"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
a few minutes later to report that twelve wolves lay dead outside.
"There must be some more down where we shot them at first," said he, as
he drew off his _adikey_, "and some of those that got away were wounded,
no doubt. At any rate we've cut the pack down so far in numbers that it
won't be a menace any longer."
"What'll they do now?" asked Bobby, as the three settled into their easy
chairs to wait for the kettle to boil.
"Go and look for caribou, and attend to their business, I suppose, and
leave us quiet, peaceable folk alone," he laughed, adding: "I never saw
such a pack before, though I've heard some of the old Eskimos say that
years ago it used to happen now and again that packs like this appeared.
Wolves are cowardly beasts, but numbers give them courage. When six or
eight get together, you have to look out for them, and when the pack
grows to a dozen they'll attack openly, and aren't afraid of
anything--not even man."
"Well, anyway we had the adventure we started out to get," laughed
Bobby, "and a little more of it than we expected."
"Yes, and a nice haul of wolf pelts to boot," added Skipper Ed.
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