soliloquized; "but this going alone at this time of night is not the sort
of a job I care for."

And then the thought of poor Johnston lying helpless but uncomplaining in
the snow made him feel ashamed of his words, and to ease his conscience
he broke into a trot again. Just as he did so a sound reached his ear
that sent a thrill of terror to his heart. Hoping he might be mistaken,
he stopped and listened with straining senses. For a moment there was
absolute silence. Then the sound came again--distant, but clear and
unmistakable. He had heard it only once before, yet he felt as sure of it
now as if it had been his mother's voice. It was the howl of the timber
wolf sounding through the still night air from somewhere to the north;
how far away he could not determine.

At the sound all his strength seemed to leave him. How helpless he was
alone in that mighty forest without even so much as a knife wherewith to
defend himself! But it would not do to stand irresolute. His own life as
well as the foreman's depended upon his reaching the shanty. Were he to
climb one of the big trees that stood around, the wolves, of course,
could not get at him; but Johnston would be dead before daylight came to
release him from his tree citadel, and perhaps he would himself fall a
victim to the cold in that exposed situation. There was no other
alternative than to run for his life, so, breathing out a fervent prayer
for divine help and protection, he summoned all his energies to the
struggle. He was more than a mile from the shanty, and his exertion had
told severely upon his strength; but the great peril of his situation
made him forget his weariness, and he started off as if he were perfectly
fresh.

But the howling of the wolves grew more and more distinct as they drew