ound the west tributary, and set out for
the last reach of their journey. Donald consulted the landmarks he
knew, and laid their course toward the eastern shore, midway the
length of the lake, the spot Braithwaite had mentioned as the camp.
They still had twelve miles or so before them, and a preliminary
chill gave warning of sunset. An hour before, Jean had insisted
on running again, and the pack was once more on the sledge.

Although he said nothing about it, Donald was worried. That little
trail of blood which Mistisi had left behind furnished food for
serious anxiety. Had not Jean's exhaustion given him concern at
noon, he would have noticed it long before. He centered his attention
upon the nervous ears of Mistisi--ears that would have the forest
sounds long before his own. Unobtrusively, he used every means of
increasing speed and shortening distance... For an hour, they
crunched over the hardening crust. The shadows that had kept pace
with them commenced to grow dim. Only five miles more!

Suddenly, the ears of Mistisi twitched nervously, and from the
hollow of his great chest came a gruff, questioning rumble. What
was it he had heard? The mighty muscles rippled and ran under his
skin as he strained at the traces, but there was no looking back.

Fifteen minutes later brought them to a broad expanse of clear
snow. Three miles beyond, the forest that edged Sturgeon Lake loomed
dimly. If they could but reach that shelter, the race would be
safely over. Twice, Mistisi rumbled hoarsely to himself, and then
growled savagely, his hackles beginning to stiffen.

"What is the matter with him?" asked Jean.

"Listen!" Disengaging their ears from the noise of travel, they
suddenly heard a sound behind them, deep and faint as from a hunting
dog in distant cover. McTavish paused a moment to look behind, and
on the snow where it touched the forest they had left, descried a
dark, moving mass, with dark specks flanking it to either side.
Again, to them came the faint sound, an echo thrown from the resonant
face of the woods.

"Wolves!" cried Donald, sharply. "And on our trail! Run, Jean, as
you have never run before. If we can make cover, we're safe...
Mistisi, mush on, you fiend, or I'll break your back!"

But the dog needed no bidding--he had sensed the danger long since.
His swift trot broke into a lumbering lope.

The man swiftly took in the situation. They were in the middle of
the snow-plain. There is but one defen