122 
Northern Trails. Book I 
Creeping near on the trail the little hunters crouched 
under a low spruce, watching as if fascinated the wild 
feast of the wolves. Noel’s bow was ready in his hand; 
but luckily the sight of these huge, powerful brutes 
overwhelmed him and drove all thoughts of killing out 
of his head. Mooka plucked him by the sleeve at last, 
and pointed silently homewards. It was surely time to 
go, for the biggest wolf had already stretched himself 
and was licking his paws, while the two cubs with full 
stomachs were rolling over and over and biting each 
other playfully in the snow. Silently they stole away, 
stopping only to tie a rag to a pointed stick, which they 
thrust between their own caribou’s ribs to make the 
wolves suspicious and keep them from tearing the 
game and eating the tidbits while the little hunters 
hurried away to bring the men with their guns and 
dog sledges. 
They had almost crossed the second barren when 
Mooka, looking back uneasily from the edge of the 
woods, saw a single big wolf emerge across the barren 
and follow swiftly on their trail. Startled at the sight, 
they turned swiftly to run; for that terrible feeling 
which sweeps over a hunter, when for the first time 
he finds himself hunted in his turn, had clutched their 
little hearts and crushed all their confidence. A sudden 
panic seized them; they rushed away for the woods, 
running side by side till they broke into the fringe 
