68 • WILD SPOKTS m THE SOUTH. 



Poke suggested they were phantom wolves and 

 declared they were all white. 



All the fearful stories I had ever read, came coursing 

 through my brain. I saw snow-buried huts snuffed 

 out and ravished by these prowlers, and heard the shriek 

 of the child, thrown from the sleigh by its fear-mad- 

 dened mother, and many an old dream reshaped in my 

 mind the terrors of nights of fever. Were we to be 

 tired out by their devilish patience ? Was one gang to 

 relieve another, until we wearily fell into their hot tainted 

 jaws, thus to be hurled into oblivion? 



I shouted in the hope that some one might hear me ; 

 but what good to shout in that midnight forest ? I heard 

 a voice — it was Poke saying his prayers. I listened 

 devoutly, but could offer none myself. 



When he had finished, I called to him. He answered 

 faintly — 



" What is it ? speak quickly ; I can't hold on much lon- 

 ger." 



" Fire your pistol ; do try, it may bring some help, 

 even if it does not kill." 



" I will try," answered Poke. 



" There was a momentary pause, and then the sharp 

 crack of a pistol was followed by the singing of a bullet 

 close by my ear. By the flash, I saw Poke, hatless, and 

 almost coatless, hanging on to the topmost branch of a 

 young pecan, that bent with him like an orange-treo 

 under a heavy load of fruit. With the report of the 

 pistol, there was a scramble among the voracious crew at 



