“There’s no wind,” said Jerry, in a puzzled tone, “unless there’s a hurricane coming from the west. I know now what it means. It’s the howling of wolves, fellows.”
No one spoke. The assertion was too plain for denial. Nearer and louder rose the weird, moaning sounds. Howl answered howl. The ravenous scavengers of the forest were out on a night hunt for food.
“Yes, it is wolves,” muttered Hamp. “We ought never to have crossed the lake. The bitter weather has driven the pack down from Canada. Those brutes we saw yesterday were part of it.”
“Now they’re headed this way,” declared Jerry. “They must have attacked the camp of those two men, and been driven off. That’s what the shooting meant.”
“Can’t we climb trees?” Brick asked.
“If we do the catamount will likely climb after us,” replied Jerry. “Keep cool, fellows. A wolf is a born coward, and hates powder. We’ll give the pack a good dose of lead if they molest us. Have your rifles ready.”
The boys hurriedly built up the fire with great logs. Then, after a short discussion, they retreated to the cabin.
“This is the safest place,” said Hamp, as he barricaded the entrance with one of the sleds. “Tear a hole in that lower wall, Jerry. About as big as your head.”
As soon as the opening was made the boys crowded before it. It faced the direction from which the wolves seemed to be approaching, and commanded a view of the buck’s dangling carcass.
Closer on the frosty air rang the dismal howling of the wolves. They could be heard scurrying through the undergrowth. The boys waited, nervously fingering their rifles.