sprung up, and this sent the flakes directly into the hollow under the cliff. Mr. Porter heaved a sigh.
"More bad luck," he observed. "By morning. If this keeps on, we'll be snowed in."
"Look," said Dave. "I believe the wolves are getting ready to rush us!"
Both strained their eyes and soon saw seven or eight of the beasts sneaking softly up through the snow. The light from the camp-fire shone in their eyes and on their white fangs. They were growing desperate, and hoped by sheer force of numbers to lay their human prey low.
"Fire three shots, Dave, and I will do the same," said Mr. Porter, in a low tone. "Aim as carefully as you can, my boy."
The various shots rang out in rapid succession. How much damage was done they could not tell, although they saw two wolves go down and lie still. The others retreated, some limping, and the entire pack went back to the shelter of the brushwood.
They had now only a few cartridges left, and these they divided between them. Then Dave stirred up the fire a little and placed the burning sticks so they would last as long as possible. Father and son looked at each other and suddenly stepped closer and embraced.
"God grant, now we have found each other,
