"All pins down, and a count for me," the undaunted boy called out, partly because the sound of his own voice helped keep his spirits up. "Set 'em up in the other alley, boy! Huh! didn't just like having it rain fire, did you, old Graybacks? Moved back a bit, too. And I'd feel a whole lot easier, if you'd keep that distance from now till daylight!"
But the scare of the wolves was of short duration. Inside of ten minutes they had crept back once more to their former advanced line, so that again the boy could see those glaring orbs whichever way he looked.
He had to repeat the barrage, using up more of his precious wood than he could well spare.
"Retreated again," he told himself, though with a lack of his former enthusiasm. "But I can't keep that sort of thing going right along. I'll hold off longer, and then jump for them with a brand in each hand."
He waited until he could actually glimpse the grim crouching figures of the determined wolves flattened on the ground, just as he had many times seen the pet cat at home do when ready to pounce on a robin or a sparrow. Then he started for them, shouting at the top of his now hoarse voice, and at the same time flourishing two torches with great vigor.
The animals could not stand such a display of fireworks, and beat a retreat once more. Frank was shrewd enough not to be tempted into going any great distance away from his best friend, the fire.
Time passed on leaden wings as Frank Allen kept up this strange vigil. By judicious management he succeeded in husbanding his shortening supply of available fuel. On discovering signs of coming dawn over in the east Frank took fresh heart, and began to believe he would win his battle with the wolf pack.
Stronger grew the oncoming daylight.
"Showing signs of meaning to throw up the sponge, are you?" he called out tauntingly, as he discovered one of the animals turning tail and slinking away, heading along the mountainside, evidently having a den in that quarter. "Well, here's wishing you better luck in getting supper another time, when it's venison you're stalking and not a poor tenderfoot cowpuncher. Good riddance to bad rubbish. There goes a second chap, licking his chops like all hungry disappointed animals do."
So the pack disintegrated, until so far as Frank could see there remained only a solitary sentry out in the scrub.