Suddenly, in an
interval between two naps, I heard a sound different from the soughing
of the wind, a sound like claws or toenails scratching on the snow
crust. It came from the direction of the knoll, or beyond it.
"Tom, Tom, he's coming!" I whispered.
Tom, starting up from a nap, gripped the gunstock. "Yes, siree," he
said. "He is." He cocked the gun, and the barrel squeaked faintly on the
rail. "By jinks, I see him!"
I, too, discerned a shadowy, dark object at the top of the snow-crusted
knoll. Tom was twisting round to get aim across the rail--and the next
instant both of us were nearly kicked out of the sleigh by the recoil of
the greatly overloaded gun. We both scrambled to our feet, for we heard
an ugly snarl. I think the animal leaped upward; I was sure I saw
something big and black rise six feet in the air, as if it were coming
straight for the sleigh!
The instinct of self-preservation is a strong one. The first thing I
realized I was over the fence rails, on the side toward the Edwards
barn, running for dear life on the snow crust--and Tom was close behind
me! We never stopped, even to look back, till we were at the barn and
round the farther corner of it.
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