He met the up-rushing pack-brute head to head.

Their jaws clashed, and the wild wolf found jaws at last that crunched through his own as if they had been whelp's bone, and he rolled and twisted back to the plain in a dying agony.

But not until another gray form had come to fill his place.

Into the throat of this second Miki drove his fangs as the wolf came over the crest.

It was the slashing, sabre-like stroke of the north-dog, and the throat of the wolf was torn open and the blood poured out as if emptied by the blade of a knife.