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 have come; for, with one savage snarl, the first row rushed straight on.  There came a flash, then the hiss of a white-tongued fiery serpent.  As the first wolf reared on his haunches, the smell of burning hair and roasting flesh halted the half-maddened pack, and, falling over one another, again they retreated.

It was a tense moment.  Slapping his hands to warm them, Barney adjusted cartridges and swept the circle with an imaginary volley.  What if the machine-gun jammed?  There could be but one result.  The torch would not long hold the beasts off.  Besides, the gas would not last.

“Well, shoot if you can!” exclaimed Bruce.  “This gas is precious stuff.  We can’t waste it.”

At that, there came the staccato music of the machine-gun.  With steady eye Barney swept the inner circle.  They went down like grain before a gale.  With strange wild snarls they bit at their wounds, at one another, at the snow.  The gun swept again with its merciless fire.  The furthermost members of the pack began to slink away.  Then as Barney raised his gun and sent a rain of bullets pattering about them, the whole snarling pack fled in yelping confusion.

The battle was won.  Bruce cut off the gas.  Barney ceased his fire.  The Major, loosing his harness, stood up and stretched himself.  Then they looked at one another and laughed.

“Some fight!” exclaimed Barney.

“Some fight!” agreed Bruce.

“Some fight!” reechoed the Major.  “And the next thing is to put the injured out of their misery.  After that we must skin ’em and make a cache for the meat.”