CHAPTER VII.

A RACE FOR LIFE—CHASED BY WOLVES.

"WHO could have thought," said Bert, "that Stepan would turn out our friend after all—and so good to us! That was God's doing, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was," said Alf confidently.

"But, oh, if only Stepan could have come with us, it would have been such a comfort," said Bert.

"Yes, but how could he, when he was so anxious about his brother? And he told me yesterday that some of the prisons in those small towns here in the interior of Russia are such dreadful holes that prisoners often die of cold and want and disease, and no one ever hears of them any more."

While the boys were talking, the pony was going steadily forward, picking his way carefully where the road was uneven and the snow frozen into rough ridges; but quickening his pace to a canter whenever the way was smooth enough.

But now—suddenly—he stopped short, his head turned to meet the wind, his nostrils evidently receiving a scent that startled and alarmed him.

The lads felt him stiffen and grow rigid under the saddle, and their hearts beat quick with fear.

Full of horror of what might be coming, they looked round, half-expecting to see Red-scar striding after them on his snow-shoes; but no human foe was in sight. They saw, however, against the white background, two or three black shadows skulking along at some little distance behind, and stopping when Sharik stopped. And in a moment the young riders understood what had thrilled their brave little steed with fear.

"Wolves?" questioned Bert in a husky voice.

"Yes," replied Alf; "but not many of them yet; not enough to be dangerous. We may be able to get to some place where we can be safe before there are more of them. They haven't sounded their hunting-cry yet."

"Oh, Alf!" sighed poor Bert, "I never thought of such a thing as this! It's too dreadful."

"Go on, Sharik!" cried Alf, pressing his heels against the pony's fat sides. "You can gallop when you choose, and you, Bert, sit tight!"

In the distance, under the cold white moonlight, the lads could see before them the long dark line of a forest. Alf pointed to it.

"We may get shelter there," he said.

And even as he spoke, the long-drawn howl, the rallying-call of the leader-wolf, rang out on the wind that came up behind them. It was the hunting-cry, and at the sound, Sharik galloped as he had never galloped before.

It is very unusual in these modern days, even in Russia, for wolves in any number to be found as near as this to a town. But the frost had come early, and the winter was very severe, so that the wild animals had approached the dwellings of man in search of food; and now this flying quarry of theirs seemed to them fair game.

Flying quarry, indeed! It appeared to the boys that they were not riding at all, but just hurtling through the air; such was their pony's speed, utterly unknown to them before, utterly unexpected now. But Sharik knew well enough that he was flying for his own life as well as for that of his young masters, and terror winged his small hoofs and carried them along at racing speed.

Now and then Alf or Bert looked back, and marked how the line of the pursuers lengthened, and, in spite of their pony's breakneck pace, the lads could not but realise that the hunters were gaining upon their quarry.

Also, after about twenty minutes of this tearing gallop, Sharik began to show signs of distress.

"He can't keep this up much longer," said Alf, "and we're some way still from the woods. We must pull up and let him get his breath."

"Then the wolves will overtake and pull us down," said Bert.

"Let me think a moment!" muttered Alf. Then, after a silence, he turned his head and said: "Where's the kettle, Bert?"

"Here, slung to my belt," replied the little boy.

"Can you manage with one hand to get it free? I'll turn and help to hold you on."

In a second or two Bert had unslung the kettle—a light, new, bright tin one.

"Fish my ball of string out of my pocket, if you can," said Alf.

Bert dived his hand into a big back pocket of the fur coat, and pulled out a small ball of strong twine, which Alf always carried about with him.