When Wednesday came, and the townsmen had gathered at their meeting, John Hinkson was not there. Thomas Keats, whose home was on the outskirts of Portsmouth, reported that Hinkson had passed his house on the way to Exeter a day or two before, but had not yet returned. Richard Webster remarked that he had just spoken with Mrs. Hinkson at her gate. She was looking anxiously for John. Their boy was seriously ill, and she needed the medicine John would bring. She was equally worried lest in his delay night should overtake him, when there was grave danger of attack by wolves. Another townsman emphatically declared: "It seems as if measures should be taken immediately to overcome this pest of wolves. There is no safety in the woods after dark, and even our door-yards are in danger from straggling beasts. Since Portsmouth has grown to be a town of a hundred inhabitants, though we are widely scattered, we ought to be able to make some headway against them." The meeting was then called to order, and that very question was placed under formal discussion. Meanwhile, John Hinkson had reached Exeter, only to find that his brother was crippled for funds and could give him no help. He obtained the syrup that his sister-in-law had made from the pine sap and, after indulging in a short visit, made an early start for home. The roads were very rough, and the horse loosened a shoe on the way. His progress was so slow that darkness had overtaken Hinkson by the time he had reached the isolated home of Thomas Keats on the edge of Portsmouth. The rider kept on his way, hoping that the distant cries he heard might not come nearer. He was less than half a mile from Keats' home when the howl of the wolves became more distinct. Soon he knew that a pack was on his trail. The horse seemed to sense his master's fear and dashed forward. At a bend in the path Hinkson turned and caught the gleam of the fiery eyes in full speed behind him. He fired, and the pack stopped to devour the fallen leader, while the horse plunged on. Again Hinkson's good aim brought another wolf to the ground, but a few of the pack, mad with the taste of blood, kept on in hot pursuit. Hinkson brought down a third and dodged a fourth that sprang at the horse's flanks. Again the wolf jumped and would have crippled horse and rider had not the crack of another gun sounded upon the frosty air. It belonged to Thomas Keats, then on his way home from town meeting. The wolves, frightened by the double-attack and weakened in numbers, slunk away into the woods. "This is a lucky shot for you, Hinkson," called Keats. "The town today voted a bounty of five pounds for every head, provided the nearest neighbor would stand witness that they were shot within the town's boundaries. I'm that neighbor, and I'll stand witness for you." Then, as John Hinkson fastened his bloody trophies to the saddle, Keats added, "The heads must be nailed to the meeting-house door."