CHAPTER XIV.
A VICTORY DEARLY BOUGHT.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the attack was so sudden and unexpected that Barnwell was completely off his guard at the moment.
One of the fiercest wolves, hungry, huge and gaunt, sprang at his throat and bore him to the earth.
Seizing the brute by the throat with both hands, he with almost superhuman strength dashed him away long enough to rise to his knees and to pull his revolver, the other wolves having by this time joined savagely in the attack.
Unable to get upon his feet, he poked the muzzle of his pistol straight into the mouth of the now risen wolf, as he again came towards him, and fired.
It was a fatal shot, and the wolf fell dead.
Still he was pinioned by others, and for a long time he was so placed that he could reach only one of them with his weapon, but this one he sent to the shades quickly.
Then one after another he dispatched them, although, unlike the generality of wolves, they fought until the last one was dead, being undoubtedly nearly starved.
Meantime his clothing and flesh had been dreadfully torn, and the blood was flowing from at least a dozen ragged wounds, and he was so overcome with exhaustion that he could scarcely rise to his feet.