Suffocated with her own breathing, each foot seemingly lead, each muscle and tendon a hot wire, Jean stumbled feebly where she ran. Donald caught her, and halted the dog, that shook with his panting like an engine after a long run. Two seconds, and the pack was cut loose, and lay upon the snow. Two more, and Jean was on the sledge. Another, and they were away again, with the forest in plain sight now.
Fighting the hardest battle of all was Mistisi. Every steam-soaked hair along his great back was erect; every other breath was a snarl; every instinct in his fearless nature called for the struggle of fangs against fangs for the protection of his master—the master that had once saved his life. Big as any wolf, he was the match of any, and his nature did not take into account the odds against him.
But his master had said to mush on, in words of great emphasis; so he crushed back all the battle-fury in his pounding heart, and mushed as he had never mushed before.
There was a pause, as the wolves stopped, and rifled the sledge-pack —a brief pause filled with horrid snarls and yelps. Then, the steady, resonant baying again, louder and more triumphant, seemingly at the very heels of the fugitives. A hundred yards away the woods stood, impersonal witnesses of the struggle; three hundred yards behind, the leader of the pack fixed his gleaming green eye upon the quarry, and let out the last link in his tireless muscles.
Donald realized now what he had feared for the last half-mile—that, even were the woods reached safely, to build a fire would be out of the question. It must be a fight to the death, and he could foresee but one result. For himself, he did not mind. He had brushed with death too many times to fear its coming. But Jean! What terror must be hers, to whom the bitter truths of the forest trails were new! He only hoped she did not remember that wolves tear before they kill.
Drawing his revolver, he handed it to her, and she, without a second's wait, turned round, and fired into the thick pack. She was a good shot, and every bullet told. At the same time, Donald lifted his rifle, and pumped five smoking shells while he ran, pulling the trigger as fast as he could, and firing into the air, since he dared not turn.
Now, they had gained the forest, and Mistisi, responding to the cry of “chaw,” swerved to the right into the shelter of a breastwork of underbrush. In a few seconds, with the brush behind them, and the upturned sledge before, they awaited the attack.
Round the point of the cover rushed the leaders, and two fell snarling beneath the mass of those that followed. In the struggle over the bodies, others fell, but the main pack swerved wide, and commenced their circling attack.
“Donald, my revolver is empty,” suddenly cried Jean.