"I know what it is!" cried Dave, at length. "Some wolves have gotten on the trail of those wounded bears. Now there will be a battle royal!"
"You must be right, Dave. Hark! The wolves must number a dozen or more."
"Sounds like about half a hundred to me, father."
The battle took place at the far end of the forest of firs and gradually grew fainter and fainter. Mr. Porter shook his head doubtfully.
"I don't like this, Dave."
"What, aren't you glad that the bears have been attacked? I am."
"It isn't that. If those wolves want more meat they'll follow up that bloody trail—and it leads directly over here."
"Phew! I never thought of that. I'll stir up the fire—that will help to keep them at a distance." Dave set to work with avidity, piling on nearly all of the brushwood that was left. He had just completed the task when he chanced to look beyond into the waste of snow. He saw a pair of gleaming eyes—then another pair and still another.
"The wolves are coming, father!" he cried, in consternation.
"I see them, Dave, and we are going to have the fight of our lives to keep them off," answered Mr. Porter.