But in the end there came a time when Thad himself saw something move, and as he watched more closely he made positive that it was another wolf creeping up in the direction of the spot where his first victim probably lay.
“Are you all ready, Step Hen?” he asked, quietly.
“Just try me, that’s all,” came the whispered reply, as the other scout clutched his rifle nervously, and strained his eyes to see what had caught the attention of his chum.
“Then watch that spot where my game kicked the bucket; one of his mates is right now coming to drag the body away, to give it a wolf burial. See him, Step Hen?”
“Yes, yes, and be sure and tell me just when to let him have it, Thad,” replied the other, beginning to cover the indistinct moving figure with his ready gun.
“Now, hold on for a bit,” Thad cautioned. “I’m going to give the fire here a kick that will make it spring up. Then, when you can be sure you’re getting a bead on the slinker, give him Hail Columbia. Watch out, now, old fellow. It’s going to be your only chance to bag a genuine wolf from the Canada bush.”
Just as Thad had said, the fire burned briskly after he had used the toe of his boot to give it new life; and sure enough, Step Hen could see the outlines of a long, dim figure that seemed to be hugging the ground. He could even catch the odd gleam of the wicked yellow eyes that were doubtless watching their every movement.
With the sharp report of his rifle there was another howl, this time of pain.
“Did I get him, Thad?” cried the marksman, eagerly.
“You hit him, that’s certain, because I saw him flop over,” replied the other; “and that yelp meant sudden pain, as sure as it stood for anything. But he managed to get off, though possibly he will fall within twenty feet.”