When the dogs burst into full cry, the musk-oxen climbed a high knoll and squared about to give battle.
"Calves! Calves! Calves!" cried Jones.
"Hold back! Hold back! Thet's a big herd, an' they'll show fight." As good fortune would have it, the herd split up into several sections, and one part, hard pressed by the dogs, ran down the knoll, to be cornered under the lee of a bank.

The hunters, seeing this small number, hurried upon them to find three cows and five badly frightened little calves backed against the bank of snow, with small red eyes fastened on the barking, snapping dogs.
To a man of Jones's experience and skill, the capturing of the calves was a ridiculously easy piece of work.

The cows tossed their heads, watched the dogs, and forgot their young.

The first cast of the lasso settled over the neck of a little fellow.

Jones hauled him out over the slippery snow and laughed as he bound the hairy legs.