While the sun still shone over the western skyline, the first of the wolf pack appeared behind, and the boys knew that they were in for trouble.
The leader of the wolves was old and wise. For a time he held the pack of nearly thirty gaunt, gray wolves out of rifle range, waiting for dark. But hunger could not be denied. The less wise of the pack forged ahead, and the rifles of the three boys spoke with deadly effect.
Dick’s toll was three wolves before he emptied his magazine. Sandy shot one and thought he had killed another, but the animal seemed only stunned, and after a minute leaped up and came on again at a swinging lope, to be dropped by a shot from Dick, who had reloaded.
Toma did not fire, however. Instead, without any orders from Dick or Sandy, he made camp in a patch of scrub pine and spruce, where there was plenty of dead wood. Speedily he made a fire. When Dick and Sandy had exhausted their ammunition, and had gone for Corporal Richardson’s revolver, a huge fire was roaring and crackling before the upturned sled, in whose shelter rested the corporal.
The wolves had drawn off out of gunshot now. Some of them were devouring their comrades that had fallen. When darkness crept over the little camp the wolves had completely surrounded it.
“We’ve got to save our cartridges,” Dick said at last. “Toma, how many have you left?”
“Just gun full up,” replied Toma, which meant he had the magazine of his repeater full—eight shots.
Dick was fingering Corporal Richardson’s revolver. He was unaccustomed to handling a revolver and comprehended he could do little real damage with the small arm, having always used a rifle. Sandy was no better than he, and when Dick asked Toma if he could shoot with a revolver with accuracy, the guide shook his head.
“They’re slinking around us in a circle now,” Sandy reported fearfully, as the shadows deepened.
As he had said, now and again a dark, sinister form glided across the snow from shrub to shrub, skirting the firelight. Here and there, one of the pack sat on his haunches, his beady eyes fixed on the camp, while his mouth slavered. Frequently one of the number raised his nose to the sky and sounded the hunger howl.