At sight of the three figures near the middle of the course they rent the air with howls, and came trotting toward them with that light, springy movement shown by a gaunt hound, to whom the gait is as easy as a walk.
Monteith Sterry shot forward on his right foot, his revolver, with its two precious charges, tightly gripped in his naked hand.
This was to be called into play only in the last extremity.

The killing of a couple of wolves from such a horde could produce no effect upon the rest, unless perhaps to furnish some of them a lunch, for one of the curious traits of the _lupus_ species is that they are cannibals, so to speak.
His hope was that the flash and report of the weapon would frighten the animals into opening a path for a moment, through which the skaters could dart into the clear space below.
Having started, Monteith did not glance behind him.

Fred and his sister must look out for themselves.

He had his hands more than full.
With a swift, sweeping curve he shot toward the bank, the brutes immediately converging to head him off.

The slight, familiar scraping on the ice told him that Fred and Jennie were at his heels.