“Just as I told you,” continued Roger, trembling all over with eagerness, “he has used up his arrows, and is trying to cut down the number of his four-footed enemies by other means.”
“There, listen to that howl!”
“Oh! he made a splendid strike that time, Dick!”
“Yes, and you can see what that clever brave is up to, if you notice the wild scuffle at the foot of the tree,” the other replied.
“Why, the wolves seem to be fighting among themselves, Dick. What makes them act that way, do you know?”
“I can give a guess. These mad animals are almost starving, though just how that should be, at this season of the year, I am not able to say. The scent of blood makes them wild, you see, and, every time the brave’s knife wounds one of the pack, the rest set upon the wretched beast to finish him.”
“In that way the Indian could clean them up in time, I should say, without any help from us,” Roger suggested, though he showed no sign that his intention of giving aid had changed in the least.
“But they might take warning, and stop jumping up at him,” Dick explained; “then his knife would be useless. And, too, other wolves hearing the noise are apt to hasten to the spot, so that there might be an increasing pack, a new one for every beast he helped to kill.”
“Dick, he is a brave fellow, even if his skin is red!”
“I agree with you there,” said the other, softly.