own and the other slip
under the swinging weapon to grasp the giant's hip. Jones's heard the
rend of cloth, and then he pounced like a cat, to drive his knife into
the body of the beast. Another nimble foe lunged at Rea, to sprawl
broken and limp from the iron. It was a silent fight. The giant shut
the way to his comrade and the calves; he made no outcry; he needed but
one blow for every beast; magnificent, he wielded death and faced
it--silent. He brought the white wild dogs of the north down with
lightning blows, and when no more sprang to the attack, down on the
frigid silence he rolled his cry: "Ho! Ho!"

"Rea! Rea! how is it with you?" called Jones, climbing out.

"A torn coat--no more, my lad."

Three of the poor dogs were dead; the fourth and last gasped at the
hunters and died.

The wintry night became a thing of half-conscious past, a dream to the
hunters, manifesting its reality only by the stark, stiff bodies of
wolves, white in the gray morning.

"If we can eat, we'll make the cabin," said Rea. "But the dogs an'
wolves are poison."

"Shall I kill a calf?" asked Jones.

"Ho! Ho! when hell freezes over--if we must!"

Jones found one 45-90 cartridge in all the outfit, and with that in the
chamber of his rifle, once more struck south. Spruce trees began to
show on the barrens and caribou trails roused hope in the hearts of the
hunters.

"Look in the spruces," whispered Jones, dropping the rope of his sled.
Among the black trees gray objects moved.

"Caribou!" said Rea. "Hurry! Shoot! Don't miss!"

But Jones waited. He knew the value of the last bullet. He had a
hunter's patience. When the caribou came out in an open space, Jones
whistled. It was then the rifle grew set and fixed; it was then the red
fire belched forth.

At four hundred yards the bullet took some fraction of time to strike.
What a long time that was! Then both hunters heard the spiteful spat of
the lead. The caribou fell, jumped up, ran down the slope, and fell
again to rise no more.

An hour of rest, with fire and meat, changed the world to the hunters;
still glistening, it yet had lost its bitter cold its deathlike clutch.

"What's this?" cried Jones.

Moccasin tracks of different sizes, all toeing north, arrested the
hunters.

"Pointed north! Wonder what thet means?" Rea plodded on, doubtfully
shaking his head.

Night again, clear, cold, silver, starlit, silent night! The hunters
rested, listening ever for the haunting