"Hark," he said.
For a moment Ted could hear nothing save the pat-pat of the snow against the window, but the collie dog bristled and growled as he lay upon the hearth and pricked his ears sharply. Then the boy heard it too, a faint cry and far off, not the sharp yelping of the coyotes, though that was ominous enough, but the long hungry howl of a timber wolf.
Tears of weakness and terror were running down the Irishman's face.
"My poor sheep, I must save them," he cried. "What's the value of a man's life alongside of the creatures that's trusted to him. Those murderers will have every one of them killed for me."
Ted jumped up quickly and bundled on his coat.
"Where's your rifle, Michael?" he asked. "I don't know much about sheep, but I will do what I can."
"The rifle?" returned Michael doubtfully. "Now, I had it on my shoulder the day I went out with the sickness on me, and it is in my mind that I did not bring it home again. But there is the little gun hanging on the nail; there's no more shells for it but there's two shots still left in the chamber."
The boy took down the rusty revolver and spun the cylinder with a practiced finger.
"Two shots is right," he said, "and you have no more shells? Well, two shots may scare a wolf."
