The public room was lighted with candles, and a fire was kindled on the hearth. It was spring, but a hearth fire had a cheerful glow even then.
The taverners talked of the military events around Boston town, then told stories of adventure. Dennis came from the store, and sat down with the rest.
“Mr. Putnam,” said one of them, “the story of your hunting the she-wolf is told in all the houses of the new towns, but we have never heard it from yourself. The clock weights sink low, and we wish to keep awake. Tell us about that wily wolf, and how you felt when your eyes met hers in the cave.”
THE WITCH-WOLF
“I never boast of the happenings of my life,” said Israel Putnam. “It is my nature to dash and do, and I but give point to the plans of others. That is nothing to boast of. Put on cedar wood and I will tell the tale of that cunning animal, a ‘witch-wolf,’ as some call her, as well as I can. The people at the taverns often ask me to kill time for them in that way.
“I came to Pomfret in 1749. For some years I was a busy man, toiling early and late, as you may know. I raised a house and barn; some of you were at the raising. I chopped down trees, made fences, planted apple-trees, sowed and reaped.
“My farm grew. I had a growing herd of cattle, but my pride was in my flock of sheep.
“One morning, as I went out to the hill meadows, I found that some of my finest sheep had disappeared. I called them, and I wandered the woods searching for them, but they were not to be found. Then a herdman came to me and said that he had found blood and wool in one place, and sheep bones in another, and that he felt sure that the missing sheep had been destroyed by powerful wolves.
“In a few days other sheep were missing. Day by day passed, and I lost in a few months a great number of sheep.
“One morning I went out to the sheepfolds, and found that some animal had killed a whole flock of sheep.