A shape loomed up, and Philip knew it was a caribou running for its life.
He drew an easier breath as he saw that the animal was fleeing parallel with the projecting finger of scrub in which he had made his camp, and that it would strike the timber a good mile below him.

And now, with a still deeper thrill, he noted the silence of the pursuing wolves.

It meant but one thing.

They were so close on the heels of their prey that they no longer made a sound.

Scarcely had the caribou disappeared when Philip saw the first of them--gray, swiftly moving shapes, spread out fan-like as they closed in on two sides for attack, so close that he could hear the patter of their feet and the blood-curdling whines that came from between their gaping jaws.