to his dogs, went racing away after his companions.

The short day was nearing its close when, on passing a turn in the trail, Joe found himself swinging out of the forest into an open stretch of wild meadow.

He had hardly made a hundred rods of this open trail when he heard a sharp howl which came from the edge of the forest.

“Wolves!” he muttered. “Caught the scent of this meat. Indians say it has been a bad winter for wolves. Starving, I guess. Well, we’ll show those boys our heels.”

Reaching out to the sled as he traveled forward, he unlashed his rifle and threw it across his arm. As he did so, he caught his breath. There were, he suddenly remembered, but four cartridges in the rifle and none on the sled. Their supply of ammunition was on Curlie’s sled.

Shouting at the dogs, he gripped the handle of the sled with one hand and with the rifle poised in the other, went pit-patting along over the trail.

He had reached the center of the open space and was hoping to arrive at the forest soon and find the others encamped there, when tragedy suddenly descended upon him.

A dull crash was followed by a sickening thud. The sled, having been twisted sideways in crossing a dry ravine, had crumpled down. Springing forward, the boy found that all the lashings and braces of one runner were torn away.

“Smashed beyond repair,” he muttered. “Now how am I going to get that meat to camp?”

He thought of unhitching the dogs and of clinging to the main draw rope as he raced away to his friends for aid. This thought was speedily banished when a dismal, long-drawn howl came from the edge of the forest.

“Wolves,” he muttered. “They’d eat it all.”

He thought of making the canvas covering of his pack into an improvised sled and placing the meat upon it, of hitching the dogs to that.

“Don’t believe they could haul it,” he decided. “The trail’s too narrow. Snow on sides is too deep.”

Again there came the dismal howl. This time it was followed by a yap-yap-yap. To the boy’s consternation, this yapping was answered from a dozen points at once.

“Lot of them out there. Gaunt, hungry beasts. Dangerous, I guess.”

Again he thought of the four cartridges. They were not enough. He might be obliged to cut his team loose and make a dash for it.

The dogs heard the challenging call from the wild creatures of the forest and bunched together as if for defense. Their manes stood straight up. The leader, a part-hound, was growling in a low tone, as if talking to himself.

This team of five dogs which Joe drove was a pick-up team. Besides the part-hound leader, there was one huskie and three dogs of uncertain breed. The huskie’s team mate, Sport, was slight of build and inclined to shirk. The two “wheel-horses” were short, stocky fellows who worked well in traces and showed signs of being good fighters.

Like some scout preparing for an Indian attack, Joe now loosened the dogs’ traces from the sled. But that they might not rush out heedless of danger to be cut up by the merciless fangs of the wolves he chained each dog to the sled.

“Time enough to let you at them later,” he murmured. He felt a certain amount of security in their companionship.

Just what he meant to do, he did not for the moment know. Darkness had fallen. Like twin glowworms, the eyes of the wolves shone at the edge of the forest. Already some of them were creeping out into the open. There were a number of them; just how many he could not tell.

“The one that sent out the call was probably the daddy of a large family,” he told himself, “and he’s invited the whole family to a feast. But,” he said as he set his teeth hard, “there won’t be any feast if I can help it.”

Leaning his rifle against the sled, he dropped his chin on his hands to lapse into deep thought. Then suddenly he leaped into action.

“Why didn’t I think of that before?” he exclaimed as he tore at the wrappings of the sled.

He had thought of the radiophone equipment packed away on his sled, the reserve outfit which always rode there.

“If I can only get it set up,” he told himself, “I’ll be able to call Curlie. Then he and Jennings will make a dash for it. With rifles and plenty of ammunition they’ll beat the wolves off. We’ll feed some of their carcasses to the dogs and have that much more caribou meat for ourselves.”

His fingers trembled as he unpacked the detector and set it firmly upon the overturned sled. He had caught the gleam of a pair of flashing eyes much closer than he had thought the wolves would dare to come. He had caught, too, the ominous sound of chop-chopping jaws. Pete, the huskie, was ki-yi-ing and straining at his chain. Major, the dog who always guarded the sled at night, was sending forth a low rumbling challenge.

As Joe set his amplifier into position, he sent a flash of light from his electric torch full upon one of those gray beasts. The wolf, recoiling as if shot by a rifle, doubled into a heap, then sprang snarling away.

Joe laughed at this wild demonstration of fear. The next instant his face sobered. He was surprised at the size of these timber wolves and at their gauntness.

“Starved to skin and bones. Ready for anything,” he muttered grimly as he set two jointed poles straight up in the snow.

From the top of these poles hung suspended his coil aerial. There remained but to connect the batteries. He was bent over the sled, intent upon making these connections secure, when he was startled by a mad chop of jaws directly behind him. The next instant there was a wild whirling of legs and fur, as Major engaged a wolf in combat.

Snatching his rifle, Joe stood ready to do deadly execution once the combatants separated.

“But only four cartridges,” he breathed, “and my call for help not yet sent.” His heart sank.

CHAPTER VI
THE BATTLE CRY

Even hampered as he was by the chain attached to his collar, the faithful old watchdog was more than a match for his lighter opponent. Over and over they tumbled. Twice the chain, tangling about the wolf’s legs, seemed about to make him prisoner. At last with a savage onslaught Major leaped clean at the enemy’s throat. There followed a gurgling cough. For a second the end seemed at hand. But the next instant, Major’s teeth lost their grip. The wolf, feeling himself free, and having had quite enough, slunk away into the shadows.

“Might as well let him go,” was the boy’s mental comment. “He’s well licked. He’ll not want to come back. Save my shots for those who mix in next.”

In this, perhaps he made a mistake. Bleeding from many wounds, the wolf carried a rank scent of battle and blood back to his companions, a scent more maddening than was that of the frozen meat upon the sled. Hardly had he disappeared into the darkness than there arose from out that darkness a war song such as Joe had never before given ear to, a song that made his blood run cold.

“Not a second to lose,” he exclaimed as he snapped the receiver over his head, threw on the switch and pressed his lips to the transmitter.

He was talking on 200. “Hello! Hello! Curlie, you hear? Wolves. Six miles from Indian’s shack. Sled broken. Must fight for life. Got four shots. Bring rifles. Come quick.”

Eagerly he pressed the receivers to his ears. Wildly his heart beat. It was a tense moment. Would Curlie be listening in on 200? Would the