They
remained in a circle about him and his fire, displaying an arrogance of
possession that shook his courage born of the morning light.
He made one desperate attempt to pull out on the trail. But the moment
he left the protection of the fire, the boldest wolf leaped for him, but
leaped short. He saved himself by springing back, the jaws snapping
together a scant six inches from his thigh. The rest of the pack was now
up and surging upon him, and a throwing of firebrands right and left was
necessary to drive them back to a respectful distance.
Even in the daylight he did not dare leave the fire to chop fresh wood.
Twenty feet away towered a huge dead spruce. He spent half the day
extending his campfire to the tree, at any moment a half dozen burning
faggots ready at hand to fling at his enemies. Once at the tree, he
studied the surrounding forest in order to fell the tree in the direction
of the most firewood.
The night was a repetition of the night before, save that the need for
sleep was becoming overpowering. The snarling of his dogs was losing its
efficacy. Besides, they were snarling all the time, and his benumbed and
drowsy senses no longer took note of changing pitch and intensity. He
awoke with a start. The she-wolf was less than a yard from him.
Mechanically, at short range, without letting go of it, he thrust a brand
full into her open and snarling mouth.
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