Mitchell, exhausted from his long battle through the snow and the pain of his injured ankle, was breathing deeply.
The reporter had fallen asleep sitting up and his head was bent forward as though he was in thought. In his right hand was the heavy .45 caliber automatic.
Closer and closer came the wolves.
Forty feet.
The fire crackled as it bit into a pine knot and the beasts stopped their advance. But Ralph failed to wake up and the deadly circle drew nearer to the little camp in the center of the clearing.
Thirty feet.
Mitchell stirred restlessly and then relapsed into the deep sleep that claimed him.
Another moment and the wolves would spring, their glistening, bared teeth ripping at their victims. They crept closer, crouched for the fatal spring.
The fire was lower, its light making only a dim glow, and through this could be seen the bright eyes of the wolves.
From the heavens came the deep thunder of the motor of the westbound mail. Its echoes filled the night and Ralph awakened instantly.