With a single crunch of his jaws he broke the back of the foremost hunter.

From a second he tore the head so that the windpipe trailed out like a red rope.
He rolled himself forward, and before the remaining dogs could recover from their panic he had caught one a blow that sent him flying over the edge of the precipice to the rocks a hundred feet below.

It had all happened in half a minute, and in that half-minute the remaining nine dogs had scattered.
But Langdon's Airedales were fighters.

To the last dog they had come of fighting stock, and Bruce and Metoosin had trained them until they could be hung up by their ears without whimpering.

The tragic fate of three of their number frightened them no more than their own pursuit had frightened Thor.
Swift as lightning they circled about the grizzly, spreading themselves on their forefeet, ready to spring aside or backward to avoid sudden rushes, and giving voice now to that quick, fierce yapping which tells hunters their quarry is at bay.