“What is it?” Jack asked, as he sat up, now fully awake.
“It’s wolves and they’re coming our way,” Bob replied, as he began to crawl out of his bag. “We must get that fire going again. They’re afraid of a fire, thank goodness, but that’s about the only thing they are afraid of.”
It was the work of but a minute to heap more wood on the dying coals, and they were glad to find that there was still enough fire left to catch the new fuel. Soon the flames were shooting up once more, but now the howls were coming with increasing frequency and each one seemed nearer than the one before.
“There’s a good many more than one in that pack,” Bob declared as he jumped back into the trench, and picked up the 38 Winchester, which he had taken from the pack before going to bed.
“I should say so,” Jack agreed, as howl answered to howl above the roaring of the wind.
“The deep snow up north must have driven them south,” Bob declared as he listened to the short full-throated cry of the hunting timber wolves now so plainly heard through the wall of the falling snow that he strained his eyes, expecting every minute to catch sight of the leaping forms. Just then Jack spoke and the note of alarm in his voice caused Bob to turn his head quickly.
“My gracious, Bob, do you realize that we threw on the last of the wood?”
“That’s so, and there’s not enough to keep the fire going more than a half hour at most, and it’s all of six hours to daylight.
“Think we’d better climb a tree?”
“Not yet,” Bob replied after a moment’s thought. “That big pine’s pretty handy and we can get into it if we have to, but it’d be mighty cold up there. They won’t dare to come very near so long as the fire’s going in good shape, and if I can pick off two or three of them, perhaps they’ll clear out. Just hear them howl.”