Lifting his rifle he took steady aim. His breath came quick. To shoot in the quiet calm of perfect self-composure was quite different from a pitched battle.
He had a perfect bead on the spot between the eyes, when the creature moved.
He came a few paces closer; then again halted and howled.
And now once more the boy had a perfect aim. His finger was on the trigger. It was a high-power rifle. The shot could not fail.
“Now!” he whispered to himself. “Now!”
But at that instant a strange thing happened. Old Ginger, the leader, answered the creature’s call. The answer was not hostile but friendly.
Joe’s rifle dropped with a soft plump into the snow. The next instant he cupped his hands and shouted.
“Pete! Pete, you old fool, come on in here. You nearly got shot.”
It was indeed Pete, the huskie. He had returned safely from his expedition of revenge for a lost comrade.
As he came trotting in, head up and ears pricked forward, he marched straight up to Joe, as a huskie will, and jamming his nose straight against his leg, gave a big sniff. After that he curled up with his comrades to lick his wounds.