“Take to a tree, quick!” exclaimed Frank, who began to be surprised at his own coolness; “it’s our only chance. Be sure and keep a good hold of your gun.” Suiting the action to the word, he swung himself into the lowest branches of a small pine that stood near, and, reaching down, seized Brave by his long hair and pulled him up after him. It was slow climbing among the thick branches, with a gun in one hand and a dog nearly as heavy as himself in the other; and he had scarcely ascended out of reach before the wolves were around the tree. Several of the pack leaped among the branches, and made desperate efforts to reach him, while their dismal howls made his blood run cold.
“Hold on, down there,” muttered Frank. “Wait until I get Brave fixed, and then I’ll soon be even with you.”
After feeling in all his pockets, he found a stout strap, with which he tied his dog fast to the branches, so that he would not fall down among the wolves.
“I say, Frank, where are you?” shouted Harry, from his tree.
“Here I am,” answered Frank. “Are you all right?”
“Yes; but I had a narrow escape, I tell you. The wolves pulled off one of my boots as I was climbing up this tree. You’re always getting a fellow into some scrape or other, ain’t you?”
“I don’t call this much of a scrape,” answered Frank. “We’re safe, at any rate.”
“I know it,” replied Harry, who seemed to be regaining his courage. “But we may have to stay up here a week.”
“No we won’t—not if our ammunition holds out,” answered Frank, pushing his gun through the branches of the tree. “I’m going to commence shooting them.”