gully, and peering over the brink, beheld the dark heap in the snow below
that was the object of their search. One glance was sufficient to show
how timely was their coming, for almost encircling the hapless man were
smaller shapes that even at that distance could be readily recognized.

"We're too late!" cried one of the men; "they're wolves." And with a wild
shout he flung himself recklessly down the snowy slope, and others
followed close behind.

Before their tumultuous onset the wolves fled like leaves before the
autumn wind, and poor Johnston, almost dead with pain, cold, and
exhaustion, raising himself a little from the snow, called out in a faint
but joyful tone,--

"Thank God; you've come in time! I thought it was all over with me."




CHAPTER IX.

OUT OF CLOUDS, SUNSHINE.


Great was the joy of the men at finding Johnston alive and still able to
speak, and at once their united strength was applied to extricating him
from his painful position. The poor horse, utterly unable to help
himself, had long ago given up the vain struggle, and in a state of
pitiful exhaustion and fright was lying where he first fell, the snow all
about him being torn up in a way that showed how furious had been his