The Last of the Plainsmen 



For the present the attack appeared to have been 

 effectually checked. The hunters, sparingly adding 

 a little of their fast diminishing pile of fuel to the 

 fire, decided to lie down for much needed rest, but 

 not for sleep. How long they lay there, cramped 

 by the calves, listening for stealthy steps, neither 

 could tell; it might have been moments and it might 

 have been hours. All at once came a rapid rush of 

 pattering feet, succeeded by a chorus of angry barks, 

 then a terrible commingling of savage snarls, growls, 

 snaps and yelps. 



&quot; Out! &quot; yelled Rea. &quot;They re on the dogs! &quot; 



Jones pushed his cocked rifle ahead of him and 

 straightened up outside the tepee. A wolf, large 

 as a panther and white as the gleaming snow, sprang 

 at him. Even as he discharged his rifle, right against 

 the breast of the beast, he saw its dripping jaws, its 

 wicked green eyes, like spurts of fire and felt its hot 

 breath. It fell at his feet and writhed in the death 

 struggle. Slender bodies of black and white, whir 

 ling and tussling together, sent out fiendish uproar. 

 Rea threw a blazing stick of wood among them, 

 which sizzled as it met the furry coats, and brandish 

 ing another he ran into the thick of the fight. Unable 

 to stand the proximity of fire, the wolves bolted and 

 loped off into the woods. 



&quot; What a huge brute ! &quot; exclaimed Jones, dragging 



180 



