Presently she heard another noise behind her, and looked over her
shoulder.
The sight that met her eyes caused her to almost faint.
Not twenty yards behind her was an enormous gray wolf, loping along
easily but as swiftly as a horse.
His eyes were blazing like green lamps, and his great body was scarred
and torn. Evidently he was the king of the pack.
Stopping suddenly, she drew her revolver and fired two shots at him.
He came to a halt with a snarl of rage and began biting at his shoulder.
Then Stella turned and ran again, with the clamor of the pack close
behind her.
But she was failing, and her run had become a painful stagger, and her
breath came in gasps.
She was near the end, and she realized it. She fancied herself falling
into the midst of that ravenous crew and shuddered. What could she do to
save herself?
Not far ahead was a tree with a forked branch growing low enough for her
to reach it if she still had strength to get so far. With almost a
superhuman effort she continued her flight toward it.
As she reached it the great, gray king of the pack was only a few feet
behind her, so close that she could hear him pant from his long run.
She reached up to the branch and tried to pull herself up, but it was an
impossible task burdened with food and rifle and her coat, which she had
removed at a time when she had stopped long enough to write another
message in the snow for Ted.
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