“Wolves,” he muttered. “They’d eat it all.”
He thought of making the canvas covering of his pack into an improvised sled and placing the meat upon it, of hitching the dogs to that.
“Don’t believe they could haul it,” he decided. “The trail’s too narrow. Snow on sides is too deep.”
Again there came the dismal howl. This time it was followed by a yap-yap-yap. To the boy’s consternation, this yapping was answered from a dozen points at once.
“Lot of them out there. Gaunt, hungry beasts. Dangerous, I guess.”
Again he thought of the four cartridges. They were not enough. He might be obliged to cut his team loose and make a dash for it.
The dogs heard the challenging call from the wild creatures of the forest and bunched together as if for defense. Their manes stood straight up. The leader, a part-hound, was growling in a low tone, as if talking to himself.
This team of five dogs which Joe drove was a pick-up team. Besides the part-hound leader, there was one huskie and three dogs of uncertain breed. The huskie’s team mate, Sport, was slight of build and inclined to shirk. The two “wheel-horses” were short, stocky fellows who worked well in traces and showed signs of being good fighters.
Like some scout preparing for an Indian attack, Joe now loosened the dogs’ traces from the sled. But that they might not rush out heedless of danger to be cut up by the merciless fangs of the wolves he chained each dog to the sled.
“Time enough to let you at them later,” he murmured. He felt a certain amount of security in their companionship.