So this went on, mile after mile. Every time the pack, which was growing smaller, approached too near for comfort, I shot one. It took more shots each time, as my hands were so cold that I could not aim well. As the moon mounted higher, it grew so light that I could see a long distance down the road. I thought that I must have used up a great deal of ammunition. For some time, I had not seen any of the wolves and as I rounded a curve, I figured that I was rid of them. The pack must be reduced in number and what was left of them had no small jag to carry.
    As miserable and cold as I was, I had to smile through my frozen lips, at the incongruity of life in general and this night’s experience in particular. Just when I was feeling easier, I saw two lone wolves coming down the road. The only sound they made was that of their feet as they ran. They were not running as swiftly as before but swift enough to overtake the sled.
   I had my gun in readiness, although my hands were shaking. One hand seemed to be badly frozen and it was only by a great effort that I was able to crook my finger over the trigger of my rifle. Although I was so awfully cold, I gritted my teeth as I waited. On, the two wolves came and they were not the least gun shy. I suppose they had gotten the habit and figured that pretty soon, either one or the other would have something to eat.
    To make sure that I started shooting in time, I started blazing away but on came the wolves, paying no attention to my firing. Say, I was ashamed of my shooting. I used up cartridge after cartridge and finally, not twenty feet from where I sat on the load, I managed to hit one of the wolves and he went head first into the snow, snarling as he fell. His pal of but a moment ago stopped and began tearing him to pieces. I drove on, more dead than alive.