It was a tense moment. They were in a tight place. A chill raced up his spine and his knees trembled as he caught the gleam of new pairs of eyes burning holes into the darkness. Others had heard the blood-curdling war song and had come to join in the battle.
The flash of the torch held the beasts at bay for a time, but at last it only maddened them as they pressed closer in.
Joe was in despair. Should he loose the dogs? He scarcely dared. They would rush out at those burning eyes and be destroyed. Then he would be alone. And yet, if worse came to worst, if the enemy rushed in, there would not be time to loose them, and chained as they were, the dogs would fight at a disadvantage.
In the meantime, Curlie Carson was bounding over the trail. Now he had covered a mile, now two, now three. There were three miles more. Panting, perspiring, staggering forward, now tripping over a snow-covered bush, and now falling over a log, he struggled on.
“He—he can’t make it!” Joe all but sobbed as he counted the moments! “Ah, here they come!”
There was time only to loose the chain of Major before three gray streaks leaped at them.
Major met one and downed him. Ginger, the hound leader, chained as he was, grappled with a second. The third leaped at the boy’s throat. Just in time he threw up the rifle barrel. Gripped in both his hands, it stopped the beast. Kicking out with his right foot, he sent him sprawling. The next instant the rifle cracked. One shot gone, but an enemy accounted for.
A fourth wolf sprang upon the gentle, inoffensive Sport and bore him to the snow.
Leaping upon the sled, Joe stood ready to sell his life as dearly as he might. Catching the ki-yi of Pete, the huskie, he reached over and unsnapped his chain, to see him leap at the throat of the nearest enemy. “They’re coming, coming!” Joe sang out.
All fear had left him now. He was in the midst of a battle. That they would win that battle he did not dream. Curlie could never reach them in time. But, like Custer’s men, they would die game.