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THE FIGHT WITH A WOLF PACK
“Hear un! Hear un coming!” exclaimed Andy in a hushed voice.
“’Tis just back there in th’ bush, but I can’t see un!” said David, under his breath.
“Take a shot, anyhow,” suggested Andy, who had lashed his own rifle on the load, that he might carry an ax, which was constantly required in the work about the traps.
“Not till we sees un,” David objected. “Pop says never shoot at what you don’t see.”
They hurried a little now, though pausing frequently to peer into the forest gloom behind them. Twilight was thickening. The thing, whatever it was, that followed them was growing bolder and less careful to conceal its movements. With little effort they could quite plainly hear the tread of soft footfalls on places where the snow was covered by an icy crust. It was not, however, until the stovepipe of the tilt, standing in black silhouette above a great snowdrift that nearly covered the little log building, had risen into view, that Andy, looking back, exclaimed:
“There ’tis, now! There ’tis! Wolves!”