But if nothing else, the smell of their brother’s blood would have brought the wolves back. They skulked along the watercourse and at the edge of the thicket. The flickering firelight did not frighten them.
They gave the horses a wide berth, for they feared their heels. The yearling was lying within the radiance of the firelight. The wolves surrounded the camp once more; but they drew near only at one point.
The beasts are not averse to licking the bones of their own kind. The dead wolf, that Chet had shot, drew them. And nearby hung the venison in the tops of the saplings.
Silently at first; then with muffled growls and the snapping of slavering jaws, the wolves fought over their comrade. There were a dozen and more of them. The horses moved uneasily, and the yearling struggled up again; but the boys slept.
One lank and hungry brute smelled the hanging deer flesh and slunk away to the spot. He leaped for it—again and yet again.
Chet had no idea how high a wolf could jump. He thought he had hung the meat out of reach of every marauder; but Mr. Wolf did not think so.
The horses and Stone Fence became quiet again. The chums sunk together into a deeper sleep. The fire burned down to mere embers.
Perhaps something occurred to make the wolves beat a silent retreat; at least, they left the vicinity of the encampment without raising another alarm. If the horses were now and then uneasy, their stamping did not awake Chet and Dig.
The day’s activities had exhausted the chums. Once asleep, Chet slept as heavily as Digby. Nothing occurred to arouse them until daybreak; then Chet awoke suddenly, sat up, threw off his blanket, and looked about in surprise.
“Say, you sleepy-headed coot!” he roared, flinging an empty milk-can at the still sleeping Dig. “What d’ye mean—sleeping like this? You never woke me up.”