There was no chance for reply. Jerry sounded a note of warning as the wolves came leaping at the cabin again.
A gaunt head suddenly shot through the aperture, and a pair of frothy jaws closed with a snap on the sleeve of Hamp’s jacket. Brick instantly reversed his rifle, and hit the brute a stunnning blow. The head vanished, and Hamp nervously examined his arm.
“Not a scratch,” he muttered. “You hit him just in time, Brick. Now I’ll pay the brute for his daring.”
He poked his shotgun out, and fired both barrels. Jerry joined in with a rattling fusillade.
“That hit something,” he shouted. “Half a dozen of the varmints were scratching at the sled. I thought it would give way.”
“We’ll beat them off yet,” gasped Brick. “Aren’t they savage, though? They don’t mind the fire a bit. Hullo! there’s a paw sticking through. Take that.”
“That” was a well-delivered charge of buckshot between the timbers of the cabin. A yelp of agony followed the report.
“Good!” applauded Jerry. “You’ll do.”
“Keep it up, fellows,” yelled Hamp. “Plenty of powder and shot will tell. There, the brutes are falling back a little.”
Hamp was right. The scratching at the cabin now ceased. But the hungry pack were loth to abandon their prey. Still they scurried here and there. From the opening the boys could see the sinewy bodies and the gleaming eyes. Above the din of yelps and howls a shriller sound occasionally rose.