Then very cautiously he opened the outer door.

A moment later he stood outside, the door closed behind him, with the storm pounding in his face.
Fifty yards away he could not have heard the shout of a man.

And yet he listened, gripping his club hard, every nerve in his body strained to a snapping tension.

Somewhere within that small circle of the corral were Bram Johnson's wolves, and as he hesitated with his back to the door he prayed that there would come no lull in the storm during the next few minutes.

It was possible that he might evade them with the crash and thunder of the gale about him.