Half an hour later, I arrived at the camp and heard the welcome sound of human voices. They had heard the shooting and were on their way to meet me. As we stood there talking, the moon came out from behind a cloud, revealing a monstrous wolf, standing in the trail I had just passed over. It was not ten rods away. Very straight, he stood, head up, seemingly paying no attention to his surroundings. He pointed his nose straight at the moon and gave one of those hair-raising wolf mating banshee cries which are enough to make the goose flesh break out on anyone who hears them. Then he slunk off into the snowy underbrush. The boss grabbed my rifle and took aim at the retreating form but the gun only snapped. I had shot my last cartridge. The boss asked in a surly way, “What delayed you?”
    I told him that I had lost a quarter of beef and used up all four boxes of ammunition and shot nineteen wolves, but that outside of that, everything was all right. He replied, “You have the cook look after you and probably, I will charge you up for that quarter of beef.”
    I said nothing, fearing that he would fire me. Some people are funny that way. His name was Linroastson. In the cook camp, the boys stripped me and stood me in a tub of snow and in spite of my protests, they rubbed snow on me until I thought that I would die, but they knew best. Then they rolled me up in blankets and rolled me into my bunk. My whole body smarted and felt stiff. Was it good to be alive? I suppose so. If I had not wanted to live during that trip, all I had to do was to stop shooting and I would now be filling the belly of some wolf and my good team of horses and the load of beef and who knows what else. Now gentlemen, I have told you about the pig and the pail of swill and that lone wolf that pushed off into that clump of balsams after he had eaten nineteen wolves and one quarter of beef and still craved for more food. You fellows figure it out while I fill my pipe.”