'I am going to fire,' he said. 'Don't speak or move for a minute.' He pointed his pistol, took a long aim, and pulled the trigger.
No wolf fell, but the shot produced a curious effect.
In an instant every wolf of the nine had 'dispersed' as though the pack had been scattered by some mysterious force. They fled in every direction except towards us. Tom uttered a cry of triumph. For a hundred or two yards the wolves careered as though they were mad. At a furlong's distance every wolf stopped and turned round. Not one of them uttered a sound.
'What a bad shot!' said Tom. 'Idiot that I was! I don't understand these things. Are you any good with them?'
I had found my tongue, and replied that I had practised at a mark occasionally. 'You take one more shot, and then let me try one,' I suggested.
'Good,' said Tom. 'I have been thinking. It's only about a mile to that wide crack, the ten-footer. I think I could skate as far as that with an effort. When we get near, I'll rest if necessary, and after that we will fly it. I doubt if the wolves will follow us over.'
This was an excellent idea. We started off. If either of us had hoped that the savage brutes at our heels would have been discouraged from further pursuit, we were soon disappointed, for within a minute all nine were again in full cry after us at two hundred yards' distance. For three-quarters of a mile Tom skated on in agony.
'Now we will stop, and I will fire my second shot,' he said.
Once more our nine snarling friends found discretion the better part of their valour, and stopped at a biscuit-toss from us, whining and howling and looking grim enough to frighten the most iron nerves. Perhaps Tom's hand shook a bit; at any rate, he missed again, and handed me over the revolver with an exclamation of disgust. And again the wolves retired, but not so far away this time.
We waited two or three minutes.