They had turned the lamp low, that they might see the better what was
going on out of doors. The wolves, baffled by the sudden disappearance
of their quarry, were ranged a little distance from the porch door, save
two or three of the bolder ones, which were sniffing at the door itself.
The dogs were nowhere to be seen.

"Look out!" called Bobby to Skipper Ed, who was about to open the porch
door. "Some of them are right at the door!"

Then he and Jimmy began shooting. The wolves at the door fell, and
Skipper Ed, opening the door a little way, joined in a fusillade at the
main pack. The rapid reports of the rifles at close range, together with
the flashes of fire from an unseen source, struck panic to the heart of
the pack. A slightly wounded one turned and ran. That was a signal for
panic, as is the way of men and beasts, and the whole pack followed in
a mad, wild rush to the cover of the woods.

An instant and the last of the pack had faded into the shadows among the
trees--all save those left sprawling and limp upon the snow, which would
never roam the hills again, and one or two of the wounded, which were
whining, like whipped dogs, and the clearing about the cabin was as
deserted as ever it was.

"I'll go out," said Skipper Ed, "and end the suffering of those wounded
brutes. Build up the fire, partner, and put the kettle on, and we'll
have some tea. Then if there's no sign of what's left of the pack
returning, we'll haul the carcasses into the shed, where we can skin
them tomorrow."

There was a roaring, cheerful fire in the stove when Skipper Ed returned