Having paid the Indian, he lashed his rifle to the top of the load, and, shouting to his dogs, went racing away after his companions.
The short day was nearing its close when, on passing a turn in the trail, Joe found himself swinging out of the forest into an open stretch of wild meadow.
He had hardly made a hundred rods of this open trail when he heard a sharp howl which came from the edge of the forest.
“Wolves!” he muttered. “Caught the scent of this meat. Indians say it has been a bad winter for wolves. Starving, I guess. Well, we’ll show those boys our heels.”
Reaching out to the sled as he traveled forward, he unlashed his rifle and threw it across his arm. As he did so, he caught his breath. There were, he suddenly remembered, but four cartridges in the rifle and none on the sled. Their supply of ammunition was on Curlie’s sled.
Shouting at the dogs, he gripped the handle of the sled with one hand and with the rifle poised in the other, went pit-patting along over the trail.
He had reached the center of the open space and was hoping to arrive at the forest soon and find the others encamped there, when tragedy suddenly descended upon him.
A dull crash was followed by a sickening thud. The sled, having been twisted sideways in crossing a dry ravine, had crumpled down. Springing forward, the boy found that all the lashings and braces of one runner were torn away.
“Smashed beyond repair,” he muttered. “Now how am I going to get that meat to camp?”
He thought of unhitching the dogs and of clinging to the main draw rope as he raced away to his friends for aid. This thought was speedily banished when a dismal, long-drawn howl came from the edge of the forest.