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
message carry? Would he respond?
After a moment had elapsed, with the gleam of eyes coming ever closer, he
repeated his message. Again he pressed the receivers to his ears.
“He won’t hear,” he muttered half in despair. “Have to make a dash for
it. Meat might save us—might satisfy them. But they’re mad with the smell
of fresh food. They’re—”
A voice boomed in his ear. It was Curlie.
“Coming,” he roared. “Hold fast.”
“Ah!” Joe breathed as he snatched the receiver from his head and clutched
at his rifle, “that’s better!”
Even as he said it, a flash from his electric torch caught a huge fellow,
the leader of the pack, all but upon them. Like the other, he doubled up
and leaped away, but this only made the boy understand that his position
was still perilous. Curlie had not told him how far he was away.
“Must be at least five miles,” he groaned. “Take him a half hour. Major,
old boy, do you think we can hold them?” The answer from the dog was a
low, rumbling growl.
There was a deal of comfort to be obtained from that growl. Heretofore
Joe had thought of these sled-dogs as mere beasts of burden; thought of
them as he might have thought of horses or mules on the flat, sleepy,
safe prairies of the Mississippi valley. Now he found himself regarding
them as friends, as fellow warriors engaged in a common business, the
business of protecting their lives against the onrush of the enemy.
“Some dogs you are,” he murmured gratefully. “You not only pull a
fellow’s load for him, but in time of danger you turn in and fight for
him.”
He knew that if he came out of this combat alive he would always cherish
a feeling of loyal friendship for these five companions in combat.
It was a tense moment. They were in a tight place. A chill raced up his
spine and his knees trembled as he caught the gleam of new pairs of eyes
burning holes into the darkness. Others had heard the blood-curdling war
song and had come to join in the battle.
The flash of the torch held the beasts at bay for a time, but at last it
only maddened them as they pressed closer in.
Joe was in despair. Should he loose the dogs? He scarcely dared. They
would rush out at those burning eyes and be destroyed. Then he would be
alone. And yet, if worse came to worst, if the enemy rushed in, there
would not be time to loose them, and chained as they were, the dogs would
fight at a disadvantage.
In the meantime, Curlie Carson was bounding over the trail. Now he had
covered a mile, now two, now three. There were three miles more. Panting,
perspiring, staggering forward, now tripping over a snow-covered bush,
and now falling over a log, he struggled on.
“He—he can’t make it!” Joe all but sobbed as he counted the moments! “Ah,
here they come!”
There was time only to loose the chain of Major before three gray streaks
leaped at them.
Major met one and downed him. Ginger, the hound leader, chained as he
was, grappled with a second. The third leaped at the boy’s throat. Just
in time he threw up the rifle barrel. Gripped in both his hands, it
stopped the beast. Kicking out with his right foot, he sent him
sprawling. The next instant the rifle cracked. One shot gone, but an
enemy accounted for.
A fourth wolf sprang upon the gentle, inoffensive Sport and bore him to
the snow.
Leaping upon the sled, Joe stood ready to sell his life as dearly as he
might. Catching the ki-yi of Pete, the huskie, he reached over and
unsnapped his chain, to see him leap at the throat of the nearest enemy.
“They’re coming, coming!” Joe sang out.
All fear had left him now. He was in the midst of a battle. That they
would win that battle he did not dream. Curlie could never reach them in
time. But, like Custer’s men, they would die game.
Sport was down. Major was strangling the life from a clawing wolf. Ginger
was engaged in an unfinished battle. Two wolves leaped at the sled, one
from either side. The rifle cracked. A wolf leaped high and fell. The
second sprang. He was instantly met and borne to the snow by Bones, the
second “wheel-horse.”
But now they came in a drove, five, six, seven, gaunt gray beasts with
chop-chopping jaws.
With deliberate aim the boy dropped the foremost, then the second. Then,
calmly clubbing his rifle, he waited.
The foremost wolf was not two yards from the sled, when Joe was startled
to hear a rifle crack and see the wolf leap high in air. He was
astonished. Curlie could not possibly have reached his objective in this
time. Who was this man, his deliverer? Leaning far forward, he tried to
peer into the darkness, as the rifle cracked again and yet again.