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

In this emergency, Bruce took the lead, and, assuredly, that was the
wise plan; for, reared as he had been in the forests and plains of the
Northland, he knew wolves. Just now he was dragging from their
hiding-place in the fuselage two iron tubes, perhaps eighteen inches
long and six in diameter. One tube contained oxygen, the other acetylene
gas. The tubes were connected by a set of registering valves. To these,
in turn, was fastened a wire-wound rubber hose with a long brass
nozzle. Once the valves were turned, the acetylene gas forced out by a
pressure of a thousand pounds and united with oxygen as an accelerator
would produce a shooting flame that burned metals as if they were
sun-dried pulp.

The machine stopped and the pack crowded in. With an electric flash lamp
in one hand and the rubber hose in the other, Bruce stood watching. With
aching, clumsy fingers and bleared eyes, Barney worked on the
machine-gun that, with oil fairly frozen in its parts, seemed about to
refuse to respond.

"Hurry!" exclaimed Bruce, as a gaunt form with patches of brown, and
double nose, telling of mixed blood, sprang forward, eager to drag the
fresh meat from the fuselage.

Instead of firing, the Major beat the beast over the head, and with a
snarl he resumed his place in the ever-narrowing circle.

And now the time for concerted action on the part of the pack seemed to