In a little while
there were more wolf cries, and they were coming nearer and nearer.
The animals were doubtless following some quarry. Was it Bob they were
after? A momentary qualm at the thought was quickly replaced by a
feeling of satisfaction. That, he tried to argue with himself, would
cover every clue to what had happened and was what he had hoped for.
He hurried on.
All at once a spasm of fear brought him to a halt. Could it be himself
the wolves were trailing! The old horror of the night came back with
all its reality and force. A clammy sweat broke out upon his body. He
looked wildly about him for a retreat, but there was none. The wolves
were gaining upon him rapidly and were very close now. There was no
longer any doubt that _he_ was their quarry. They were trailing _him_.
Micmac John was in a narrow, open marsh, and the wolves were already
at the edge of the woods that skirted it a hundred yards behind. A
little distance ahead of him was a big boulder, and he ran for it. At
that moment the pack came into view. He stopped and stood paralyzed
until they were within thirty yards of him, then he turned
mechanically, from force of habit, and fired at the leader, which
fell. This held them in check for an instant and roused him to action.
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