he stood, for whose presence, no doubt, those around him were
waiting. Just then he saw WESTCOTT'S huntin' cap above the rocks on
the point, and saw his double-barrel poked out in the direction of the
leader of the pack, and he knew that that old grey-back's time had
come. Mark let off a fresh volley of profanity, and as the wolves
seemed preparing for a rush, WESTCOTT'S rifle broke the frozen
stillness of the woods, and old grey-back turned a summerset and went
down. The astonished wolves clustered together for a moment in
confusion, and the other barrel spoke out. Another of the pack bounded
into the air, and as he came down kicked and thrashed about in a most
oncommon way, and then laid still--while the way the rest put out for
the point, some distance up the lake, was a thing to be astonished at.
Mark threw up his hat, and hollered, and shouted, and swore, till the
last wolf disappeared into the forest, and then shoulderin' one of the
dead kritters, and WESTCOTT the other, started on home. The hides, and
the bounty on the scalps, made a good day's work of it; but Mark
swears to this day, that if the last dozen of wolves had been a little
earlier, or Westcott a little later, he'd a-been driven like a buck to
the water, cold as it was; and if they'd been a little earlier still,
he'd have been a goner. He never goes far from home since, without a
rifle; although with that he has no fear of wolves, yet he concludes
that a hunting-knife and a stick are no match for a whole pack of the
kritters, when made savage by the starvation of winter."

[Illustration: Westcott's rifle broke the frozen stillness of the
woods, and old greyback turned a summerset and went down. The
astonished wolves clustered together for a moment in confusion, and
the other barrel spoke out.]

While we were listening to the story of Mark Shuff and the wolves, the