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.