The rest of the day passed quietly. Some time later Runnell went off on his snowshoes to look for the fourth deer—the one Harry had abandoned. When he came back he said he had found only the head and a few bones.
“The wolves carried off the rest,” he said. “And they ate up those dead wolves on the main shore, too.”
“Well, I don’t want to meet any more of those critters,” said Harry, grimly.
“Nor do I,” added his brother. “The only good wolf is a dead one.”
“And I don’t know that he is good for much,” laughed Fred.
Strange to say, with the going down of the sun the wind came up again, a steady breeze, gradually increasing to little short of a gale.
“We are going to have another wild night,” said old Runnell. “We’ll have to watch the fire.”
“By all means,” cried Fred. “We don’t want to burn up.”
All hands sat up until after nine o’clock, listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees and hurled the snow against the shelter. Outside the stars shone brightly, but there was no moon.
“Hark! I hear a bark!” said Fred, presently. “Can there be a dog around?”