THE TIMBER-WOLF PACK
"That sounds bad to me," Frank told himself, as he listened to the
long-drawn howls of the carniverous wolves, echoing so drearily along
the side of the mountain. "Seems like this is my night for shaking
hands with Old Man Trouble right along. Whew, there must be as many as
half a dozen hungry creatures in that pack!"
He fed more sticks to his snapping blaze, and a minute or two later had
made up his mind.
"Doesn't seem to be a decent-sized tree left around these diggings. I
reckon an avalanche must have carried them all down to the foot of the
mountain, and these saplings are second-growth timber. That means I'm
not going to follow Paul's example, and roost in a tree."
Frank, of course, was well acquainted with the fact that nearly all
wild animals to be found in western wilds are afraid of fire. That
would mean he must have sufficient fuel close at hand to keep his blaze
going for several hours; really until the coming of dawn should send
the ravenous beasts skulking off to their dens, they being creatures of
the night.
"Time I got busy and collected all the stuff that will burn," he said,
after making this decision to stand by the fire as his best resort.
"It might even be I'll have to start a second blaze, to keep them from
creeping up from the rear and taking me off my guard."
He went to the task with great energy, forgetting all about sore arms
in his desire to pile up the wood.
Crash! and down came the heavy rock again and again, breaking the wood
in short lengths suitable for his purpose. It was wonderful how rapidly
his pile grew, but then Frank was fully aware of the tremendous amount
of fuel an open campfire can devour in the course of several hours, and
if his supply gave out just at a critical moment he would be undone.
Now and then he would stop to listen.
"Their keen ears must have heard this noise of my wood-smasher at work,
and chances are they'll get wise," he remarked between his gasps for
breath at one period of his energetic labors. "Yes, their howls are a
whole lot closer than when I first heard them."
That caused a quick return to work, for his wood-pile was not as large
as caution dictated. How Frank wished he had his rifle with him, for
then he could rapidly diminish the pack until the rest took fright and
left for some distant refuge.
The doleful sounds continued to break the silence of the night with
a horrible significance. No one who has never heard the howling of
wolves, with not any weapon other than his hunting-knife to defend
himself against their sharp teeth and terrible claws, can realize what
a strange feeling assails even a valiant heart as the sounds draw
steadily nearer and nearer.
Frank picked out a good stout cudgel, and kept it handy for use in case
it came to a fight with the pack. Still the boy hoped he might fend off
the animals by a judicious use of flaming brands, hurled from time to
time into their midst.
So rapidly had they come that now he felt sure he could hear the rush
of their bodies through the bushes close by. Then he caught sight of a
moving figure seen dimly by the firelight, and which crouched low as it
came toward him.
Frank uttered a yell, and, springing to his fire, stirred it to greater
efforts. Not content with this, since the wolf still lay only thirty
feet or so away, he snatched up a burning brand and sent it whizzing
through the air.
"My old cunning as a baseball pitcher comes in handy on such an
occasion as this," chucked Frank, when he plainly caught the "plunk"
that announced the collision of the whirling faggot of wood with the
crouching beast.
He heard the surprised beast give a snap and a snarl. The hard-flung,
blazing missile had burnt its hide, and Frank saw the animal scuttle
off in great haste.
"So long, Mr. Wolf!" he shouted, in great glee over the success of his
initial effort at bombardment. "Got your number that time, and three
strikes means you're out! Plenty more tricks in the bag, you want to
know. Who's the next victim? Don't be backward about stepping forward;
all coons look alike to me when I'm pitching gilt-edged ball."
Before long he was aware that his enemies had his camp completely
surrounded. Glance whichever way he might, Frank could glimpse a pair
of yellow, wicked-looking eyes fixed hungrily upon him.
"Now I've got to mind myself, all right," he muttered, holding in
readiness for quick action in case the beasts attempted to rush his
fortress in a body. "I don't like them creeping so near, and I'd better
put a few more of these red brands to good use."
He seized upon one, and sent it hurdling through space; then a second
followed in rapid succession, the bombardment being maintained until he
had given the whole circle a share of the blazing faggots.
"All pins down, and a count for me," the undaunted boy called out,
partly because the sound of his own voice helped keep his spirits up.
"Set 'em up in the other alley, boy! Huh! didn't just like having it
rain fire, did you, old Graybacks? Moved back a bit, too. And I'd feel
a whole lot easier, if you'd keep that distance from now till daylight!"
But the scare of the wolves was of short duration. Inside of ten
minutes they had crept back once more to their former advanced line, so
that again the boy could see those glaring orbs whichever way he looked.
He had to repeat the barrage, using up more of his precious wood than
he could well spare.
"Retreated again," he told himself, though with a lack of his former
enthusiasm. "But I can't keep that sort of thing going right along.
I'll hold off longer, and then jump for them with a brand in each hand."
He waited until he could actually glimpse the grim crouching figures
of the determined wolves flattened on the ground, just as he had many
times seen the pet cat at home do when ready to pounce on a robin or
a sparrow. Then he started for them, shouting at the top of his now
hoarse voice, and at the same time flourishing two torches with great
vigor.
The animals could not stand such a display of fireworks, and beat a
retreat once more. Frank was shrewd enough not to be tempted into
going any great distance away from his best friend, the fire.
Time passed on leaden wings as Frank Allen kept up this strange vigil.
By judicious management he succeeded in husbanding his shortening
supply of available fuel. On discovering signs of coming dawn over in
the east Frank took fresh heart, and began to believe he would win his
battle with the wolf pack.
Stronger grew the oncoming daylight.
"Showing signs of meaning to throw up the sponge, are you?" he called
out tauntingly, as he discovered one of the animals turning tail and
slinking away, heading along the mountainside, evidently having a den
in that quarter. "Well, here's wishing you better luck in getting
supper another time, when it's venison you're stalking and not a poor
tenderfoot cowpuncher. Good riddance to bad rubbish. There goes a
second chap, licking his chops like all hungry disappointed animals do."
So the pack disintegrated, until so far as Frank could see there
remained only a solitary sentry out in the scrub.
"Seems to be a whole lot more tenacious than the rest of his bunch,"
chuckled the greatly relieved besieged boy. "I'll fix him, all right.
Plenty of ammunition now, and to spare."
He boldly charged the last member of the once threatening pack, and
pelted him with a number of burning sticks in rapid succession. It was
some gratification to score several "hits," and in the end he had that
wolf running for shelter, with a badly singed hide to make him remember
with regret his close acquaintance with one of the elements that he
held in fear.
"Coast seems to be all clear now, but I'd better hang around for
another half hour or so," Frank told himself. "Gee! what a dandy fire
for cooking bacon and eggs over, if only I had them."
When he took it for granted that the time set had passed, Frank started
off. The sun was already above the low and level horizon beyond the
foothills lying to the east, and Frank gave a fond look that way,
remembering that over in that quarter lay Rockspur Ranch, with its
familiar surroundings and the friends who occupied so much of his
waking thoughts.
He found the going anything but easy, so rough was the mountainside in
every direction. Now and then he was afforded wonderful views, as some
new vista opened up. Frank hoped he was through with adventure for some
time; though remembering that these wild mountain regions were said to
be the hunting-grounds of certain savage animals, such as the grizzly
bear.
"I'd sure hate" he was muttering at one time as he climbed, "to run
smack into one of those old Mountain Charlies, as Jerry said they are
called over on the coast side of the Rockies. I'll try to keep my eye
fixed on some nice tree that I can shin up, in case there's any need of
a change of base."
By slow degrees he was making fair headway up the rugged slope. Several
times he found it necessary to detour, on account of a cliff that
loomed up in his course and that could not be scaled, even should he
take his courage in both hands and make the attempt.
"They do say the longest way around is sometimes the shortest in the
end," he buoyed up his spirits by saying; "and I'd a heap rather go an
extra half-mile than fall from that rocky wall."
He was wondering how much farther he ought to climb and if it might not
be the part of wisdom on his part to start yelling on the chance of
being overheard by the others of his party, when he fancied he caught
the sound of a human voice.
The more he listened the better convinced he felt that he had not been
deceived by his ears. Some one was grumbling, and talking in a fretful
tone.
"Hello!" called Frank, cupping his hands and sending out the shout in
the direction the sounds seemed to come from.
"Oh, help! Help!" came back almost instantly and in piteous tones.
"I ought to know that voice!" snapped Frank.
Thrilled by the anguish which he had caught with Lanky's muffled appeal
for assistance, Frank Allen hurried as much as he dared. As he advanced
he continued to call out reassuring words.
"Hey, Lanky, I'm coming!"