Early the next morning Martin roused Larry for breakfast. The old man had been up an hour and was ready to start on his hunt as soon as breakfast was finished, but he had let the boy sleep as long as possible. While they ate Martin gave Larry final instructions as to what he was to do during the day.
“Rest all you can,” he instructed, “and don’t go far from camp under any circumstances. Don’t let the dogs loose even for a minute. It isn’t likely that they would wander off, but they might get started after a rabbit and wind up chasing caribou or fighting wolves. Anyhow don’t give them a chance.”
At the mention of wolves the boy looked anxious. “What if the wolves came near here—came right up to the camp and wanted to fight Jack and Kim?” he asked.
The old man pointed to the little rifle standing against the wall. “Give ’em the thirty-eight,” he said. “But they won’t come very near,” he added. “They’ll be howling around in the distance of course, because they will scent our cooking. But at worst they wouldn’t dare come near until night; and I’ll be here by that time. And always remember this: a wolf is a coward; and your thirty-eight will knock dead in his tracks the biggest wolf that ever lived. Just keep the little gun strapped on you all day and you won’t be afraid or feel lonesome. Next to a man a gun is the most comforting companion in the world.”
Larry followed Martin’s instructions almost to the letter. He strapped on the gun and loafed about the camp-fire all the long forenoon, varying the monotony by patting and talking to the dogs, who lolled luxuriously beside the fire where Martin had tied them with double leashes. By noon the period of idleness palled on the boy who had entirely recovered from the exhaustion of the day before. So he took his axe and spent a couple of hours gathering fuel although Martin’s huge pile was still more than sufficient for another day.
At intervals he heard wolves howling at a distance, but that had now become a familiar sound, and he paid little attention to it. When the sun was only an hour high he began getting supper ready, keeping a sharp lookout for Martin who might appear at any minute. He had planned an unusually elaborate meal to surprise and cheer the old man when he returned, and he was so occupied with the work that he was oblivious to everything else, until the dogs startled him by springing up, bristling and snarling fiercely. Thinking that they had scented or sighted the returning hunter Larry ran out to look for him, shouting a welcome. But there was no sign of the old man.
In dismay he noticed that the sun was just setting, and on looking through the trees in the direction indicated by the dogs’ attitude he saw the silhouettes of four huge, gaunt wolves skulking among the trees. The odor of his elaborate cooking had reached them, and as night was coming on they were emboldened to approach.
The sight of the great creatures snarling and snapping in the gloomy shadows made the “goose flesh” rise on the boy’s skin. And while the presence of the dogs was a comfort, their attitude was not reassuring. They pulled and strained at their leashes, bristling and growling, but sometimes whining as if realizing that in a pitched battle they would be no match for the four invaders.
The realization that he was utterly alone in the great wilderness with darkness at hand, and a pack of wolves howling at his open door made the boy chill with terror. Instinctively he sought shelter behind the fire near the dogs, who welcomed him with appreciative whines. They looked upon him as a protector, and their faith helped his courage. Martin’s instruction to “give ’em the thirty-eight” also cheered him, and he took out the little gun and prepared for battle.
“Every wolf is a coward,” the old hunter had said; but these wolves were not acting like cowards at all. They did not rush forward boldly, it was true, but they were stealthily drawing nearer, snarling and bristling. They would stand pawing and sniffing the snow for a few moments as if the object of their visit was entirely forgotten. Then one of them would suddenly spring forward two or three short steps, and the whole crew would stand snapping their jaws and glaring savagely at the camp. In this way they were deliberately closing in upon it.
This method of approaching by short rushes was most disconcerting and terrifying, and several times Larry decided to open fire without waiting for the wolves to emerge from the shelter of the trees. But each time his better judgment restrained him.
When they had approached to within the circle of the nearest trees, however, he decided to act. Holding some cartridges in his left hand for quick loading, as Martin had taught him, he knelt beside the fire, rested his elbow on his knee, and tried to take careful aim. But his hand trembled, and his heart pounded so hard, that the sights of his rifle bobbed all about the mark he had selected. The more he tried to steady the rifle the more it seemed to waver and dance about, so that he knew it would be useless to fire.
At that moment the story of Weewah, the Indian boy, flashed into his mind—the little savage who fought with a hatchet, while he, the white boy, had his hard-hitting rifle and plenty of cartridges. He lowered the gun for a moment, and steadied himself with a few deep breaths, shutting his eyes and summoning all his courage. When he opened them he found that his hand was steadier and the pounding in his breast had almost ceased.
Meanwhile the wolves had spread out forming a restless semicircle before the camp. There were three gray ones, and one huge fellow almost pure white. Larry selected this white one for his first victim. Resting his elbow again on his knee he took careful aim, waiting for the restless wolf to pause for an instant. The moment the huge animal stopped to snarl fiercely at the camp, Larry pressed the trigger and fired.
At the sound of the report three of the wolves gave a startled leap sidewise, and then crouched forward again as they recovered from their surprise. But the white wolf sank in the snow where it stood, and lay still: the little bullet had “knocked him dead in his tracks” sure enough. With a gulp of exultation Larry slipped in a fresh cartridge and aimed carefully at a wolf that was a little in advance of the other two. Again his aim was true; but this wolf did not drop silently as had the white one. Instead he gave a howl of pain and rolled in the snow, turning it red all about him in his death struggles.
The other two wolves had leaped back at the flash and sound of the rifle as before. But at the sight and smell of their companion’s blood they rushed upon him, tearing and gashing him in their lust, and sucking his blood ravenously. Jack and Kim, made frantic by the struggle, added their furious but impotent howls to the uproar in their frenzied efforts to free themselves. While Larry, forgetful of personal danger in the excitement, sprang up and approached the struggling group, meanwhile inserting a fresh cartridge, and despatched the third wolf as he crouched wallowing in his companion’s blood.
The remaining wolf had paid no attention to the report that struck down his mate; but now as the boy paused to take careful aim, the huge creature, maddened by the taste of blood, turned suddenly and rushed upon him. There was no time to retreat, even if Larry had wished to do so. But he had no such intention, for the hot blood of fighting ancestors was now surging through his veins. With the coolness of a veteran the boy aimed and fired just as the gray monster shot through the air in his final spring toward him. The next instant his coat sleeve was ripped open clean to the shoulder by the furious snap of the animal’s jaws, and he was knocked headlong by the impact of the creature’s body.
Fortunately for him his bullet had found its mark, breaking the wolf’s back just as the animal leaped from the ground, and thus diverting the aim of its deadly jaws, while the force of its spring knocked Larry out of the wounded creature’s reach. Its hind legs were paralyzed and useless, but its jaws snapped viciously as it struggled to reach its foe on its fore legs.
The boy was up in an instant, maddened by his fall, and full of fight. Without trying to recover his gun which had fallen several feet away, he rushed to the pile of fire-wood, seized a heavy club, and brought it down again and again on the head of the crippled beast, until he had pounded out the last spark of life. Then, when it was all over, he stood trembling and weak, overcome by his efforts and the excitement.
A moment later he ran to the dogs and, regardless of Martin’s orders, turned them loose. He wanted them to share his victory, and stood laughing and gulping hysterically as he watched them rush upon the lifeless victims, and tear and maul them with wolfish ferocity. It was no fault of theirs that they had not shared the fight, and they vented their animosity by rushing from one victim to another, jerking the limp carcasses about, and shaking them like rats.
Meanwhile it had grown dark; and still no sign of Martin. For a little time after the battle Larry had stood forgetful of the old man’s absence, reveling in the thought of the story he should have to tell. But presently he realized the seriousness of his position. He no longer feared for his own safety: he and his little gun could “tend camp” against all comers he felt sure. But what was keeping Martin away so long?
He consoled himself with the thought that probably the old man had followed some game trail farther than he intended and was unable to get back before nightfall. So when the dogs had tired themselves out worrying the dead wolves, Larry tied them up and ate his cheerless supper. This revived his spirits a little, and he put into effect a plan he had made for surprising Martin. For this purpose he dragged the carcasses of the wolves together and covered them with boughs so that the old man would not notice them when he returned. At the right time the boy would tell his story and revel in Martin’s astonishment.
Then he built up a roaring fire, crawled into his sleeping bag and tried to sleep. But after two hours of restless tossing about, his mind filled with gloomy forebodings, he got up and seated himself beside the fire for his long vigil.
It was a terrible night for the boy. The thought that Martin might have been injured, or even killed, kept obtruding itself, and he shuddered at the awful consequences of such a calamity. He reassured himself over and over by the more probable explanation that the old man had gone farther from camp than he intended. But the other possibility could not be banished from his thoughts. And so he sat before his roaring fire, a big dog snuggling against him on either side, comforting his loneliness.