Snarling and snapping, the pack surrounded Ben and the boys. It was no simple task to kill the beasts, for they kept moving about in a circle, and, as the ravine was heavily timbered, the trees constantly interfered with the aim of the shooters. Sneaking and crouching, the dogs began to close in.
“Stand your ground if they try to rush us!” commanded Ben, dropping one of the leaders with a well-placed bullet.
Evidently the hounds had at last determined the sort of enemy confronting them, and, with lips drawn back and fangs exposed, they charged in a body.
The hunters met them with a deadly volley which stretched out several of their number. The gray leader, a big, wolf-like Eskimo dog, escaped the hail of lead and leaped straight at the throat of Ben. The guide had no chance to shoot, but quickly clubbed his rifle and brought the stock down with terrific force on the head of his assailant. The blow felled the creature, and it rolled away behind a massive tree-trunk and slunk off as three hastily aimed bullets whistled harmlessly past its head.
Suddenly Ed uttered a startled cry, and Ben turned quickly in his direction. A powerful hound had crept up behind him, and, leaping, had fastened its fangs in the shoulder of the lad’s heavy hunting-coat and borne him to the ground.
Ben sent a bullet into its body before it could release its grip to fasten a more deadly one on the throat of the startled young hunter.
“Jump up, quick!” yelled the guide.
Encouraged by the apparent success of one of their number, the pack again came on. Once more the fierce gray leader stole forward; but this time a ball from George’s rifle stretched him out dead, shot through his heart.
“Good boy!” shouted Ben. “You’ve got the prize.”
Then another rifle sounded close beside them, and, turning, they saw Indian Pete shooting into the hesitating, disorganized pack of bewildered dogs.