The fight waged at Joyce Mills’ camp with the gray shadows that were timber wolves was short and furious. A great gaunt giant of the forest, large as a man and quick as a tiger, who had been ready the instant before to engage in an uneven battle with Joyce’s dog leader, Dannie, saw Jim Baley approaching on the run and turned to leap at him.
Jim was no child. Born and reared in the rough timber-grown hills of Kentucky, he was as slim and active as a blacksnake. For him an axe was not alone an axe. It was a weapon.
As the gray beast leaped for his throat, he gripped the axe handle, one hand at each end, and swung it high. It caught the wolf squarely under the chin. That same instant Jim’s heavy boot shot forward in a vicious kick.
With a savage snarl the beast fell groveling in the snow. Before he could regain his feet he was dealt a blow on the head that left him quite out of the combat.
Seeing their leader lying motionless before them, the five wolves that remained turned to go slinking away.
“Cowards! Cowards!” Jim shouted. “A sorry lot, you are! Wouldn’t even attack a dog unless he’s chained. You—”
He turned to find Joyce at his side. In her hand she still gripped an axe.
“So you thought you’d take a hand?” he grinned. “Well, ’tain’t necessary. They’ve left. Right smart glad I am to see your spunk. You’ll need it in this land.”
Bending down, he scooped a handful of snow to rub it across the back of his left hand. It came away red.
“You’re hurt!” Joyce’s words came quick.