Then the hungry hunters, tired, grim, silent, desperate, awaited the familiar cry.
It came on the cold wind, the same haunting mourn, dreadful in its significance.
Absence of fire inspirited the wary wolves.

Out of the pale gloom gaunt white forms emerged, agile and stealthy, slipping on velvet-padded feet, closer, closer, closer.

The dogs wailed in terror.
"Into the tepee!" yelled Rea.
Jones plunged in after his comrade.

The despairing howls of the dogs, drowned in more savage, frightful sounds, knelled one tragedy and foreboded a more terrible one.

Jones looked out to see a white mass, like leaping waves of a rapid.
"Pump lead into thet!" cried Rea.
Rapidly Jones emptied his rifle into the white fray.