finally Hank Brodie had to see what he could do with traps.
So three or four of the cow-punchers set out one day with axes to build a pen trap. They built it on the edge of the timber close to Piñon Valley. It was made
