Carver put a hand into his shirt and brought out a mirror. Briefly the glass caught the gleam of the moon.
"What's that fer?" whispered his companion.
Carver tilted the glass toward the approaching pack, craned his neck to peer into it. He had a difficult time registering the image, but he saw finally. He passed the mirror to the cowboy with a trembling hand.
"You look," he commanded gruffly.
The cowboy held the mirror in position and peered into it. He jerked it back swiftly.
"God!"
"You see?"
"Them ain't wolves—they're people!"
"The padre's right, Slim."
"I look at 'em and I see wolves. How come the mirror shows people out there?"
Carver shrugged and his mouth drooped bitterly.
"I don't know. It's somethin' to do with the silver on the glass. The padre can explain it maybe. I can't."
He watched the wolf-pack fixedly. He was hesitant, reluctant to give the next order.
"They're gettin' set to attack us," he observed. "They can't know we got a hundred and fifty men here. They ain't got a chance. Give 'em the signal, Slim."
The cowboy's face was a pale blur in the gloom.
"You—you can't, boss! It's murder!"
"It's them or us. They wouldn't hesitate to tear your throat out. Come on with the signal."
Slim hooted twice like an owl. Carver's rifle cracked immediately and lashed an orange tongue into the gloom. Rifle-fire rippled through the cottonwoods, like a fierce flame devouring a forest of dry twigs.
The great white wolf at the head of the pack leaped convulsively, fell sprawled and kicking. Silver death whined through the night, and lean gray shapes died with the thunder of gunfire in their ears.
The mass of wolves halted fleetingly, spun and fled for the timber. The hateful fire raked them again and again. Dozens fell, twitched and lay still. Half the pack succeeded in melting safely into the shadows. The firing came to a ragged end.
"Some of 'em got away," Slim said.
Carver got to his feet.
"They'll be back."
The moon shining through a rift in the foliage lighted his face wanly. His eyes stared darkly and his mouth was twisted in sickish lines.
"Can't get over the fact they're human . . . in a way."
He parted the brush and stepped into the clear.
"Where yuh goin', boss?"
The rancher's white head looked frosty in the moonlight. The gloom made a huge, formless bulk of his body. He went forward across the field, lighting the way with a small pocket torch. Hesitating, Slim crawled out of the brush and followed. Behind them, the cottonwoods murmured with the voices of the ranchers.
Sam Carver knelt at the side of the first form huddled in the long grass. The lamp played across the naked white body of the girl who lay with her golden head cradled upon her arm. Her face was hidden in the pool of shadow cast by her own body. A crimson wetness gleamed on the smooth round of her breast. Carver snapped off the light and stood erect. The moon made molten silver of the dead girl's body.
"Poor, damn kid!" he said softly.
The lanky cowboy sighed hoarsely.
"It's murder! We've done murder!"
The old rancher placed a hand on his shoulder.
"'Tain't murder, son. See—when I put the light on her—" The flash glowed
