“Well, of the two I hope it is snow,” said Henry. “I don’t want to get wet through in such cold weather as this. It will give us our death of cold.”
A little while after that it began to snow. At first the flakes were large and drifted down like so many feathers. But soon they grew smaller and came down so thickly that a large portion of the landscape was blotted out. Then a wind sprung up, making the situation of the young hunters anything but comfortable.
“The wolves are leaving!” cried Henry, presently, as an extra blast of wind sent the snow swirling around. “They don’t like this storm. Reckon they are afraid of being snowed in.”
“I don’t like the storm myself,” returned his cousin. “See how thickly the snow is coming down now.”
Soon the last of the wolves had disappeared and silence reigned in that part of the vast forest. With caution they let themselves down to the ground, and Dave picked up his gun, cleaned it, and put on a new priming.
“We’ll have to watch out for those wolves,” he cautioned.
“If they come for us, we can climb another tree,” answered Henry. “But I don’t think they will turn back. Their lair may be miles from here, and they will want to get there before they become snowbound.”
The falling snow had covered the wolverine trail, and it was with difficulty that they could see the bushes they had broken off while journeying along. It was growing darker and the snow swirled and blew in every direction, almost blinding them.
“This will delay father,” observed Dave. “The party will have to go into camp and stay there until the storm clears away.”
“We may have to go into camp ourselves, Dave.”