With a grin Barney obeyed orders, and, as his engines began to revolve, felt himself shooting skyward.

“Now it’s clear,” roared the Major.

Barney did not respond on the instant.  He was thinking of something he had read about the “camp-followers of the barren-ground caribou.”  A chill not of the wind and cold crept into his heart.  But what was to be done?  He felt that another hour aloft would so benumb his senses that a crash would be inevitable.  To land at a point other than that trampled by the caribou involved great risk, for there was undoubtedly a thick coating of drifted snow on the lake’s surface.  So he stopped the engines and they spiraled once more toward the earth.

Now they were nearing the surface of the lake.  The distance was a thousand feet; now eight hundred.  Did he see shadows flitting across the ice?  At five hundred feet he was sure that he did.  He said nothing.  So intent on landing was he that no risk seemed too great.  At three hundred feet he saw them distinctly—­gray streaks scooting across the trodden snow or resting on haunches, their shadows stretching before them.

“Great Scott!” he muttered, “must be hundreds of them!  Oh well, they’re cowards!” He tilted the machine for the final glide.  There came a sudden exclamation from the Major, then from Bruce.  They, too, had seen.  It was too late now, for their landing wheels were almost touching the surface as they glided on.  And now, strangely enough, some of the gray streaks began to chase the plane.  As if imagining it a bird with flesh to eat and bones to gnaw, they came on.  Then, all at once, Barney realized what they followed—­the scent of fresh meat.  Timmie had killed a reindeer in honor of their departure and had presented them with a hind-quarter.  This was now roped on the fuselage behind the Major.  They would have a fight.  He knew that now.  He thought of their weapons—­two rifles.  They were almost useless against five hundred gaunt, hungry wolves.  And they were gaunt; he could see that as he flew by them.  Evidently camp-following this year had not given them an over-abundant supply of food.  The season’s calves were fleet and strong by now, and every herd had its thousands of antlered bulls that formed bristling hedges to defend their own.

Bump!  The plane struck the ice and bounded, then struck again.  Barney’s mind was now working fast.  Yes, there were other weapons—­the oxy-acetylene torch—­yes, the machine-gun.  He shouted to Bruce to get the torch, and, as soon as the plane slowed down, freed his hands from his gloves and began fumbling at the gun before him.  The Major was unstrapping the two rifles.  The wolf-pack was crowding around in a grinning circle.  Barney caught his breath as his eyes swept the circle.  Five hundred if one, dripping-jawed, red-eyed, gray creatures-of-prey, they waited, as ever, for the coward’s chance to fight with great odds in their favor.

“Don’t shoot until forced to,” said Bruce, turning to the Major.  “If you do you may bring the whole pack down upon us.”