“Cartridges in my left pocket,” cried the man, and the girl, with trembling fingers, reloaded the weapon, while the man held the brutes at bay.
Suddenly, from the left, a dark form shot into the air. McTavish ducked, and the wolf passed over him. But Mistisi, all his pent-up fury released, rose on his hind legs, his great mouth open, his eyes fiery. With a ferocious snarl, he met the savage attack, and his jaws closed upon the hairy throat in an inexorable death-grip.
Came a great shouting in the forest, and a score of men broke cover from the depths of the woods. The firing grew swiftly to a fusillade, and in three minutes the snow was covered with the dark forms of the wolves. The few that remained turned tail, and sped silently across the snow-plain, pursued by a parting volley.
A silence followed, broken only by a death-rattle here and there on the ground; then, the sound of hysterical weeping, as Jean Fitzpatrick broke down under the reaction.
“Here you, whoever you are!” cried Donald. “Come and help us out of this.” And the next minute they were surrounded, and friendly hands lifted them up.
“By heaven! It's Captain McTavish and the girl,” cried a hearty voice. “Now, I guess the old man'll get well.”
[CHAPTER XVI]
FEARFUL DISCLOSURES
It was with a strange mixture of emotion that Donald McTavish approached the rough log cabin where lay Angus Fitzpatrick. The morning was one of bitter cold, and the smoke from the campfires hung low about the tops of trees, a sure sign of fearful frost. During the past night, he had slept as of old, his feet to a blaze, other men snoring about him. Jean had been led away as soon as they reached the camp. Their innocent, childlike play at keeping house was over; those two inexpressibly sweet weeks would never be repeated, yet their sacred associations would be forever in his mind, like some beautiful thing caught imperishably at the moment of its full expression. When would he see her again? Not even a parting hand-clasp had lightened the separation of the night before. She had gone to her father; he to the camp-fire and the rough men.
Pleading exhaustion, he had refused to tell his story in reply to eager questions. Where had he found her? How? When? The thought of even sketching to these plain-minded fellows the ground-work on which had been reared such a structure of poetry seemed sacrilege. No, he would keep silent.