THE RUN OF THE WOLVES 173 



clump of dead Red Willows furnished eager 

 timber. How his sinewy arms wrenched them 

 from their rotted roots. High he piled the de 

 fence beacon ; the blaze shot up, and red-tinted 

 the ghost forms of the silent trees. 



Gray shadows circled the outer rim of blazing 

 light the Wolves were forming a living stock 

 ade about him. Blue Wolf placed the sentinels 

 strategically. &quot; Not too close, silly pups,&quot; he 

 called warningly to two yearling grandsons ; 

 &quot; the Firestick will scorch your sprouting mus 

 taches if you poke your noses within reach. 

 Remember, Comrades,&quot; he said to the older 

 Wolves, &quot; there is no Kill only the Blood-fear 

 for this Man.&quot; 



The sparks fluttered waveringly skyward, like 

 fire-flies at play; the Willows snapped and 

 crackled like ice on a river when the water is 

 falling. When the light blazed high the Wolves 

 slunk back ; when there was only a huge red glow 

 of embers, they closed in again. 



All night Fran9ois toiled, never letting the 

 rifle from his grasp. With one hand and his 

 strong moccasined feet he crushed the dry, 

 brittle Red Willows, and threw them on his 

 life-guarding fire. No sleeping; a short-paced 

 beat round and round the safety-light, and almost 

 incessantly on his trembling lips a crude, plead- 



