He had approached the camp up the wind, and
sound was the thing to be most feared in making his presence known.
"Put them into the sled," he ordered when she had got the harness on the
two dogs. "I want my leaders to the fore."
But when she had done this, the displaced animals pitched upon the
aliens. Though Hitchcock plunged among them with clubbed rifle, a riot
of sound went up and across the sleeping camp.
"Now we shall have dogs, and in plenty," he remarked grimly, slipping an
axe from the sled lashings. "Do thou harness whichever I fling thee, and
betweenwhiles protect the team."
He stepped a space in advance and waited between two pines. The dogs of
the camp were disturbing the night with their jangle, and he watched for
their coming. A dark spot, growing rapidly, took form upon the dim white
expanse of snow. It was a forerunner of the pack, leaping cleanly, and,
after the wolf fashion, singing direction to its brothers. Hitchcock
stood in the shadow. As it sprang past, he reached out, gripped its
forelegs in mid-career, and sent it whirling earthward. Then he struck
it a well-judged blow beneath the ear, and flung it to Sipsu.
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