Paul and the wolves watched each other for a full minute. When Paul’s first terror left him somewhat, and when he remembered what Dan had so often said: “They ain’t no beast to be skeered of in this country,” and again: “Wolves is big cowards unless they’s in packs,” he regained his self composure somewhat. Here were two, to be sure, but two could hardly be designated as a pack.

He also remembered that he had heard that a loud scream would sometimes frighten savage animals, and gathering his energies for it, he took a step toward the wolves, at the same instant opening his lungs in one wild, vociferous yell. The wolves, however, were not to be frightened so easily. They sat with their tongues lolling, and if an animal’s countenance can display amused wonder, theirs certainly did.

Paul, with a renewal of his fear, resumed his trail home. He wished to run, but Amesbury had told a story of having been followed by three or four once, when he was unarmed, and had stated that the fact that he had not increased his pace, and had given the animals no evidence of fear, had prevented them from attacking him. “An animal knows when you’re frightened,” explained Amesbury. “Let him feel that you’re in fear of him, and he’ll attack. If you’re ever followed, keep an even, unhurried gait, and they’ll be shy of you. But start to run and the beast will do the same, and overtake you every time.”

So Paul kept as even a pace as he could maintain under the circumstances. Now and again he glanced back. The wolves were following. For a little way they seemed not to be lessening the distance between him and them. At length, however, he discovered that they were coming closer and closer—very gradually, but still gaining upon him. Once or twice he stopped and they stopped, but when he started forward so did they.

When Paul made the second halt he noted with alarm that the wolves had shortened the distance between him and them, since he had first discovered them, by half. He knew then without a doubt that they had marked him for their prey.

He had not yet reached the point where Dan had parted from him in the morning. It was all he could do to restrain himself from breaking into a run, but this he was satisfied would prove immediately fatal.

At length the wolves were less than a hundred feet from his heels, and when he reached the branching of his own and Dan’s trails they were less than fifty feet away. He realized now that they were preparing for the attack. He could not hope to reach the cabin.

He halted before a clump of thick willow brush that grew along the stream, and faced about. The wolves stopped, sat on their haunches as before, their red tongues hanging from their mouths. He could see the fierce gleam of their eyes now.

He resolved to try again to frighten them, and again he gave a wild yell, stepping a pace toward them. They drew in their tongues and snarled, showing their wicked fangs. He who has seen the snarl of a wolf will understand Paul’s sensations. There was no doubt now of their intentions.

Paul was afraid to turn his back upon them. He felt the moment he did so they would spring. The cabin was still a half mile away. He waited, his axe grasped in both hands, prepared to strike.

This position was held for ten minutes, though it seemed an hour to Paul. Presently the animals took to their feet, and gradually edged in, snarling now in savage malevolence. One at last made a spring. Paul saw the preparatory move, swung his axe with all his strength, caught the beast square on the head, and it fell lifeless at his feet. At the same instant a rifle shot rang out, and the other wolf rolled over, also dead.

With the severe nervous strain and excitement ended, Paul nearly collapsed, but a shout from Dan brought him to his senses.

“Is you hurt, Paul? Is you hurt?” Dan asked as he came up, intense anxiety in his voice.

“No,” answered Paul, putting, on a bold face, “but they did give me a run for it.”

“’T was a wonderful close call!” exclaimed Dan. “I were comin’ t’ meet you when I hears you holler. I were leavin’ th’ gun in th’ cabin, an’ I has none, so I runs back an’ gets your rifle. ’T weren’t no common holler you gives, an’ I knows when I hears un things is amiss somehow, so I gets th’ rifle, an’ ’t were well I got un.”

“I thought for a minute it was all up with me, Dan. I’ll never go out without a gun again.”

“No, ’t ain’t safe. They’s wonderful bold, when just two of un comes at you,” and Dan turned over with his foot the carcass of the wolf Paul had killed. “I never heard of un doin’ that before. Paul, I were sayin’ t’ you once you was wonderful brave. You got a rare lot more grit than most folks.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Paul, exceedingly proud of Dan’s praise, but modestly inclined to deprecate his own prowess. “I just had to do what I did, or they’d have got me.”

“Were un follerin’ far?”

Paul explained in detail, as they returned to the cabin to get their toboggans upon which to haul in the carcasses, his afternoon’s adventure. When he had finished Dan said quietly and decisively:

“’Twere only th’ wonderful grit you has, Paul, as saved your life. If you’d run, now, or showed you was scared, they’d ha’ pulled you down quick.”

“Won’t my father be proud of that skin!” exclaimed Paul when they had the skins stretched for drying. “I’ll have it mounted for a rug, and won’t it be a beaut!”

“Both o’ un,” suggested Dan. “They’ll make a fine pair together.”

“But the other one is yours, Dan.”

“No, ’t ain’t.”

“Yes it is. You killed it and you’ve got to have it.”

Dan objected still, but in the end Paul persuaded him it was his.

“Dad’ll be wonderful proud t’see un,” admitted Dan.

For two days a snowstorm, with high wind, swept the country, and Amesbury did not appear on Saturday, but while the lads were eating a late breakfast on Sunday morning they heard him singing outside:

A moment later he came stamping in.

“Home again!” he exclaimed breezily, “and just in time for breakfast. How’ve you made it, fellows? Heigho! What’s this I see? Two wolf skins as sure as can be.”

He examined them as he listened to the story of the adventure, and his face became grave.

“What would I have done now if I’d come home to find one of you chaps missing? If you want to save me remorse and heartaches, always carry a gun when you go hunting.”

The weeks that followed passed pleasantly for Paul and Dan, though there was much hard work and exposure connected with their work. They gradually extended their trails, putting out more traps each day until they had, between them, four hundred and fifty set, leading out in several short trails from the cabin. All of them were visited twice a week.

Amesbury’s weekly visit was looked forward to with keen anticipation, and he enjoyed it even more than the boys. Twice Ahmik surprised them. He came, laughing and good-natured, and on each occasion remained three days, a mark of his attachment to the lads.

Each of the boys was once taken by Amesbury over his trail, but as he plainly preferred that they remain to work their trails and to keep each other company, they refrained from suggesting a second trip with him.

“I’m always afraid that the one of you at home may go wolf-baiting again, or something,” said he, “and I feel better to know you’re both here taking care of each other.”

On a day late in March Amesbury came in from his trail with the announcement that he had struck up his traps for the season, and they would presently start for Winnipeg. This meant that at last they were to turn homeward, and as much as they had enjoyed their winter they were overjoyed at the prospect.

By prearrangement, Ahmik arrived simultaneously with Amesbury, and all were together in the cabin during the following week while pelts were made ready to carry to market, and the cabin made snug for Amesbury’s extended absence.

Dan had succeeded in capturing thirty-two fine martens and Paul twenty-six. Utilizing the wolf and other carcasses for bait, they had also trapped five red, two cross, three blue and fourteen white foxes, setting the traps for the foxes in common. Dan declared he had caught twice as much fur during these few weeks as his father had ever had in a whole winter. “And Dad’s a wonderful fine hunter, too,” said he, “but they ain’t no such furrin’ where we lives as they is here.”

One cold, clear morning they said good-by to the little cabin on Indian Lake, and, each hauling his toboggan, turned southward. Day after day they traveled, through forests, over frozen lakes, across wide barren expanses of snow.

All wore amber-colored glasses, which Amesbury provided, to protect their eyes from the glitter, for, he explained, were they to travel with naked eyes they would quickly be attacked by painful snowblindness.

Now and again they were held prisoners in camp for a day or two, when severe storms visited the country. Occasionally they killed ptarmigans, spruce grouse, porcupines, or other small game, sufficient to keep them well supplied with provisions.

They did not hurry, and April was well spent when they reached Moose Lake, where Amesbury had a small hunting cabin, and, under a cover built of logs, two Peterboro canoes and one birch canoe. The cabin itself was small and naked of furniture, save camp cooking utensils, a tent stove and a couple of three-legged stools. Bunks were built around two sides of the room, which also served as seats.

“This was my first camp,” explained Amesbury. “I built it twenty years ago. There’s a Hudson Bay post down the lake, and in those days I didn’t want to wander too far from a base of supplies. I come in here and do a little bear trapping after I leave Indian Lake, and every two or three years take a run down to Winnipeg in a canoe. I take some of my provisions in from here, and get some from your old friend Davy MacTavish.”

Here they went into camp, and before the ice in the lake broke up made a snowshoe trip to the post, where flour, sugar, pork and other necessities were purchased and hauled back on toboggans.

This period of waiting was very tedious to the lads. The snow was becoming soft and wet, the woods were sloppy, and had less of attraction than in the crisp cold weather of midwinter.

One night in May a heavy rain set in, and for a week it fell in a steady downpour. The snow became slush, and when the sun came out again, now warm and balmy, much of the ground was bare, and Moose Lake was nearly clear of ice.

“Now for the canoe and the homestretch,” announced Amesbury, upon looking out upon the water and clear sky. “Tomorrow we’ll start. What do you fellows say to that?”

“Bully!” exclaimed Paul. “I can hardly wait for the time when I’ll get home.”

“’T will be fine t’ be afloat ag’in,” said Dan, “an’ I’m wantin’ wonderful bad t’ see Mother an’ Dad, an’ tell ’em about my cruise.”

“I thought you’d be ready to go. Big tales you chaps will have to tell of your adventures. I almost wish I were going with you,” and Amesbury looked wistfully down over the lake.

“Why you are, aren’t you?” asked Paul.

“Yes, as far as Winnipeg, to be sure. I want to see you chaps safe aboard the train. Couldn’t take chances on your getting mixed up in any more trouble,” he laughed.

“Can’t you come on to New York with us?” asked Paul eagerly. “Oh, I wish you could.”

“New York is a long way off, and a rough old trapper like me wouldn’t know what to do in a big city like that.”

“Yes, you would! I do wish you’d go home with me!”

Amesbury shook his head.

“No, I’m better off here, and I wouldn’t do New York any good.”

“Now I’m wonderin’ how I’ll be gettin’ home,” suggested Dan. “I’ve been wonderin’ an’ wonderin’. I’m all out o’ my reckonin’, goin’ different from th’ way I comes, an’ cruisin’ around.”

“Why,” explained Amesbury, “you’ll travel with Paul until he gets off and leaves you, and then you’ll keep going on the train until the conductor puts you off, and you take another train. I’ll tag you so you can’t go astray,” he added, laughing.

“No,” protested Paul, “Dan’s going right through to New York with me, and my father’ll see that he gets home all right.”

“That’s a good plan,” assented Amesbury. “Then I won’t have to tag you, and you won’t get lost.”

“But I’m thinkin’,” said Dan, “I’ll be stoppin’ off t’ St. Johns, an’ not be goin’ on t’ New York. I’m wantin’ wonderful bad t’ get home.”

“You’re going home with me first,” Paul insisted. “My father and mother have just got to see you. I want to tell them how you saved my life.”

“Yes,” Amesbury laughed, “I’m inclined to agree with Paul, and New York won’t take you so much out of your way. St. Johns is farther off than New York, and you can go on from New York by steamer, and perhaps get there just as soon.”

“I’m losin’ my bearin’s altogether,” declared Dan, looking much puzzled.

Ahmik was to accompany them. A nineteen-foot broad-beamed Peterboro canoe, with good carrying capacity, was selected for the journey. It was of ample size to accommodate the four voyageurs, together with their traveling equipment, provisions for the journey, and the furs which they were taking to market to barter.

The canoe was loaded at daybreak, and, Ahmik in the bow, Amesbury in the stern, with Paul and Dan between, they turned down the lake. A light mist lay over the waters, quickly to be dissolved by the rising sun. The weather was perfect, the air heavy with the pungent odor of damp fir trees, the lake placid, beautiful, glorious.

Through picturesque lakes, rushing rapids and gently flowing streams the expert canoe-men dexterously guided the frail craft. Now and again portages were made, but the outfit was light and these occasioned small delay.

At length Lake Winnipeg was entered. Here they were forced to lose a day or two because of wind and rough water, but for the most part they were favored with pleasant weather. Twice they stopped at trading posts to renew their supplies, but with no other delays at length turned into Red River, and on a beautiful June morning beheld the spires of the city of Winnipeg rising before them.