“Halloa, Mocquet!” cried the keeper, “this wolf of yours must be an extra plucky one, Rocador and Tombelle refuse to tackle him.”
But Mocquet was too wise to make any answer, for the sound of his voice would have warned the wolf that there were enemies in that direction.
The keeper went forward, still beating the trees, the two dogs after him cautiously advancing step by step, without a bark, only now and then giving a low growl.
All of a sudden there was a loud exclamation from the keeper, who called out, “I nearly trod on his tail! the wolf! the wolf! Look out, Mocquet, look out!”
And at that moment something came rushing towards us, and the animal leapt out of the covert, passing between us like a flash of lightning. It was an enormous wolf, nearly white with age. Mocquet turned and sent two bullets after him; I saw them bound and rebound along the snow.
“Shoot, shoot!” he called out to me.
Only then did I bring my gun to the shoulder; I took aim, and fired; the wolf made a movement as if he wanted to bite his shoulder.
“We have him! we have him!” cried Mocquet, “the lad has hit his mark! Success to the innocent!”
But the wolf ran on, making straight for Moynat and Mildet, the two best shots in the country round.
Both their first shots were fired at him in the open; the second, after he had entered the forest.