It was early in November and the Canadian winter was already here. I sat in my chair, just after breakfast, and looked through the one window of our shanty, from which I could see the prairie and the end of our cowshed. Suddenly a large gray animal dashed across the prairie into the cowshed, and a smaller black and white animal ran after it.
"A wolf!" I cried, and seizing a gun, ran out to help the dog. But before I could get there, they were out of the cowshed and on the prairie again. The wolf turned to attack (lie dog, and the dog, our neighbour's collie, ran about, trying to bite the wolf. I fired a few shots, which did not hit the wolf, and both animals dashed off across the prairie again. Again the wolf turned, ready to fight. The dog seized the wolf by the leg, but retreated to avoid the wolf's teeth. This scene was repealed many times. The dog each time tried to get nearer to his master's house, while the wolf did all he could to run away toward the wood. I followed, and at last overtook them. The dog, now seeing that he had help, seized the wolf by the throat, and did not let go. It was now easy for me to come near them and shoot the wolf in the head.
When the dog saw that his enemy was dead, he at once set out for his master's house four miles across the snow. As he ran, he left a trail of blood on the snow from his many wounds, but he did not stop. I learned about this wonderful dog from his master, and wanted to buy him at any price, but the reply of his owner was: "Why don't you try to buy one of the children?" So I could do nothing. But he told me to wait until there was a puppy, the collie's son, and I had to be satisfied with that.