est a long,
haunting mourn. The calves shifted uneasily; the dogs raised sharp
noses to sniff the air, and Rea, settling back against a tree, cried
out: "Ho! Ho!" Again the savage sound, a keen wailing note with the
hunger of the northland in it, broke the cold silence. "You'll see a
pack of real wolves in a minute," said Rea. Soon a swift pattering of
feet down a forest slope brought him to his feet with a curse to reach
a brawny hand for his rifle. White streaks crossed the black of the
tree trunks; then indistinct forms, the color of snow, swept up, spread
out and streaked to and fro. Jones thought the great, gaunt, pure white
beasts the spectral wolves of Rea's fancy, for they were silent, and
silent wolves must belong to dreams only.

"Ho! Ho!" yelled Rea. "There's green-fire eyes for you, Buff. Hell
itself ain't nothin' to these white devils. Get the calves in the
tepee, an' stand ready to loose the dogs, for we've got to fight."

Raising his rifle he opened fire upon the white foe. A struggling,
rustling sound followed the shots. But whether it was the threshing
about of wolves dying in agony, or the fighting of the fortunate ones
over those shot, could not be ascertained in the confusion.

Following his example Jones also fired rapidly on the other side of the
tepee. The same inarticulate, silently rustling wrestle succeeded this
volley.

"Wait!" cried Rea. "Be sparin' of cartridges."

The dogs strained at their chains and bravely bayed the wolves. The
hunters heaped logs and brush on the fire, which, blazing up, sent a
bright light far into the woods. On the outer edge of that circle moved
the white, restless, gliding forms.

"They're more afraid of fire than of us," said Jones.

So it proved. When the fire burned and crackled they kept well in the
background. The hunters had a long respite from serious anxiety, during
which time they collected all the available wood at hand. But at
midnight, when this had been mostly consumed, the wolves grew bold
again.

"Have you any shots left for the 45-90, besides what's in the
magazine?" asked Rea.

"Yes, a good handful."

"Well, get busy."

With careful aim Jones emptied the magazine into the gray, gliding,
groping mass. The same rustling, shuffling, almost silent strife ensued.

"Rea, there's something uncanny about those brutes. A silent pack of
wolves!"

"Ho! Ho!" rolled the giant's answer through the woods.

For the present the attack appeared to