Then a sudden gust of wind sweeping in from the great unknown before them rolled the fog away, to leave them gasping at the size and ferocious appearance of the gray-white creatures that surrounded them, a grim, silent circle.
As if this were the sign for an advance, the wolves rose each in his place and began a slow advance.
“Now!” said Gordon Duncan. “When I give the word, shoot the one before you, and for the good of all, don’t miss. It may mean death.”
Poised each on a knee, back to back, they set their bows and nocked their arrows, then waited breathless for the old Scot’s whispered command.
To Johnny it seemed that he caught the glint of a gray beast’s eye before the whisper came:
“Now!”
Five seconds of suspense for steadied nerves, then Johnny’s arrow sped. Before him a gray streak reared in air to fall sprawling and clawing at nothing. The arrow had gone clean through him, then glanced away over the snow.
“What luck for her and for the old man?” he asked himself. There was no time for looking.
In this warfare there was no frightening din. The wolves who had escaped the biting arrows came straight on. A particularly ferocious creature came stealing upon the boy. Now he was ten paces away, now five, now three. A spring and—
Again his bow twanged low. A second arrow found its mark.