"Gracious, what ugly looking beasts," exclaimed Bob as his eyes rested on their late besiegers.
"We'll take the tails along, to show the fellows," said Hackett. "There's a bounty for 'em, too. I knew I could do the trick. Made some pretty good shots, eh, Somers?" and Hackett smiled complacently.
"Yes, you did," returned Bob, with a faint grin. "But better let's pitch in, now, and get a pile of wood ready for the night. The wolves may take it into their heads to come back."
"To think of having to spend hours and hours in this gloomy place," grumbled Hackett. "It's fierce luck—nothing to eat, either. Say, we, too, have an account to settle with the fellows who stole old Yardsley's furs. I'd like to run across 'em. Wonder if he had any luck?"
"Not likely. The trail was 'most lost when we got separated."
No sign of the remaining wolves being seen, they boldly set to work, and in spite of their tired condition, kept at it until a great pile of fuel was gathered. Then the bodies of the dead wolves were tossed unceremoniously to one side.
The smouldering fire soon quickened into life, and by this time, darkness had settled over the scene, a pitchy darkness, which the fire lighted up for a short distance with a fantastic glare.
Conversation lagged. They gazed moodily at the crumbling logs sending up showers of sparks, at the ever-changing forms, so suggestive to imaginative minds of hobgoblins and elves, dancing and twisting into every conceivable shape, but nothing could make them forget their hunger.
Time wearily dragged on—hours and hours passed—then tired nature asserted itself.
"No use of two keeping watch, Hacky. Let's take turns on guard, or if you want to take a nap—"