“But that will wake Dig. And it’s only nervousness,” thought the boy. “Huh! I must be afraid of the dark.”
He went back to the fire and sat down. There was the bole of a small tree at his back. The position was tempting.
But the restlessness of the yearling precluded sleep. The little beast strained at the end of its tether, headed toward the fire, and blatted plaintively.
“My goodness! but you are a scared calf,” Chet muttered, rising again.
And then, just over the line of the calf’s straining back, he saw the gleam of two eyes in the edge of the thicket.
Chet Havens sprang up on the instant, and as he sprang he fired. He didn’t have to aim, for those eyes looked as big as saucers to him!
There was a shrill howl from the stricken beast. Chet’s ball had punctured its breast as it threw up its head. Answering howls came from all about the camp. It was ringed with the savage brutes that had gathered silently in expectation of the killing.
The pistol shot, the wolf’s howl, and the maverick’s bawling awoke Dig. He scrambled up, confused and dreaming.
“Don’t kill him! don’t kill him, Chet!” he begged. “The poor thing hasn’t bucked you into the brook.”
“You bet I killed him,” returned his chum, and the next instant fired again.