"Let us pour it out," begged Guy. "We can put some of it in the water bucket and camp kettle, and then pour it back when we are done."
"I am afraid your father would not approve of that," answered Mart.
"If he was here he would. I know him too well to think he would ever let a horse die like that. None of us like whisky. What does he want with it?"
"It belongs to the man at Payette station, and it is here because he has not yet come for it," answered Mart. "He will be after it when the snow melts a little, and would not like it if we threw it out."
Guy had again taken the glass, and was looking intently at the battle. He could plainly see that the old horse was being worried and starved to death. Blood showed on several parts of his body, where the wolves had torn him with their sharp teeth. All at once a large one darted from the pack, and, missing the horse's throat, fastened on his shoulder. Buckskin seized the wolf in his teeth, and, tearing him loose, pressed him to the ground and struck him again and again furious blows with his forefeet until he lay apparently lifeless. The rest attempted to close in, but the courageous horse showed such a determined and hostile front that they paused, afraid to invoke the fate of their comrade.
Guy could endure it no longer. He turned to his uncle, with his face streaming with tears. "I can't stand it any longer, uncle. You and father promised me $50 a month to help run the ferry. You owe me $150. I will pay for that whisky, and you can take it out of my wages, and I want that barrel. I am going over the river to help old Buck."
Mart . . . threw both arms around the boy and blurted out: "That's just like you, Guy.... I am with you. . . . Now run and rip off those two planks fastened to the stanchions of the ferryboat while I get the barrels."
In a very few moments the two large barrels were rolled down on the ice. . . . Mart said: "Now bring both rifles, our
