He started at the sound of his own voice, so singularly harsh and strong, and rose to his feet without great effort.
“I’ll strike the lake trail this time,” he murmured. “If I kin but reach the cave, I’ll be strong in a little while.”
Then he moved off, but suddenly came to a halt.
“Hyar they come; them infernal Indian dogs!” he hissed, listening to the tramp of many feet, and the yells that resounded throughout the forest. “I thinned their ranks when I war trappin’; but since the boys are all dead, the dogs will increase. They’re half-starved, I kin tell by their yelps, and they’re comin’ d’rectly toward me!”
The trapper hugged a tree, and listened to the noise of the troop.
The animals, many of which were half-wolf, were snapping and snarling at each other, and ready to tear to pieces any animated object which obstructed their path. The Chippewa dogs, tired of gnawing bones around the lodges, often made incursions into the forest, where they sometimes met and gave battle to their brother—the wolf. More than one Indian had fallen a prey to the wild dogs, when returning from an unsuccessful foray, and of late the young braves had dispatched large numbers of the brutes, when they could do so without its coming to the knowledge of their several owners.
On came the half-starved dogs, and Doc Cromer held his breath.
“They haven’t tasted meat for days,” he said, “and, thank Heaven! they’re passin’ me to the right!”
His ejaculation of joy was quickly followed by an exclamation of terrible anxiety.
The dogs had scented him and had paused.