There is that which is frightful in the cry of a wolf.  When one is safe in camp before a roaring fire the short, sharp bark of a wolf is startling, and the long howl will make one shudder.  It is so lonely and dismal.  It makes no difference whether it be given while the wolf is sitting on his haunches near some cabin waiting for the remains of the settler’s dinner, or while he is in full chase after his prey—­the cry is equally wild, savage and bloodcurdling.

Betty had never heard it and though she was brave, when the howl from the forest had its answer in another howl from the creek thicket, she slipped her little mittened hand under Wetzel’s arm and looked up at him with frightened eyes.

In half an hour the full chorus of yelps, barks and howls swelled hideously on the air, and the ever increasing pack of wolves could be seen scarcely a hundred yards behind the sleds.  The patter of their swiftly flying feet on the snow could be distinctly heard.  The slender, dark forms came nearer and nearer every moment.  Presently the wolves had approached close enough for the occupants of the sleds to see their shining eyes looking like little balls of green fire.  A gaunt beast bolder than the others, and evidently the leader of the pack, bounded forward until he was only a few yards from the last sled.  At every jump he opened his great jaws and uttered a quick bark as if to embolden his followers.

Almost simultaneously with the red flame that burst from Wetzel’s rifle came a sharp yelp of agony from the leader.  He rolled over and over.  Instantly followed a horrible mingling of snarls and barks, and snapping of jaws as the band fought over the body of their luckless comrade.

This short delay gave the advantage to the horses.  When the wolves again appeared they were a long way behind.  The distance to the fort was now short and the horses were urged to their utmost.  The wolves kept up the chase until they reached the creek bridge and the mill.  Then they slowed up:  the howling became desultory, and finally the dark forms disappeared in the thickets.

CHAPTER VIII.

Winter dragged by uneventfully for Betty.  Unlike the other pioneer girls, who were kept busy all the time with their mending, and linsey weaving, and household duties, Betty had nothing to divert her but her embroidery and her reading.  These she found very tiresome.  Her maid was devoted to her and never left a thing undone.  Annie was old Sam’s daughter, and she had waited on Betty since she had been a baby.  The cleaning or mending or darning—­anything in the shape of work that would have helped pass away the monotonous hours for Betty, was always done before she could lift her hand.

During the day she passed hours in her little room, and most of them were dreamed away by her window.  Lydia and Alice came over sometimes and whiled away the tedious moments with their bright chatter and merry laughter, their castle-building, and their romancing on heroes and love and marriage as girls always will until the end of time.  They had not forgotten Mr. Clarke, but as Betty had rebuked them with a dignity which forbade any further teasing on that score, they had transferred their fun-making to the use of Mr. Miller’s name.