Here one or two old hunters on the opposite side of the fire, who had not caught Dan’s precautionary wink, laughed good-humouredly, and made derisive comments.  At this Dan seemed much vexed, and getting up, he strode over to them to argue it out.  It was surprising how easily they were brought round to his way of thinking!

By this time Old Nick was thoroughly perturbed.  He fidgeted about, examining his rifle and pistols, tightened his belt, and looked in the direction of his horse.  His anxiety became so painful that he did not attempt to conceal it.  Upon our part, we affected to partially share it.  One of us finally asked Dan if he was quite sure they were wolves.  Then Dan listened a long time with his ear to the ground, after which he said, hesitatingly: 

“Well, no; there’s no such thing as absolute certainty, I suppose; but I think they’re wolves.  Still, there’s no harm in being ready for anything—­always well to be ready, I suppose.”

Nick needed nothing more; he pounced upon his saddle and bridle, slung them upon his mustang, and had everything snug in less time than it takes to tell it.  The rest of the party were far too comfortable to co-operate with Dan to any considerable extent; we contented ourselves with making a show of examining our weapons.  All this time the wolves, as is their way when attracted by firelight, were closing in, clamouring like a legion of fiends.  If Nick had known that a single pistol-shot would have sent them scampering away for dear life, I presume he would have fired one; as it was, he had Indian on the brain, and just stood by his horse, quaking till his teeth rattled like dice in a box.

“No,” pursued the implacable Dan, “these can’t be Injuns; for if they were, we should, perhaps, hear an owl or two among them.  The chiefs sometimes hoot, owl-fashion, just to let the rabble know they’re standing up to the work like men, and to show where they are.”

"Too-hoo-hoo-hoo-hooaw!"

It took us all by surprise.  Nick made one spring and came down astride his sleepy mustang, with force enough to have crushed a smaller beast.  We all rose to our feet, except Jerry Hunker, who was lying flat on his stomach, with his head buried in his arms, and whom we had thought sound asleep.  One look at him reassured us as to the “owl” business, and we settled back, each man pretending to his neighbour that he had got up merely for effect upon Nick.

That man was now a sight to see.  He sat in his saddle gesticulating wildly, and imploring us to get ready.  He trembled like a jelly-fish.  He took out his pistols, cocked them, and thrust them so back into the holsters, without knowing what he was about.  He cocked his rifle, holding it with the muzzle directed anywhere, but principally our way; grasped his bowie-knife between his teeth, and cut his tongue trying to talk; spurred his nag into the fire, and backed him out across our blankets; and finally sat still, utterly unnerved, while we roared with the laughter we could no longer suppress.