herwise have reached his ears. There was a new note in the howling,
too, which Dave's ear interpreted as meaning that the quarry was in
sight. Then the noise stopped abruptly, save for an impatient yelp or
two.

"Whatever it be they're after, it's took to cover," said Dave to
himself. "An' in the old shanty, too!" he added, as he saw the little
patch of clearing open before him.

Realizing that the wolves had something to occupy fully their
attention, he now crept noiselessly forward just within the edge of
the wood. Peering forth from behind the cover of a drooping hemlock
branch, he saw the roof of the hut, the half-open doorway nearly
choked with snow, and the wolves prowling and sniffing around it, but
keeping a couple of yards away.

"Scairt of a trap!" he thought to himself with a grin, and cursed his
luck that he had not his rifle with him.

"A couple o' them thick, grey pelts," he thought--"what a coat they'd
make for the little one!"

There were six wolves, and big ones--enough to make things look pretty
ugly for one man with only an axe. Dave was glad they had something to
keep them from turning their attention to him. He watched them for a
few moments, then decided to go around by the other side of the
clearing and avoid trouble.

He drew back as silently as a lynx. Where the woods overhead were
thick, the snow was soft, with no crispness on the surface; and
instead of the crunching that his steps made on the trail, here the
snow made no sound under his feet but a sort of thick sigh.

Dave had taken several paces in retreat, when an idea flashed up that
arrested him. _Why_ were the wolves so wary about entering the hut,
when their quarry was certainly inside? Their dread of a trap was not,
of itself, quite enough to explain their caution. The thought gave him
a qualm of uneasiness. He would return and have another look at them!
Then his impatience got the better of him. Mary and the little one
were waiting and watching for him at home. He retreated another pace
or two. What should he be doing, wasting his time over a parcel of
wolves that had got a fox cornered in the old shanty? Dave felt sure
it was a fox. But no! He could not escape the conviction--much as he
wished to--that if the fugitive were a fox, or any other animal of the
north-eastern woods, it would not take six hungry wolves much more
than six seconds to get over their suspicions and go in after him.
What if it should be some half-starve