THE WOLF HUNTERS 



"Now," I whispered to my comrades, "let each 

 one of us get his carbine or pistol ready, and be 

 careful to keep them from rattling, and when I 

 open our door we'll call on him to throw up his 

 hands and take him prisoner." 



"I think Til give him a load of shot first," 

 whispered Jack, who had the shotgun, "an* then 

 call on him to throw up." 



Finding that I could not open our door without 

 making a noise, I jerked it wide open quickly. As 

 I did so the kneeling man turned the full side of 

 his face to me, and in the bright moonlight I 

 recognized private John Flaherty, one of two 

 soldiers who not long before, with Lieutenant 

 Smith, had been caught in a blizzard at our camp 

 and had stayed there until the storm was over. 

 Seeing Jack raise his shotgun to fire, I knocked 

 the muzzle up as I exclaimed: 



"Don't shoot, Jack, it's Flaherty!" 



He had pressed the trigger, but my throwing 

 the barrels up sent the load of shot into the dirt 

 roof of the stable instead of into Flaherty's back. 



I wondered at the stupid, sluggish manner of 

 the man as he rose to his feet at the report of the 

 gun, but when he started off up the path leading 

 to the top of the bank his uncertain gait plainly 

 showed that he was drunk. 



Dropping his shotgun, Jack bounded out and 

 up the path after him, soon overtaking the drunken 

 soldier, seizing him by the collar and cuffing him 



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