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The Devil Wolf
By LAWRENCE A. KEATING

Illustrated by H. L. Cox

A Thrilling Narrative 
of a Trapper's Experience 
in the Canadian Woods

Tip McKane tossed a fresh log on the fire, then straightened in the attitude of a man listening. Pipe held a few inches from his lips, his keen grey eyes sought those of his partner and held.

Dick Bowen shook his head. "Only the blizzard, Tip. She's blowin' hell-for-certain tonight. Hope she lets up or we'll have us a tough hunt for some o' those traps."

McKane sucked again on his pipe, ears strained to penetrate the high weird whistle of the gale, the spatter of frosty flakes on the cabin's two parchment windows, and the roaring, sucking gasps in the chimney. 

"Dick," he remarked presently, "this Lac d'Esprit de Diable, as the breeds call it, is rightly named, eh? If a fellow were superstitious he could believe lots of things tonight. That yarn about the white-eared wolf, for instance."

Bowen's scoffing laugh betrayed slight uneasiness. "Quit it, Tip. I don't take any stock in that breed fairy tale. Pure bunk!"

McKane scarcely heard as again his pipe came free of his lips. Frowning, he listened with every sense ex-pectantly alert. Suddenly the veteran trapper wheeled and strode for the door of the lonely log cabin. 

As his hand sought the thing latch the door burst open. Wind would have whipped out the battery of candles had they not been shielded in the nick of time by Bowen's arms. The flames in the fireplace roared three feet higher as through the black patch of doorway the gale sent silted snow swirling madly inward.

"M'sieur Tip! M'sieur Bowen! Eet ees I, Louis!"

McKane shouldered the door shut. Then in surprise that was mirrored on his partner's face he turned to the fur-clad giant who was their caller. "Why, hello, Louis," Tip greeted cordially. "Climb out o' those duds. Dick, will you set that coffee pot agoin'?"

The newcomer peeled off his parka, panting as if from the effort of battling the storm. A broad-cheeked, dark-visaged French-Canadian, Louis Calet, was their nearest neigh-bor in the fur country wilderness. He stood six feet three in his stockings, and his broad chest, long, thick thighs, and solid waist proclaimed his weight as well over the two hundred mark. His black eyes darted from Bowen to McKane. Suddenly with a long-drawn sigh the man reeled, his knees bending.

Tip sprang with out-stretched arms but Calet's weight bore him down.

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A Story in the Language of Maurice Chevalier

[[image - drawing of a wolf attacking man]]
[[caption]] Jaws parted, fangs gleam-ing with wet, foamy saliva, the Thing shot at the French-Canadian with the speed of a bullet. [[/caption]]
[[signed by]]H.L. COX

HIS partner snatched a dark bottle from the slab table. He knelt to connect its mouth with the lips of the prostrate trapper. Presently Louis showed signs of reviving strength. His wide, startled eyes cir-cled the room like those of a man terror-stricken. Then Calet uttered a low, discouraged moan.

"What's up, Louis? Man, you're pale as a ghost!"

"Ghost, m'sieur? Oui, a ghost. I–" Louis seized the bottle and took another greedy swallow. Then incoherent mutterings welled from his great chest, broken off 

while he listened intently to the howl of the storm. Apparently feeling some relief at what he heard, Louis climbed wearily to his feet. He wavered unsteadily while Tip helped him out of the burly fur coat; then with a long sigh Calet stretched his hands to the warmth of the fire.

"Ghost, you call heem m'sieurs?" he questioned dully. "Mais non! The wolf with white ears. The spirit of the lak' of the davil!"

"Come, come, Louis," McKane protested glancing at

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