The Wolf King

THE WOLF KING by Joseph Wharton Lippincott

A dramatic and thrilling biography of the giant black wolf who had become a legend in his region of the Alberta wilderness. Settlers dreaded the long howl of the great wolf leader and the ringing chorus of the fierce pack in the northern night. Hunters and wardens alike were continually baffled and outwitted by the Wolf King’s wild deeds and uncanny intelligence. The smartest whelp of a litter of six, the black wolf learns fast and becomes a fighter and a leader. To read his story in the author’s stirring narrative is almost to be — as the author was — on the rugged Alberta frontier, and to witness the Wolf King’s battle for mastery over his kind in a mountain country where he can meet his human enemies on equal terms. This is unquestionably one of the classics of American wild life. It has held its place in the affection of readers for many years. Readers of this author’s book, Wilderness Champion, will rejoice in this companion story about the same great wolf that befriended Reddy the Champion Hound.

Books by Joseph Wharton Lippincott

Chisel-Tooth the Beaver Black Wings: the Unbeatable Crow Wilderness Champion The Wolf King The Wahoo Bobcat The Red Roan Pony Bun, A Wild Rabbit Little Red the Fox Striped Coat, the Skunk Gray Squirrel The Phantom Deer Persimmon Jim, the Possum Long Horn Leader of the Deer Old Bill, the Whooping Crane Coyote, the Wonder Wolf

SUDDENLY A HORDE OF WOLVES CAME INTO VIEW

THE

WOLF KING BY

Joseph Wharton Lippincott ILLUSTRATED BY

Paul Bransom

COPYRIGHT 1949, 1933 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Library of Congress catalog card number 49-7911 ISBN —0—397—30156—1

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PHILADELPHIA AND NEW YORK

To my daughter,

BETSY

Foreword BIG TIMBER WOLVES WERE A COMMON SIGHT TO EXPLORERS AND EARLY settlers in North America. At first they were found almost everywhere; then gradually guns, traps and poison lessened their numbers until there were none left in the United States from Main to Florida and west as far as the bad lands and desert areas. There, however, they made a last, wonderful stand, and by that time so few of them were left that they became as well known locally as some of the old sea pirates in history. They were even given names by the ranchers. Any man lucky enough to trap or shoot one of these famous outlaws secured a bounty and became a hero overnight, for there was not a big wolf that could exist without feeding on the ranchers’ cattle and sheep which had taken the place of once plentiful natural prey such as buffalo and antelope. North America’s smaller species of wolf, the coyote, somehow managed to survive here and there, and even to thrive in the wilder sections of the West. Once found mainly in the foothills, the plains and the semi-desert areas, he gradually extended his range northwestward into the big mountain chains. He never had mixed with the timber wolves, but often had followed them and stolen remnants of their kills. Years ago, the wolves were not afraid to make all the noise they wanted to at night. The timber wolf had several kinds of excellent howls, but the coyote, in the matter of variety, could outhowl him any time, and make a timid camper’s hair fairly tingle. The great wolf choruses, however, are almost a thing of the past. In the days gone by, a pack of the big fellows might suddenly feel the urge to howl; they would draw close together and all start a wild clamor which the echoes increased until the air fairly throbbed. Coyotes sometimes joined in from a safe distance.

Now it is very different; only in a few wilderness sections of Mexico, Canada and Alaska, and very occasionally in some mountain fastness of New Mexico or one of the other western States, are big wolves heard today. And these old fellows that remain know a thing or two! Some are black, some dark or light gray, others brown. All are powerful. Many in the North weigh over a hundred and fifty pounds, which means that they are about the size of great Danes. On the buffalo plains long ago, the Indians sometimes caught wolves in cleverly hidden pits dug in the paths they travelled; but as a rule the Indian had respect and no particularly unfriendly feeling for his “gray brother.” The terrible tales about the ferocity of wolves which gave rise to the Little Red Riding Hood story had their origin in Northern Europe, particularly in old Russia where starvation in severe winters sometimes drove ravenous packs to the edge of villages. What cattle there were being then securely housed, the wolves attacked the horses that drew the sleighs. In the chases that resulted they threatened even the drivers, who seldom had better weapons than whips and axes. The Eskimos had “dogs” that seemed to be little more than partly tamed timber wolves. These they somehow trained to draw their heavy sleds over the snow and to help them in hunting. Just where they secured the first stock is not known, but they did raise and tame wild wolf pups, and their sled dogs would mate with wild wolves. Today these animals are represented by the Eskimo dog, or husky, which is a handsome but still somewhat wolfish animal although it has been much interbred with dogs brought by the white man. In the same way certain Indian tribes living on the plains where there were many coyotes and no heavy sled work, developed a breed of smaller dogs that looked very much like the wild coyote. It is probable that the ancestors of all breeds of dogs were wolves and jackals in various parts of the world, although it took many generations to make such odd types as the bulldog and the Pekinese. The timber wolf, accustomed as he is to having his own way in the

wilderness, will not tolerate much training or punishment when tamed; therefore the dog’s servility must come mostly from jackal and coyote ancestry. The jackal in particular is a humble creature that follows the lion or other big killer and gnaws the bones he leaves. The fox, though also a member of the dog family, does not seem to have had any part in the development of our dogs. That the timber wolf can be tamed has often been proved, but he should be started as a youngster. Then he will be playful like a puppy, but a very lively one who every now and then may take a bite out of a cow, or chew up some neighbor’s dog. If raised with a dog, he becomes his close friend, even taking his part against others in any row, and when a wolf fights he means business! When about two years of age he is liable to grow so dignified that he resents any act which appears to him to be hostile or to injure his pride; a serious thing sometimes, for a tame wolf seems never to forget a grudge. One that is full grown is much too strong to be easily managed, and if he really “goes bad,” is for the moment again a wild animal. Striking him cannot cow his spirit. Bristling all over in sudden fury, champing his great white teeth together until foaming at the mouth, then leaping at you with a blood curdling roar while his eyes flash the death gleam into yours, he is terrible to face. However, it is not surprising that he may sometimes forget a year or two of domestication and suddenly go back to the wild methods of countless ages of life in the forests and plains. Wolves are partly gregarious. The youngsters follow their mother about for a number of months and with her form a family group to which the father may or may not attach himself. When the hunting becomes difficult in winter, largely from the fact that by that time young deer, moose and other young food animals have become more mature and difficult to kill, as well as scarcer, two or more family groups often join together partly because larger numbers make the hunting-down of big animals easier and partly because when hungry they cannot bear to see or hear other wolves following game without

joining in the chase themselves. There is not much love lost between different group members of such a pack; the association begins to break up as soon as the mating season approaches. The old she-wolves are often out in front when family groups and other packs do their hunting, but the most powerful and ambitious old male dominates the pack with which he associates himself, and though he may not bother to run ahead of the she-wolves, he is the strength around which everything revolves and is the real head or leader. Some, of course, are much more dominating than others; such a one was the King of this story. Some of the largest wolves left today are found in Alberta’s great mountain forests. They grow to nearly twice the size of the grays that once followed the buffaloes in the West, and though there are not very many of them now, these are wary almost beyond belief. Unlike their relatives of the plains who had to take up the killing of tame cattle as soon as the buffalo herds vanished, these wolves actually still live and hunt in very much the same thrilling manner as before the coming of the pioneers. It is possible that here will be the American wolf’s final stand against man. Therefore it was in Alberta, part of which is still a wilderness and game paradise, that a wolf leader was found around whom a fairly complete story could be written; not a work of mere fiction, but a painstaking account of what might well have been the adventures and career of a mighty wolf who understood how to elude man and whose great passion was leadership. His size has not been overdrawn. Even the affair of the dog that deserted mankind and joined the wolves was inspired by an actual instance of this kind.

J. W. L.

Contents 1 THE BAYING OF THE PACK

13

2 THE FATE OF THE PACK

17

3 OLD JIM’S LUCK

22

4 THE WOLF DEN

27

5 THE BLACK WHELP

32

6 LEARNING TO HUNT

37

7 FIRST FIGHTING DAYS

43

8 WINTER ON THE PORCUPINE

48

9 THE TRAPPING SEASON

52

10 SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

57

11 A DAY OF SPRING

62

12 CLIMBING IN THE CLOUDS

68

13 MIGRATION OF THE FUR-BEARERS

74

14 THE SNARE

80

15 FINDING A MATE

85

16 THE KING BEGINS HIS REIGN

89

17 THE ATTACK WITH HOUNDS

94

18 JOHNNY’S OLD GRAY HORSE

101

19 TRACKS IN THE SNOW

107

20 AMBUSH IN THE STORM

114

21 BEHIND THE SMOKE

119

22 HARRY LIGHTNING GOES HUNTING

126

23 SHOOT THE LEADER!

133

24 AT BAY

141

25 CALL OF THE NORTHLAND

149

AFTERWORD

157

Illustrations Suddenly a horde of wolves came into view frontpiece

PAGE

The coyotes approached with confidence

45

Without warning the cat charged grayback

65

The King rarely left the side of his poisoned mate

129

Like bees the dogs clambered over him and clung

145

CHAPTER ONE

The Baying of the Pack >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

“THERE THEY GO! JUST LISTEN TO THEM!” HUNCHING HIS SHOULDERS into something like a shrug, Old Jim Horner tossed some more sticks on the camp-fire. Sparks shot up and for a moment pierced the solid blackness around the tree trunks. From down in the valley came the baying of the wolf pack, clearcut in the night air. Suddenly it stopped. Absolute quiet lasted for a minute or two, then it began again. “Nearer!” muttered Old Jim. His companion shifted one foot uneasily. “Does this happen every night?” he asked the older man. “No. This is just a sort of treat, I guess, to give you a good start in the woods,” he answered grimly. “Phew! Listen to that!” The deep, individual notes had now joined together in a wild chorus. Excitement lay in this new outburst. The younger man could imagine a line of long black bodies pounding furiously down a narrow trail almost at the heels of some unfortunate deer, gaining perhaps too as the tree trunks flew by. “Aren’t they having fun!” continued Old Jim. “How many do you think there are?” “Eight or ten, I guess. That’s Old Gray’s gang. They always come down the Porcupine first, each fall. More will come later; then there won’t be so much noise. They’re celebrating tonight. Kind of happy, I guess, over the return to the valley and finding easy prey all over the place.” Old Jim stopped a moment to relight his pipe. “Hello, they’re coming straight our way! Hear that deep bellow? That’s Old Gray [13]

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THE WOLF KING

himself. I can recognize that voice.” He listened again. “Got cartridges in the rifle? They might–just might–happen to run near enough —” Johnny Rogers dived into the tent. He came out with his Springfield and a handful of long cartridges. Old Jim nodded, then carefully placed more wood on the fire. “We might just as well prepare a warm reception,” he smiled, examining his own rifle. “Remember one thing, don’t try to be too quick, make sure of your aim. And keep on shooting as long as you can see one.” The two men crouched by the fire quietly waiting. In front of them, only twelve or fifteen yards away, lay the narrow pack train trail that wound upwards from the Porcupine over Great Pass. Reflections from the fire danced across it and the tree trunks just beyond. After that there was only the forest blackness. The wolf voices had died down to one or two who tongued only at intervals. Then suddenly the wild clamor broke out again. It filled the woods. Weirdly it resounded among the tree trunks. “They’re still coming!” growled Old Jim. “Right square up the trail, sure thing. I can’t think they’ll really risk passing near us, but perhaps —” His voice trailed away as the deep bay of the leader resounded above the others. Johnny Rogers’ hand clenched over the rifle stock. He had never heard such terror-inspiring noise. As forestry expert, fresh from headquarters in the South, he was new to Alberta’s mountainous district. And the wolves sounded so very close! Minutes passed. “Take aim on the trail,” whispered Old Jim. Johnny strained his ears and eyes. Gently a new sound reached his consciousness, the barely audible thud of a heavy animal running on solidly packed ground. Old Jim suddenly kneeled and lowered his ear close to the earth. “It’s not a deer they’re after,” he continued in a hoarse whisper; “deer bounce along more regular. No, and it isn’t trotting like a moose.

THE BAYING OF THE PACK

Sounds almost like a horse. I wonder what it could be they’re playing with.” He straightened up quickly and peered into the blackness. There was a click of hoof on hard rock; a scrambling among loose stones. “I see him,” breathed Johnny as, without any more warning, long antlers caught the firelight, followed by a whitish neck and black body. Another instant and everything resolved itself into a magnificent bull caribou plunging up the trail, mouth open and eyes rolling with the exertion of the pace. His hoofs thudded harder as he shied from the firelight and rushed on. There was not a sound of the wolves. Yet their presence could almost be felt. Perhaps to the rear or the side they were slipping by, cautiously, yet with menace. All at once a pair of eyes glowed at least thirty yards away among the trees. Behind that came another pair. A terrific roar almost made Johnny fall over backwards. Old Jim had discharged his rifle. “Did you get one of them?” gasped the forester. The old man shook his head. “Can’t tell till we take a look,” he replied. “For a second, though, the firelight caught those eyes just right, but the sights on the barrel were hard to see. Why didn’t you shoot?” The younger man looked uncomfortable. “I am too green at this sort of thing, I guess. The terrible stillness after that caribou plunged past had the goose flesh just running all over me. Are all of the wolves gone?” “After that shot? Why, you won’t see or hear one for a week! They are the shyest, wisest, luckiest brutes in these mountains. Everybody’s against them. The bounty law wasn’t needed to make a trapper shoot when he sees one. The grizzly bear may be big, but he mostly minds his own business, and out here he feeds on roots, berries, gophers and such things. He sleeps all winter anyway, and what’s more he doesn’t go in packs. But the wolf! Nobody knows what he won’t do. And there’re still a lot of them, all around these valleys and basins. You’ll

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learn about wolves before you’ve been here very long. “But usually you’ll just see their tracks and the carcasses they leave around. It isn’t often that they let loose a noise like this. Probably they had killed and fed lightly earlier in the evening and were chasing the caribou more for fun or education of the pups than anything else. Here, take this torch and let’s have a look for a dead wolf.” A cautious search among the shadows brought no results. In several places the moss underfoot was disturbed by the wolves’ leaps, but that was all the sign that Johnny could find. He gladly hurried back to the camp-fire before his torch could burn too low. Soon he had wood enough heaped on it to make the place as bright as day. Old Jim said nothing when he too returned. For several minutes the men sat there watching the flames and the efforts of a long line of ants to escape the heat and yet not leave the burning log that had been their home. “It’s just as well I didn’t shoot,” Johnny remarked. “If you couldn’t hit one in the dark, certainly I could not do it.” Old Jim continued to watch the flames. Finally he turned toward his companion, with a twinkle in his eye. “If I said I’d winged that wolf, shot it in the right hind leg, and that I knew it was a black one, I guess you wouldn’t believe me. Well, when the daylight comes I’ll show you the tracks, and you’ll see that the nearest wolf started off on three legs. Also I found this tuft of short hair, the kind that grows below the hock.” And that was how the mother of the Wolf King became lame.

CHAPTER TWO

The Fate of the Pack >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

IT WAS THE MATE OF OLD GRAY, THE LEADER, WHO WAS WOUNDED ON THAT October night near the banks of the Porcupine. The shot, the pain, the numbness in her leg had come so unexpectedly that in spite of her instinctive leaps into the shadows she scarcely knew what had happened; but, in circling toward the river she caught the breeze from a different angle and with it the odor of man and of the things that denoted his camping place. The hair bristled along her whole spine and the nameless terror that gripped her quickly subsided. She knew how to elude man. The night would hide her from him. The injured leg, however, was a bad hindrance and she was well behind the other running wolves. The best she could do was follow the general direction they had taken and on her three good legs try to reach the safety of the dense spruce forest bordering the river. The other wolves did not feel like crossing the swirling torrent. They had all drifted together again, following the mad scramble away from the camp; and now they were lying or squatting among the rocks along the river bank, some licking scratched feet and legs, others just resting, all of them however with lolling tongues and quick breathing from the exertions of the chase. Old Gray alone seemed uneasy. Twice he stood up and walked from wolf to wolf looking for the thin black one that was his constant companion and mate. His pack was a queer assortment of colors, running from yellowish gray to deep black. He himself was iron gray with dark markings about the shoulders and head. These markings gave him a peculiarly fierce look and made his great forequarters seem much heavier than the remainder of his body. [17]

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Once more he walked around the resting band, six long bodied, big boned youngsters, the litter of the current year, and one older wolf, a black one, which had joined the pack for company and been accepted when he showed no signs of wanting to dispute Old Gray’s leadership. A grim-looking lot they were in the dim starlight of the moonless night. The rushing waters of the Porcupine gurgled so loudly that little else could be heard. Impatiently the old gray wolf left its edge and trotted back on his trail a short distance. Here the trees shut out all murmur of the river. A sudden harsh grunt showed the whereabouts of a moose; then a crash of dead branches told of heavy horns moving to the left. From far away in the lonesomeness of the mountains came the bawling of a cow moose. When all was still again the wolf raised his nose toward the sky and howled. The sound was low pitched, yet mellow. It began nowhere, then gained in volume until it seemed to fill the woods, then died down and drifted into nothingness on the air currents. So elusive was the call that listening creatures could scarcely be sure of its whereabouts. And all in the woods were listening. The two men, still crouching beside the camp-fire, looked at each other. Old Jim said nothing, but he knew now that it was a she-wolf his bullet had maimed, and that she was hit badly enough to be separated from the pack. Johnny glanced toward the guns. “That’s the last you’ll hear,” remarked the old man. “That howler will wait a while before letting loose any more noise, and by that time the wounded one will find him. If she were really badly crippled and couldn’t travel after the others, you’d hear from her. Let’s turn in and get some sleep.” A few minutes later the snores from Old Jim’s side of the tent drowned all near-by noises of the forest. The old man was right about the wolves. Old Gray’s mate, Blackie, was not far from him and answered the call with a whine. Instantly the old wolf’s sharp ears caught the exact direction and led him unerringly to her. When he came within view, however, he approached with utmost caution, and she regarded him with equal suspicion, even

THE FATE OF THE PACK

bared her teeth in a warning snarl. Each sensed that what had happened might somehow have altered their relationship. And so Old Gray walked around Blackie, making sure there was no trap or no other harm for him. And Blackie, instinctively afraid because of her new helplessness and the possibility of his fury, crouched there on the defensive, waiting, but always keeping her sharp nose pointed toward him. At length the big gray was convinced. He whined reassuringly and came forward. He singled out the bullet torn leg and licked at the blood. His tongue was rough but thorough in cleaning out the wound, the saliva forming a kind of poultice with the slicked hair. Then he started back to the river, with Blackie following slowly because of the increasing stiffness in the injured tendons. The others of the pack watched their approach, then one by one came forward to sniff and examine for themselves. There was something almost furtive in the way they slunk up, however, for Old Gray stayed near by and warned them off by his grimness. He was in a bad temper over this. It was the first thing of the year that had gone against him. Presently, however, he dropped down full length on the grass and began to lick a sore front paw, one which years before had been caught in a steel trap and had never been quite right after he tore it loose. No ordinary trap could withstand the pull his mighty frame could give with its weight of over one hundred and sixty pounds. A dim shadow moving along the water’s edge made the wolves turn their attention in that direction. Downstream walked a cow moose and a large calf. The wolves glanced toward their leader but did not stir. Presently the cow caught their scent and broke into a trot, the calf closely following her. Behind them came a young bull, with his first little horns. Seeing the cow start off in alarm he plunged directly into the woods, almost knocking over the nearest wolf. With a vicious growl the young wolf sprang at his hind leg, the other youngsters at once joining in the attack. Only Blackie and Old Gray remained in their places. The crash of the fight moved further and further into the woods.

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The little bull was as quick as a polo pony and easily defended himself by quick turns and sudden rushes. Presently the wolves had enough and let him go his way; one of them was limping. On the trip back they came on the fresh trail of a doe. Hesitatingly they sniffed it. There seemed to be none to lead them, but suddenly the black outlaw forged ahead, whimpering excitedly. The pups were thrilled with the idea of a chase and joined in behind him. It was an hour before they lost the right trail and after wandering about, disgustedly slunk once more toward the river. But mischief had been started. For the first time they had had the fun of hunting on their own, free from Old Gray’s wise but irksome control. Days went by. Blackie’s wound kept her from hunting, and she only limped about or lay hidden in the spruce thickets, Old Gray remaining with her much of the time. He located a big moose carcass left by hunters who had taken little more than the head, and on this supply of meat he and Blackie fed as unconcernedly as the lowly coyotes. The pups were too full of nervous energy to wait around, and so made longer and more distant forays with the black outlaw to guide them, and after a week deserted their parents entirely. They stayed in the valley of the Porcupine, but usually in its lower reaches where there was little hard climbing to be done. Here they ran riot at times. Soon one was caught in a trap set for a wolverine. Unlike Old Gray, he could not pull loose. The trapper, encouraged by this success, put out poison baits and caught two more. Still the band of only four continued merrily. When the snow became over a foot deep, the trapper, armed with his rifle, took up the pack’s trail and surprised them lying down in a thicket, sleeping off the effect of a feast on a deer captured during the night before. Picking out the blackest to shoot at, he managed to kill the outlaw and with another shot the largest of the pups. The other two dashed away in a panic and did not stop running until they had come back to the shadowed valley near Great Pass. On the following night they slunk about fearfully, not knowing, what to do. It was here they had been safe with their parents, but these

THE FATE OF THE PACK

were not to be found. For two nights they fed on hunters’ carcasses, or what remained of them after the inroads of bears and coyotes. The bears were hibernating now, but the coyotes were still very active, and seeing that the newcomers were pups, two coyotes offered a fight over the carcass of a caribou. So little confidence remained in the lonely pair that at first they were completely browbeaten; then hunger got the better of their fears and they growled back and showed such an array of teeth that the smaller wolves backed away. Had any trapper been in the section, however, the pups would have been easy game for him. During the deep snows of January they drifted again down the valley, mostly on the ice in the Porcupine. A trapper was still at work there, and he set six wire snares. In the morning he found the female pup in one and signs that the male had been caught in another, but somehow had freed himself and rushed away toward the north. This pup had learned his lesson and was really scared. Two days later he came to the trails of many wolves, and though before this he had shunned strangers of his kind, fearful of what they might do to him, now, in his wretched loneliness, he followed them and came upon the pack when they were resting after a kill and a mighty feast. Lazily they regarded him. The big leader, dark gray in color like himself, rose from his bed in the leaves and stalked toward him. The pup stood his ground but cringed and whined ingratiatingly while the leader looked him over, then walked disdainfully away and lay down again. The others of the food-stuffed, lolling band at once lost their interest and let the pup crouch down at one side, an accepted member of this fierce group, a part of which he was to lead in the year when the Wolf King, his black brother from a later litter, came to rule over the Porcupine.

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CHAPTER THREE

Old Jim’s Luck >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

APRIL BROUGHT GOOD WEATHER TO THE MOUNTAINS. IN THE LENGTHening days, the sun’s rays, unobstructed by dust- clouded atmosphere at these heights, bore down on the snow banks and sent floods of water into every valley. It was a difficult time for travelling the trails, but Old Jim Horner was doing his duty as forest ranger and riding, with only his dog for company, from the settlement back into the valley of the Smoky. This time he was bringing two well-laden pack horses, for no wild game should be killed for food in the spring. Nor could he find any hospitable campers until late in the summer. The trappers too had picked up their stakes and moved homeward. Ranging was dull, lonely work at such times. Old Jim was relieving Johnny Rogers from duty. As he trekked into the mountains Johnny, according to schedule, would be riding out, for a rest. They were expected to meet somewhere on the trail, but if they did not meet, then Jim would know that something had happened to Johnny. Having little else to think about, the old man worried over this and speculated as to how the new forester might have fared in his first long trip alone. A quick bark from the steep slope on the right made Jim look for his dog. The big, heavily built, black and white husky had reached the edge of a snowslide above the scrubby spruce thickets, and was now bounding among the scattered rocks in great excitement. Jim took out his binoculars and searched the heights. At first he could see nothing move, then he made out the form of a gray wolf sneaking swiftly around the boulders in the direction of the nearest tongue of trees. Before it vanished, he recognized Old Gray. [22]

OLD JIM’S LUCK

Jim whistled to the husky. There was no point in letting the dog try to follow the old wolf now, and an idea was already crystallizing in Jim’s mind. This dog could trail. Undoubtedly the wolf and his mate had a den somewhere in the vicinity. It would be well hidden; but with the dog’s aid it might be found, and there was a bounty on wolf pups as well as on the old ones. Jim had instructions to kill wolves as a part of his work, so it did not take him long to decide to camp in the grassy basin two miles further down the winding Sulphur River. One of the chain of rangers’ log cabins would make him comfortable there. Where the trail forked he stuck up a flat, white piece of wood on which he had drawn an arrow with charcoal, and signed “Jim.” This would stare Johnny in the face and point toward the cabin. As a camp the neat little one room square of logs was just what the ranger wanted. The horses had grass all around them, and he had a brook only ten paces from his doorway. Firewood lay all about in the form of dead jackpines. Toward evening Johnny came riding in followed by his two pack horses. His grub supply was low and he was very glad to find Jim a day earlier than expected. He was still several days from the settlement. He told Jim the news of the mountains. He had met four trappers carrying out their lynx, fox, marten, mink and coyote skins. He had seen two bands of Indians. There had been no fires in the forest. The mountain sheep were plentiful beyond the Smoky; he had counted seventy rams. Moose and deer had wintered well. The caribou were arriving from the lowlands to the east. There were many wolf tracks along the river bottoms and the remains of two kills on Kvass Creek. The Cree Indians had told him that a mountain lion was tracking up the country to the east of Big Grave Flat. He had seen neither wolves nor lions; but on the slides he had picked out four grizzlies in all, digging roots. One was a monster, with straw-colored hair about the head and shoulders. When he heard that Old Gray had been seen, Johnny decided to stay for a day in order to help Jim try to find the den. Here, he thought,

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was a good chance to learn more about the ways of the wolves. So at dawn Johnny was on one ridge busy with binoculars, while Jim watched from another vantage point. Johnny saw deer, mountain goats and some bighorn sheep; Jim had better luck. He was sitting on a ledge scanning the sides of two valleys when the unusual behavior of a band of seven old rams caught his attention. At first they were calmly grazing in a green basin well above timber line; then the leader threw up his massive head and gazed toward the rising sun, the others seeing the motion and gazing in the same direction. All stood stock still. Jim shifted his binoculars to the ridge ahead of them and searched each cliff and gully; then he swung back to the rams. They were looking now in the other direction. Every one of them had horns that made almost a complete circle on each side of his head. Where the horn points reached in front of the eyes the rams had shattered these in fighting or by butting against rocks, leaving the points blunted and rough. It ran through Jim’s mind that a row of heads like these would have driven a hunter almost crazy with excitement. They were the finest he had seen in many a day and denoted hardened old timers, all probably more than ten years old. A flock of rams like these would be wise in everything they did, so Jim watched them and wondered, and watched them some more, for something was worrying them. A golden eagle flew low over the ridge in the direction of the sheep. Suddenly he swerved and began to mount into the air, higher and higher in circles, always seeming to center his curves on one spot down below that interested him. Jim now concentrated all of his attention on this same place, a mass of rocks from a slide on the side of one of the peaks. It was about a quarter of a mile from him in a straight line, and at least twice that distance by foot across the deep little valley. In the clear atmosphere of the peaks it seemed nearer, and the eight power glasses brought it very close to the eye. But Jim could see nothing that moved.

OLD JIM’S LUCK

Several minutes passed. The old man relaxed somewhat, then suddenly gripped the glasses with new intensity. From behind the pile of rocks swung a black object in a short circle. Jim made out that it was a wolf, but one that had something wrong with its body or legs. It acted as if it were hurt or loony or playing with another wolf that really wasn’t there. The old rams watched it. Jim watched it. The wolf seemed to be trying to lure the sheep to come and play. They did not stir; and so riveted was their attention that they did not seem to notice that the wolf was drawing nearer. Jim scarcely breathed. Then he caught a motion somewhere near the bottom of the binoculars’ field. He focused quickly. Another wolf, Old Gray, was sneaking straight for the sheep from the opposite side of the basin. There was no camouflage about his stalk; with head and tail held low and body closer to the earth than usual, he was coming fast across the green flat. The ram with the darkest color and heaviest horns suddenly turned and saw the gray wolf. Instantly he was on the run, the other rams blindly following his lead. Then Old Gray launched into a furious sprint, and the black wolf, ceasing to play, came flying down from the opposite direction. Everything moved so fast that for a moment or two Jim continued to look without stirring. He was as fascinated as the rams had been in watching Blackie. Then he saw the hindmost ram whirl around as Old Gray overtook him and lunged for the legs. The other rams kept wildly racing for the cliffs, leaving their companion to his fate. Jim woke up when he saw Blackie descending like a streak to catch the ram from the rear. He threw up his rifle and sent a ball whizzing over the basin. Instantly the wolves checked themselves and looked around in surprise. The ram backed off, then dashed after his faithless companions now safe on the side of an almost perpendicular chasm where any wolf who crept after them could be hurled to his death. Jim suddenly realized that in spite of the distance, he had a fair target.

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Again he sighted, this time with utmost care. The rifle ball ploughed up the earth directly behind Old Gray. The wolf leaped away from it and started running now toward the timber. Again Jim aimed and slowly pulled the trigger. The big, doglike creature seemed to crumple at the sound. His legs gave way and he fell forward. A yell burst from the throat of Old Jim, He had scored a long hit. The wolf was his. Down the mountain he ran, leaping the bushes in his excitement, and in little more than fifteen minutes he had reached the basin. The wolf, however, was nowhere to be seen, but Jim with unerring eye took up the trail and found him among the rocks, dead. He had made a valiant effort to escape. For a hundred yards he had somehow dragged himself toward the woods that always before had saved him in time of need. Jim lifted the big gray head, examined the teeth, blunted from their years of work on marrow-filled bones. One ear was slit, there were old wound marks about the shoulders. Jim laid the head softly back on the ground and sat down on a rock nearby. An old wolf has made history in his time. Some of his story is written all over him; in the gaunt body, the scars, the look in those fierce eyes, the scrawny tail torn by bush and thorn, the great tireless feet and tough, rock-worn pads. Old Gray had had his triumphs, his day. Now it was left to his offspring to carry on.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Wolf Den >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE LAME MATE OF OLD GRAY LEFT THE SHEEP BASIN BY WAY OF A CLEFT in the rocks. Soon she was circling dwarf spruce and mountain pine thickets at timber line, then entering the high timber itself along the base of the mountain ridge. Here she slowed down to a trot and even stopped occasionally to catch her breath and to look back for sign of her mate or of pursuers. The paths of the moose led downstream and made travel much easier, so the wolf followed their winding course, sometimes through snow, sometimes in steaming, sun-baked glades. Always high strung, she felt particularly nervous and worried now. Every time her foot touched soft ground she flinched or leaped to escape a possible trap in the trail. Narrow places she avoided for fear of snares. Her nose was testing every breath of air for man scent. When at length the paths led down to the lower valley of the Sulphur, she made a right angle turn and began to ascend. Here she was two ridges removed from the sheep basin and more than three miles to the south. Another mile brought her to the edge of a wide glade reaching from the river straight up to timber line and the ridge above. There was no snow here for it faced southeast and caught all the hot sun. A snapping twig caught her attention. The noise was caused by a young buck stepping about carelessly among the spruce trees as he searched for a safe day bed. This was a good sign that enemies were not near, but the wolf circled him with caution, gave a resting doe an even wider berth and after a long stand to listen and test the breeze, slipped cautiously around several boulders and plunged into the mouth of a cave. So well arranged was the position of this den that it could not be seen from any angle except almost straight above. Nor [27]

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could the she-wolf be seen as she moved from the density of the spruce timber into the boulder slide. A whimpering greeted her. Six fat little pups, well furred but still with eyes unopened, crawled about in a depression at the end of a ten foot winding passage. The wolf licked their backs as they reached up blindly toward her body; then she settled herself comfortably in the depression and gave the hungry young ones the chance they wanted to clamber over her until they found milk. They were so eager and serious about getting a meal that none made any sound now except an occasional smack when he sucked too hard. The mother continued to lick them. Presently the one in the center, black as coal, shifted to steal his nearest brother’s place. The brother shoved against him. The pirate one growled lustily and soon won his way. The other groped about, whimpering until the old wolf stifled his grumblings with her active tongue. This was the den that Old Jim expected to find in a few days’ searching. If he had not been born with the patience of Job, he would have stopped hunting after the first three weeks and tried something more remunerative. But Jim was a determined plodder. He felt sure there was a den, for otherwise the lone wolf would have left this country. He argued to himself that each day he was checking up on more territory and by process of elimination, getting just that much nearer to success. Besides that he liked the job. He never succeeded in seeing the she-wolf during that time, but he saw her tracks and he secured a first hand knowledge of all the big game animals in the district. Johnny had gone to town and come back with fresh supplies; again he was at the rangers’ cabin on the Sulphur. Jim was due to leave the trail for a rest, but doggedly he stayed on. He had a theory now. It was that the she-wolf would make mistakes of some kind and give him his chance just as soon as the pups grew so large that they would eat more meat than one parent could successfully bring to them regularly. The many caribou and deer, after a few raids, moved away to safer territory.

THE WOLF DEN

They were already hunting for good country in which to have their fawns. The goats and sheep had become exceedingly wary and rarely left their safe precipices. The moose were too powerful for her to handle unaided. But she killed porcupines, the stupid, snivelling creatures that knew only enough to raise the quills on their back and slap their barbed tails about when she came upon them. Even the grizzly avoided a porcupine, but the she-wolf, gaunt and more nervous than ever, killed one after another by seizing them on the bare nose and dragging them around until they grew exhausted and could be ended by a ripping bite at the unquilled throat. And so another week went by. Jim guessed that the pups might very soon be leaving their home. By now he had reached and was minutely searching the little valleys that ran north from the Sulphur River. One of these contained the den, but he had found only a few tracks hereabouts, for by this time the old wolf was fully aware of his designs and was leaving and approaching the valley by way of the rock slides and moss patches that could hold little sign. She moved only by night and even then avoided the moonlit places as much as possible. There was only one thing she overlooked and that was the danger that might come from the scenting powers of Jim’s dog, the big black and white husky, himself part wolf. She took care only to hide her trail from the eye of man, as if that were all that mattered. Therefore, early one morning, when the treacherous dew was heavy on the rocks, the husky, wandering about with the old ranger, came upon her trail while the scent was still kept fresh by the moisture. It led, with almost no dodging, toward the glade below the den. At first Jim scarcely noticed the dog, then as the beast began to show excitement, he grew more interested. He found just one fresh track where the wolf’s toes had slipped on a mossy stone. That was enough. Now he was even more eager than the dog; his chance had come. And the husky was doing his work well. Breathing hard with the work and wagging his sickle-shaped tail, he was scenting out each paw

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mark and heading unerringly for the den. If he had barked or bayed like a hound, the she-wolf might have been warned in time to carry or lead the pups away. She was lying hidden among the rocks directly above the den, where the playing of the lusty youngsters would not annoy her while she slept. The scrape of an iron nail on rock brought her to her feet in an instant. She saw between the rocks the crouched form of Jim coming straight up the mountain, and like a shadow she moved around the boulders until the pups were in view, lolling in front of the den, one of them as black as when he was born, two of them rusty black and three reddish brown; these three browns would be gray like their father when they grew up. Silent as she was, they heard her and looked expectantly in her direction. But instead of looking at them, she was watching the glade below, her hair bristling along her back. The pups’ excitement withered as if frosted. They too cowered down. It did not need her mixture of growl and snort to send them scurrying into their den. After they were out of sight, the black wolf moved forward among the boulders to leave a hot trail as a decoy for the dog, then descended into a gully, and began a quick, stealthy run toward the timber to the right of Jim. So well situated was the den for just such an escape, that neither the old man nor the dog caught a glimpse of her. No wonder, perhaps, for by this time the husky was close enough to scent the den in the breeze. He stopped trailing and advanced with nose held high. Not even the fresh tracks left by the old wolf could lead him away now. He nosed among the boulders and came suddenly upon the entrance. With a yelp of joy he leaped forward and began to bark furiously at the dark cave’s narrow mouth. Jim was only a few paces behind, but his heart was pounding so he could scarcely climb. Weeks of hard work were rewarded. He had won against all the odds the wilderness could impose to protect its favored ones.

THE WOLF DEN

The stones and earth all about bore the footprints of the young wolves, who had played there a great deal during the last few days. The place smelled of decaying meat and of the wolves themselves. The mother had not always carried food there in her mouth, but often had eaten at the place of the kill then disgorged the daily rations for the growing pups. Jim could see from the tracks that the young ones were large enough to travel, and that he had been lucky indeed to find the den before they left it and took to the woods. He called away the excited husky and began rolling heavy boulders up to the entrance until it was completely choked. After testing the barricade he started back to the cabin for a pack horse and digging tools. When he was well down the trail, the she-wolf rushed back to the den to lead the young ones away. She pulled and heaved against the barricade. She called to the young ones and they whimpered in reply. But it was all to no avail. Then slowly she limped back to the timber to await night. At the cabin Jim found Johnny and told him the wonderful news. They loaded pick and shovel on one of the horses and hurried back, Jim also bringing two steel traps. With a good will they got to work at the den and made the dirt fly.

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CHAPTER FIVE

The Black Whelp >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

DIGGING WAS SLOW WORK. IT INCLUDED ROLLING OUT OF PLACE A NUMBER of big boulders which were sent crashing down the mountain. At length the burrow turned, and was squeezed into a narrow tunnel by two mighty rocks which defied all efforts to budge them. “We’ll have to try the dog,” said Jim. “He’ll get to the wolves all right and he’ll destroy them, I guess, but he won’t fetch them out of the den. So we’ll hang a piece of rope onto him and haul him out every time he gets hold of one.” Johnny looked on with some misgivings while the old man fastened a loop around the hind quarters of the husky and urged him into the tunnel. The dog wormed himself through the narrow opening, then moved quickly out of sight. There was a sudden violent barking mixed with growls and yelps. “Now pull!” Carefully they drew out the struggling dog. He was tightly gripping one of the brown pups and still shaking it. Jim looked it over, then laid the limp body on one of the flat rocks and sent the dog in again. In this way they secured the three brown and the two nearly black whelps. The dog showed no more interest. “That’s the last of them, I guess,” remarked Jim. “It’s funny though, because this pair of wolves always raises six in a litter. Perhaps the old limper carried one away with her. If so, it certainly will grow up to be a bigger fiend than any wolf around here now. She knows how to teach them!” [32]

THE BLACK WHELP

The life of the last pup hung in the balance. This one was the stout black fellow who earlier had shown his prowess in stealing choice food from his brothers. He had been clever enough to dig himself partly into the soft shale, back of the den, and thus hide the greater part of his body behind a pile of loose stones and earth. Here he cowered, with only his sharp nose and bright eyes exposed. Jim felt satisfied with his haul, but the husky suddenly grew energetic again and re-entered the burrow for another look. His body obscured the light, so he could only guide himself by feeling his way and sniffing. Suddenly he encountered a furious bite on the nose. With a piercing yell he backed away. Jim took this as a signal and hauled hard on the rope. The husky was dragged out to daylight, but this time had nothing to show for his effort. “There’s something still in there!” muttered Jim. “Try it again, you mut!” In went the dog with alacrity. There was silence, then another piercing yell, followed by furious barking. When this subsided, Jim pulled again on the rope. Out came the husky, every hair on his back standing straight up, but he had nothing in his jaws. He was tugging and fighting against the rope. “What is it?” asked Johnny. “Acts like an old wolf was in there. But that can’t be or the dog wouldn’t have gotten the five whelps. Must be a real fighting youngster. Go get him, you cowardly cur!” This time the fight was sharp and bitter. Then the dog’s yells drowned everything and he suddenly appeared backing out by his own efforts, gamely tugging against a writhing, fighting pup which he held by the loose skin over its shoulder. Jim instantly pounced on the young wolf and held it down. The dog let it go and pranced about the pair barking insanely. “Pull my belt loose,” called Jim, “and make a collar for this black cuss. This is real luck!” Johnny slipped the belt loose and cut a convenient length from the buckle end. Jim fitted it with one hand and

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showed where to make a hole. In another minute he had it tightly on the cub’s neck and fastened to the end of a short, heavy wire. Johnny then, under his direction, drove a stake and fastened the other end of the wire tightly to it. A few heavy boulders made the stake safe from being pulled out and left only a narrow lane by which an animal might reach the pup. Then Jim took his weight off the wolf and jumped away just in time to avoid a bite. The black, woolly youngster rushed and jerked to free himself, then crouched down with ears back and sinister growls coming from his throat. “Great little sport!” commented Johnny. “What a wolf that one would have made!” was Jim’s remark. He was setting the steel traps in the narrow space between the boulders, using utmost care to hide them in the dirt. “And did anyone ever see such solid black color on a pup?” “Now, you varmint,” continued the old man, “do your quacking, you’re a decoy.” A few minutes later the two men, with the dog and their laden pack horse, were moving down the valley, leaving the little black wolf tied to his stake. Jim said nothing until they had rounded the base of the mountain; then he halted the cavalcade. “Now, Johnny, go back along the side of the ridge, keeping out of sight until you’re directly above the den, then take a stand where you can watch, and shoot if the traps don’t work. Remember that when the mother comes, she’ll come quickly. Stay there until after dark if you have to. I’ll take this dog away.” With that, the old man resumed his march to the cabin. “You’ll get your chance,” he stopped to call over his shoulder. Arrived at the right spot, Johnny propped his rifle conveniently among the rocks and lay there peering into the valley. The den was

THE BLACK WHELP

farther than he had expected, probably two hundred yards or more, and he could barely see the pup through his binoculars. It was chewing the wire and straining at the stake. An hour passed. So still was Johnny that a striped mountain chipmunk nearly ran over his legs on its way to a patch of grass. Two marmots, much larger than the chipmunk, were moving among the stones to the right. Now and then they stood on their hind legs to look around. Below and on the opposite slope patches of snow lay like great blankets. A shadow seemed to cross the face of the sun. Johnny cocked his eye upwards and saw a golden eagle flying high overhead. Suddenly it turned and circled. Around and around it soared. The marmots scurried to their burrows and stood at the entrances within a jump of safety, watching the huge bird and at intervals sending out a warning to others by giving their loud, clear whistles. Almost imperceptibly the eagle was coming closer to the earth. Johnny realized then that it had spotted the pup and was looking the ground over before striking. He cocked the rifle. Then a movement in the timber caught his attention. Against the background of snow a black animal was hurrying toward the den; it limped slightly. Suddenly it quickened its pace. The eagle, still hesitating, was directly over the pup. Like a streak the old black wolf burst out of a fringe of intervening timber and came charging up the rocks. The eagle was hovering now, not twenty yards in the air, its clawed feet already hanging loosely. Then it dropped like a stone, with half folded wings, cutting the air head first until it caught, out of the tail of its eye, a glimpse of that furiously running form. Almost down at the earth, the bird thrust out its wings and veered away. The wolf raged after it, but too late. Up, up it flapped toward the peaks. Johnny had not heard the pup call the mother, yet somehow she

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had learned of the danger. Never far away, she had been on the watch and had understood the actions of the eagle. What would she do now, he wondered. Running back toward the den she suddenly stopped in her tracks to sniff the air. Now she circled and came toward the place from the far side by jumping from boulder to boulder. Arrived where she could look down on the pup she stood watching him and studying the changed conditions. Johnny, in his excitement, sat up to see more clearly. Instantly the mother looked in his direction, the quick movement having caught her eye, and without a moment’s hesitation leaped down beside the pup and tried to pull him up by the neck. The wire jerked him away from her. Then she understood, and bit the wire wildly. Her teeth found the leather collar; it fell off as if cut by a knife. She seized the pup again and leaped for the top of the boulder, but her burden was too heavy and cumbersome; she slipped down sideways and landed with one foot in the lane where the traps were set. There was a spurt of dirt as the steel jaws leaped up. Her foot was caught. Over she rolled with the pull of the chain, the pup being hurled out of danger by the sudden check; then she was up again. A terrific leap or two and she was chewing at the trap. Johnny could not believe his eyes when all at once he saw her free and running for the timber. And behind her struggled the woolly black pup, awkward and rumpled, but working his legs with might and main. A rifle bullet cut the air over their backs, but it was very badly aimed. In fact Old Jim, had he been there, would have said that it was not aimed at all by the soft-hearted young forester. The only trophies Johnny brought back to the cabin were some black hairs and a wolf’s long toe nail, which proved only that the mate of Old Gray was lucky and had struck the edge of the trap instead of the middle of the pan.

CHAPTER SIX

Learning to Hunt >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

A DEER WAS TIMIDLY WALKING DOWN A GAME TRAIL FROM WHISTLER Basin. It was a doe whose very young fawn was lying hidden in the timber waiting for its mother to come back from her feeding. The deer met the two wolves coming up the trail. Instantly she wheeled and bounded quickly away. A cow moose caught the alarm and started for the thick forest. But in the trail was one who did not turn aside. A bear, the biggest old male grizzly in the Athabasca region, was on his way to a dense grove where man could not approach him during his day rest without making enough noise to wake him up. It was only a month since he had come from his long winter sleep in a den under one of the higher cliffs, so his dark brown fur, tipped with yellowish gray about the shoulders and back, was not yet frayed or rubbed thin and seemed almost to ripple in waves over his great muscles as he walked. He was old and wise and cautious, but for wolves he did not even change his pace. Trappers and rangers who caught glimpses of his massive form at a distance, called him the Hay Stack Grizzly, for he looked like a hay stack moving among the rocks or the tree trunks. Shrewdly, the old bear watched the two wolves. He noted the mother’s hard breathing, the strained, furtive looks she threw over her shoulder. He saw too how nearly exhausted the woolly black pup seemed as he gamely strove to keep up with her. As the wolves passed him, at a respectful distance from his trail, he stopped for a long breath of the mountain air. Every taint in it was analyzed during that cautious sniff. Then the Hay Stack Grizzly wisely turned off at right angles and went striding up the ridge in the fast bear walk that places miles between him and enemies without seeming ever to tire the animal. [37]

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Blackie was heading now for a pass which would take her out of Whistler Basin into a neighboring one that led down to heavy timber on the sunny side of Flat Head Mountain. She and Old Gray had always liked the high peak and basin country above timber line, instead of the lower forest areas where wolves ordinarily roamed. She did not stop to see whether the pup was tired out or weakening. Her nervous trot carried her on and on, and the black pup struggled and gasped and bumped himself over the rocks, somehow always close behind no matter where she led. Suddenly Blackie stopped and crouched. The pup almost bumped into her hind legs then threw himself down on his belly to make the best of this opportunity to rest. Ahead a line of brownish animals, with massive curved horns, was threading its way across the wolf’s path, the mountain sheep were seeking the highest plateau for the day. Occasionally their hoofs dislodged stones which rolled clattering down the mountain; but they kept on without a turn of the head. The leader was one to be remembered. Darker than the rest, he had horns thicker and heavier, but badly battered at the points. Fourteen years of experience had made him the undisputed guide of the finest band to be found south of the Smoky. Grandly they moved past and became mere specks among the cliffs. Ordinarily Blackie would not have stopped for sheep. They would run from her. But she did not wish to alarm them and thus perhaps call the attention of enemies to herself. While with the pup on this fateful day, she felt like obliterating herself from all notice. With a lick or two at her bleeding toe, and a thorough licking of the pup, she ended the rest and led quickly to a den in the low-growth spruce just above the edge of some rather dense thickets. This was where she had safely raised a litter during the previous spring. The place was cool and musty. Inside, she lay down for a moment with the youngster, then came out to mount guard at a convenient thicket. A marmot’s clear whistle annoyed her. She moved nearer to his burrow, then lay down. When the whistler stood on his hind legs to

LEARNING TO HUNT

look for her, she did not stir. He decided that she had gone away, and presently felt it safe to go a few yards toward the grass patches. When he was least expecting it, a black streak shot down upon him and carried him off in jaws hard as a vise. The pup waked to a feast. It was this whistler that started Blackie’s pup on many weeks of stalking for these elusive dwellers of the basin country, for one taste seemed to whet his appetite. The whistlers stayed in their safe burrows during the night, but were always up early in the morning, as their winter’s sleep had left them thin and very hungry. Blackie took little interest in hunting them, for the big ones were tough and very shy. She preferred to hunt bigger game that stayed out of burrows. But to the black pup the whistling marmots meant real sport, and while Blackie rested in or near the new den, he regularly hunted them, learning to sneak on his stomach, to lie hid when they raised their heads, to rush in pursuit and to fight the savage old warriors when they were cornered and on the defensive. It was excellent practice because it made the pup work for himself instead of simply following his mother to share in her kills. This he did too, but the whistler hunting was all his own. And because life moved so easily and happily here, Blackie stayed at this den much longer than ordinarily would have been the case. It did not take a long time for the marmots to become educated. The older ones stayed nearer to their burrows than usual and kept a better watch, therefore one of them was sure to see the approaching wolf and to spread the alarm by a sharp whistle. Others then whistled also, until the warning had gone the whole length of the basin and back. Every one of them then quickly scuttled for his burrow and sat at its mouth ready to dive in. When the pup came too close to any burrow, into it the marmot would go. He would not so much as stick out his round nose again until the signals of his relatives showed that the enemy had moved on. In vain the pup made stalks, tried ambushes and played the trick of seeming to be interested only in other things. The marmots had

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learned how to outwit him and were thoroughly enjoying it. One old black fellow with a straw-colored head, whose burrow was nearest to the woods, always fluttered his lips at him with an insulting, hissing sound which exasperated the pup much more than all the whistling the others could do. Therefore every visit to the marmot colony began with a stalk to catch old bald face. Sometimes the wily one would wait so long that he could kick dirt into the pup’s eye as he made his plunge to safety. Then the young wolf would dig and tear up stones around the burrow, growl at his safe enemy and try again and again somehow to push in after him. The more he worked and panted, the more insulting grew old bald face. The pup finally began to haunt that particular spot; but old bald face was too fat to care if he occasionally missed his meal of grass and weeds; often he just rolled up in his bed at the end of the burrow and went to sleep. Finally Blackie grew interested. Instead of descending among the marmots after daylight when all were out feeding or watching, she came while it was still dark and they were asleep. Crouching behind a rock with little more than a nose and two eyes showing, she waited. Presently the sky grew white, the mists slowly rolled away and out popped the head and neck of baldy. Long he looked around for danger. The nose of the wolf, peeping from behind the rock, was well hidden among the green weeds and blue harebells. Baldy showed his powerful black shoulders, then his middle, finally his whole twenty-pound body. Nothing stirred around him; he could not see even an eagle in the sky, so he waddled a few steps toward his favorite pasture. Something warned him of danger and he jumped back to the burrow, but as no enemy appeared, he felt reassured and started out again. Too late he heard the stones fly as the old wolf made a dash. He had only time for two jumps, when Blackie caught and bore him off. In the rear excitedly ran the pup to share in the final rites. After that no whistler was safe. When the black pup was more than three months old and August

LEARNING TO HUNT

had melted almost all of the snow, Blackie moved to Whistler Creek Valley in order to be nearer the caribou which spent the hot days upon the remaining snow banks in its upper reaches. She knew caribou to be especially good food as well as comparatively easy game. Later their new antlers would be hard and dangerous, both sexes having them, instead of only the males as in the case of the deer and the moose; now, however, they had nothing except their hoofs for defense. The younger caribou were Blackie’s particular prey. They had speed and could climb almost as well as their sure-footed mothers, but they could sometimes be separated from all the old ones and then did not know where to go to escape. Blackie, without the assistance of her mate, found it no easy matter to make kills regularly for needed food. But she had stopped eating porcupines, for growing up under her guidance was one who showed himself more crafty than either of his parents, and an expert hunter by nature. Where Blackie usually strove first to catch the hind leg, hamstring and cripple even the young deer, the black pup always looked for the throat hold, a sudden killing grip that could end the battle almost at once. Though lanky and awkward at his age, he had by necessity already become a veritable demon in a scrimmage. The nightly hunting soon took the pair further and further afield. They ranged far up and down the Smoky and its tributaries. They made forays into Jasper National Park on the south and across the ridges to the Athabasca. Blackie’s restless energy came again and kept her on the move, for the pup’s muscles, developed by steady work, could carry him anywhere she led, and she made the most of this. Blackie would have nothing to do with other wolves, so the pup took his cue from her and also avoided them. Coyotes, much smaller than the big wolves, but like them in other ways, bothered the pair a great deal, and without the support of Old Gray, Blackie could not cope with the coyotes. They followed her about and took advantage of her kills. She could keep them at arm’s length while she fed, but could not cow them into respectful submission or fear. Their boldness worried her.

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The pup learned to hate coyotes. They growled and snapped at him. They treated him like dirt under their feet, well knowing that he was not old enough to punish them. They ruined even his favorite whistler hunting, for in this he worked without his mother and was at their mercy. The old ones travelled in pairs, usually accompanied by their litter of the year. There was one old coyote, a lone male, who for weeks spent much of his time sitting on the edge of the ridge above Whistler Basin watching the wolf pup hunt whistlers. No sooner would one be caught when down the ridge the coyote would come on the run, to take the prize for himself. He never failed, just for good measure, to give the pup a nip if he could catch him. When the wolf pair began roaming, they escaped this home-loving old coyote. Therefore it was not until they returned in September to feast at night on the game carcasses left by hunters, that they again encountered him. By that time he had adopted a mate, a mangy little coyote from the valley of the Smoky who was lazy and embittered against the world. Her mate of the spring had been shot. Her litter of four had died for lack of proper attention. Carcasses were now lying about in many valleys, but still these two delighted in following the returned wolves. Blackie contented herself with growls and a show of teeth whenever too closely pressed, but rage was gathering in the heart of the black pup. He had stalked and finally caught one of his favorite whistlers early one morning, in a remote basin where hunters did not penetrate when out from the dwarf spruce loped the two coyotes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

First Fighting Days >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE PUP CROUCHED OVER THE FURRY BODY OF THE DEAD WHISTLER. HE was tall and scrawny from running. He had a long pointed head and leg bones as big around as a man’s wrist. Clumsy he was still, but very quick. The coyotes approached with confidence, the old male showing his teeth and stalking up from in front while the mate sneaked around to the rear. The pup remained crouching over the whistler. His ears were laid back but there was no other sign of the fury within him. The coyote in front growled and made a spring. At the same moment, the young wolf launched himself forward and hurled his enemy down the mountain. The surprised coyote rolled over twice before he caught himself like a cat and started back to the attack, but in that moment the pup had turned and thrown the other coyote in exactly the same way. Too much was at stake for the two to let him succeed with this, so they returned to nip and worry and spring away. As long as they kept behind or to the side the pup could not turn quickly enough to retaliate; he held his ground but that was all. Then he saw the old male coyote off his guard for a moment while he looked around for possible enemies. That was enough. A black streak shot forward and pinned the struggling coyote to the earth; it leaped back to escape the flash of fangs, then shot forward again. The coyote’s neck was hurt and his left ear ripped from end to end. Giving wild yells of pain he sprang away and loped down the mountain with the mangy mate following. The wolf pup licked a cut on his hind leg, then fiercely ripped open his kill and began to feed. No coyote was ever to bully him again. [43]

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A few days later, Blackie led the way down the Sulphur. Here, in the trails, was the strong scent of man and horse. Presently the pup caught another odor. The hair bristled along his lean back as he sniffed the bushes, for a dog had passed that way, the same husky that had tried to kill him in the first den. The odor awoke old memories, a fear and a loathing. The pup studied the trail for some time before turning away to join his mother. He did not know that fate would often bring him and the husky together. The night bells of feeding pack horses tinkling from the valley flats made Blackie stop to listen. She could hear them in three directions and be sure that the woods were still so full of hunters, that it was unsafe to stay in the hunting country. But, instead of going back, the wolves turned east. In a ravine they came upon the trails of wolves, and Blackie sniffed wherever they had been, recognizing only two of them, the others being pups. Slowly, almost reluctantly, but as if obeying a resistless urge to join others of her kind, she followed them, the pup coming too, very suspiciously and stepping in her footprints as if afraid of an unknown danger in this trail of alien scents. Suddenly wolves were all around them. The pack had noted their followers and turned back to investigate. Blackie remained like a statue, intensely on guard, yet immovable, the pup following her example and quivering whenever a wolf came too close, to look him over, but not so much as turning his head. The advantage lay entirely with the pack and the two lone ones knew it. It was they who had to bear critical inspection. The leader was a black wolf with brownish streaks about the chest and legs. He was too old to take pleasure in bullying or being quarrelsome, so when satisfied that the newcomers could mean no disadvantage to him, he turned away. His mate followed, then the four younger ones fell into line. Behind them gingerly came Blackie and her pup. Presently they caught the scent of a fresh carcass. All turned in that direction. They went slowly now, old Brown Chest’s mate now well ahead. She growled whenever a youngster dared to press near her and

THE COYOTES APPROACHED WITH CONFIDENCE

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THE WOLF KING

moved as if walking on fragile egg shells, for a carcass might mean traps, poison, snares or other danger; on the other hand it might be all right. This one was a buck’s, lacking only the head and the skin of the neck which had been taken by some wasteful trophy hunter. Brown Chest came forward, took a leg in his teeth and pulled. The carcass slid down hill a few feet. He pulled again. The carcass rolled over and fetched up against a tree. However it was now on fresh, untainted ground, so the old wolf ripped at a haunch and the others instantly piled onto the carcass in a snarling mass. One of them was the black pup. He was quick to see what should be done and he tore and snarled with the rest. One of the other youngsters dashed at him. A tooth cut his jaw. He slashed back and closed with the bully in a whirling, furious fight. Suddenly he saw that he had the advantage, for the other was weaker and less active. He sent it howling into the shadows. Another flew at him. He leaped to one side. Others, now aroused, snarled and surrounded him. He slashed this way and that amid their yells of surprise. He got a cut lip and one bite in the flank before old Brown Chest growling menacingly, stepped in to stop the fuss. The pups all backed away. Blackie’s big pup had had a wonderful start in life. Small competition in the den days; a wise wolf’s undivided attention for several months; plenty of the best food. He was inches taller than the other young wolves; he was stronger and quicker. His head was as massive as that of old Brown Chest; he had learned to fight, not foolishly but guardedly. Small wonder that the old wolf looked him over again and with no particular favor. Blackie and her big pup left the pack before morning in order to sleep through the day in the kind of place the wise mother had found to be the safest. She led the way to timber line among the dwarf spruce, where no one could approach from above without being seen or heard among the rocks; or from below without tainting the breeze which in the daytime blew up hill on account of the rising of the sunbaked air. Here, well hidden, they curled up in a mossy place and dozed.

FIRST FIGHTING DAYS

Snow had been falling occasionally on the high ridges, but that night and the next day it came down in earnest. All of the animals seemed to realize that there would be a decided change; the caribou left the basins and came into the valleys; the mountain sheep deserted their favorite peaks; deer and moose moved lower in the forest areas; the Hay Stack Grizzly travelled miles nearer to his winter den; marmots vanished into their burrows for the long sleep; red squirrels feverishly carried spruce cones into their nests beneath the ground; jays squawked discordantly. The two wolves moved into the thickest timber and lay under a windfall waiting for the storm to stop. They were still satiated with deer meat. On the second night however they started hunting and ran down a young buck. It was easy to trail in the eight inches of snow. The buck, unusually brave, had turned on them at the end, but the black pup had thrown him with the throat hold the very moment he tried to make a thrust at Blackie. They had eaten then, stuffed themselves full. A hungry wolverine descended on what they left of the deer. Again they slept under the windfalls, but it was very cold, and the pup’s winter fur, now grown heavy and glossy all over his body, served him well. On the following night Blackie began to travel west, heading for the Porcupine, the pup following unhesitatingly mile after mile. They kept mostly to moose trails, but occasionally ran along the edge of streams. It was all new to the black pup. They came into the former winter range of Old Gray and found that the pack of Brown Chest was ahead of them. Here and there, they encountered much wolf scent and recognized these friends, but Blackie did not seem anxious to find the other wolves, though at dusk of the next day they met all six of the pack trotting down the edge of the river bed, on the new ice. The two blacks were accepted in such a friendly way that they joined the Brown Chests, and that meant they had cast their lot with them for the winter.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Winter on the Porcupine >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE SEASON OF TRAPPING HAD COME. HUNTERS HAD SECURED THEIR legal game and gone back to the towns. Fur, prime now and at the height of its value, was a lure to the hardy Indian and to the adventurous oldtimers such as Jim Horner. They took the trails into the remotest corners of the forest, built rude shelters of logs, skins and canvas, dug their last year’s steel traps out of hiding places and constructed temporary new traps in the form of dead falls and snares. Regardless of snow, ice and temperatures below zero, there was smoke in the valleys and there were tracks of snowshoe or moccasin in many of the river bottoms. The trappers’ most valued game was black or silver fox, then the marten, keen-scented relative of the Russian sable. This fur-bearer lived for the most part in the dense spruce forests, and besides chasing rabbits, climbed about the trees in pursuit of the red squirrels. The marten’s water-loving cousin, the mink, was next in importance, for beaver were protected by law, and otter and fisher had become almost extinct in many sections. Wolverine, largest of the weasel tribe, showing by its markings how closely it was related to the lowly skunk, ranked high, and the heavily furred but scarce Canada lynx was much sought. Next came the ordinary red foxes, then the elusive wolves and coyotes, whose skins made fine robes. The bounty on wolves made them especially desirable, but they were so big and powerful as well as wise, that they were considered the most difficult of all the furred game to trap and so were not followed by some of the less experienced men unless there was good prospect of a rifle shot. The trappers likewise secured ermine, the winter white phase of the [48]

WINTER ON THE PORCUPINE

little brown weasel. They killed for food the snowshoe rabbit, the red squirrel and sometimes the lowly porcupine. Also they shot or snared grouse and ptarmigan, and caught a few trout where warm springs kept the pools from freezing. Theirs was a hard but interesting life where fur was plentiful. Old Jim turned trapper in November. And as luck would have it, he secured trapping rights in the upper reaches of the Porcupine. For a week or two he worked on marten and mink, catching two of each, then he became increasingly aware of Brown Chest’s pack and their work both up and down the valley. He had one glimpse of the wolves. On a very wintry day when the trees were bending under a fresh load of snow, he came along the trap line just in time to see several dark-colored animals drinking at the edge of a cliff where a spring kept the water from freezing. Pulling out his binoculars he soon found that they were big wolves. As he watched, the brown-chested leader circled the pool and began to cross the river on the ice. A black wolf followed him, then a brown, then two more blacks. The next was iron gray in color. Last came two blacks. The smaller of these two limped. Jim looked hard and guessed rightly that this was the former mate of Old Gray. Then he turned his glasses upon the wolf at the tail of the column. Because it followed Blackie he felt sure that this must be the pup which had escaped from him at the den. He was mightily interested in seeing how it had developed. Already it had shaken off all puppy awkwardness, and though thin, was taller than the other wolves. Also, Jim noted that while the others followed each other with scarcely a glance to right or left, the big pup was very much on the alert and constantly looking about him. Jim was more than a quarter of a mile away but in the open. He kicked out sideways with his right foot. The result was just what he expected, for the pup instantly saw the motion and stopped in his tracks to study the distant figure. Suddenly then, the young wolf lunged forward, striking his mother’s flank as he passed her, thus

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alarming her and later the others, one after another. In a moment he was carrying the whole pack away with him in a fast run toward the dense timber. The old man watched them as long as they were in sight. In the snow they made long leaps, trying as much as possible to land in each other’s tracks. Jim knew the strength back of those bounds and the killing power of a great pack like this. No animal in the mountains could withstand them, unless perhaps the old grizzlies. Man alone might dare stand in the way of eight hungry wolves when, full of the hunting fever, they would go roaring down the valley of the Porcupine, or gallop silently along the trails with death for some luckless animal written in every grim movement of those supple bodies and determined jaws. Jim lit a cigarette and meditated. With any luck he might be able to catch every one of this pack. It would represent a lot of money in skins and bounty, more perhaps than might be secured by months of work with smaller fur-bearers. Anyway, he argued, it was good for the country to thin out the wolves; it was a help to the ranchmen and to gunners and indirectly to their guides. Besides that, there was a shortage of other fur-bearers, and it was depleting the breeding stock to catch too many of the few that were left. In the end, he determined to concentrate on catching the wolves. “Before these young ones get educated, especially that pup of Old Gray,” he mumbled to himself. “And after this I’ll carry a rifle!” he added. He walked down the edge of the stream to have a look at the tracks. There were two that equalled the size of a great Dane’s. These Jim examined very carefully. One belonged to Brown Chest, the other he felt sure was made by the big pup, and the pup’s was the larger of the two. The old man shook his head grimly. He was thinking of the harm he had done the country in letting a great wolf like this slip through his fingers when it was only an innocent, woolly little pup. Old Gray had ruled for twelve or more years; his mate, Blackie, had lived for eight or

FIRST FIGHTING DAYS

ten, and still was eluding man. Not only did the black pup have the best wolf blood in his veins, but also he was under the leadership now of another renowned old warrior. “If I don’t get him quick,” mused Jim, “it will take the whole world at least a dozen years to round him up. He’ll have his own pack before two seasons, at most. And then there will be fun around here, I’ll bet! But,” he added, “I’ll get him.” Slowly he followed the back tracks of the pack to see where they had come from, that morning. Straight up the valley, then left. Across an open flat, then right. Into the willows at a bend of the river; then Jim stopped. The snow was trampled and bloody. A yearling moose or what was left of it lay there in the shadow of a spruce. Two Canada jays pecked at the carcass, then flew into the spruce to hide the shreds of meat they had secured. The red squirrels were running from tree to tree as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “What a bait that will make,” thought Jim. Then he looked at the tracks of his snowshoes and remembered that the pack had been frightened and would be on its guard. Before hunting again in this section of the valley, the wolves would circle and study the country until they made very sure no man was about. At the head of the carcass several particularly large footprints caught Jim’s eye. He stooped to measure them with the palm of his hand. “I’ll get him!” he muttered. But the two Jays were screaming derisively.

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CHAPTER NINE

The Trapping Season >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

BEFORE A FRESH SNOW COULD OBLITERATE THE WOLF TRACKS, JIM HAD found places to set a dozen of the deadly wire snares as well as his six wolf-size steel traps. The pack was ranging over many miles of river country. It had, however, a very definite route. Certain game trails were as permanent as the main streets through a town. They remained in use both summer and winter and led from one good grazing and browsing section to another, knitting together the whole of the mountain country and giving contact with the foothill and ranch territory to the east and south. The restlessness of the various members of the deer family showed itself in almost constant wandering, backwards and forwards, over these trails, except when snow was deep or the fawns and calves too young. Brown Chest often used the game paths, but he also followed the ice on the rivers or trotted along the river banks. His experience with traps and snares had made him very wary of narrow places. Jim, in following his tracks, found a number of spots where the old leader left the ice to examine some promising thicket on the right or left bank. At each of these he set a snare or two, made of double strands of the toughest wire he could buy. It might be a matter of weeks before the pack again visited those exact places, but sooner or later they would come. Meanwhile the snares, not being in regular trails, were not likely to be sprung by other animals. The steel traps he set at spots along the game trails where the wolves stopped to leave scent. Sometimes the end of a log, or a lone boulder or a tree trunk where paths intersected, served as such range markers. [52]

THE TRAPPING SEASON

No full-grown wolf would pass one of these scent-marked places without stopping to examine it in order to ascertain what other wolves had passed that way. Instinct and jealousy prompted him to leave his own scent before departing. Thus there was a record of recent wolf visits for all to read. Coyotes and dogs, belonging as they did to the wolf family, also noted and used the same range markers. When Jim set traps he hid them from sight and dusted snow over everything that showed signs of his work. Then he used a dried wolf foot that he carried, to make tracks over the fatal pan. Branches that he dropped in the path or on each side of the trap helped to make a wolf step on the right spot. His sixth and last set was at the base of a cliff where porcupines for generations had lived under one of the ledges. Evidently the place had an interesting smell, for Brown Chest and his pack had stopped there to wander about and investigate. Here too were many wolverine and coyote tracks. Such a place had special possibilities. Jim noted where the wolves had circled a scent stump near the main trail. Here he buried his last trap and fastened the chain with wire wrapped about the trunk of a stout sapling. Late that night, back in his cabin of logs, he heard a wolf howling, up the valley. It was the lonesome call, long drawn out and eerie. Jim tried to shut it out of his ears by pulling the heavy sleeping bag closer about his head, but the howl persisted and at each interval seemed nearer. Evidently the wolf was coming down the Porcupine on the ice. Finally the sound stopped. Next morning the track of a single wolf was plain in the main trail, and in one of the snares Jim found it caught by the neck and dead. From its actions of the night before it was evidently a newcomer, a rangy gray youngster with the general look of Old Gray, but not his size. Jim could always see family resemblances in the wolves. He reset the snare, dragged the heavy animal a short distance into the forest and skinned him there. The fine hide he took back to his cabin and stretched out for drying. The catch heightened his hopes, he felt the elation of his success; but he was not to hear or see more of the

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wolves for many days. Brown Chest had left the Porcupine. Now he was ranging the Athabasca Valley, running the deer relentlessly further and further toward the foot-hills. He did not turn back toward the old territory until the middle of January. Other wolves were then coming into the Athabasca, spoiling the hunting; also, a trapper had set snares in the best stretch of timber. So one night the pack turned west and travelled miles into the mountains. Toward morning a big doe led them part way back in a wild chase which ended when they pulled her down in a snow-choked glade. Here they stuffed themselves and stopped for the day, separating to find snug bedding places in the warmest spruce thickets. Next evening they were again travelling, single file, along the main game trail. Suddenly Brown Chest’s mate, who was in the lead stopped, the others doing the same immediately. They stood silently watching and sniffing toward the woods ahead. Then out from the trees trotted three strange wolves, one of them a big gray. The three checked their gait, but after a moment advanced stiffly. Brown Chest met them with his head as high as he could raise it, yet the gray overtopped him. The old brown leader knew only too well that his worn teeth and stiffening muscles were no match for the younger wolves and that he must avoid a fight, but his bluff was so perfect that the young gray was impressed and almost cowed by the solid assurance of the other. The young wolf moved on to face the remainder of the pack, and thus it happened that he came face to face with Blackie’s pup. Except in color the two looked almost alike for the gray was the lone survivor of Blackie’s litter of the year before. Now he and the two youngsters with him were all that remained from a large band of which the trappers had taken their toll. The brothers stood looking at each other, and along their spines the hair bristled. Each knew that the other was a powerful fighting machine, to be avoided if possible; yet neither flinched. Gradually the other wolves formed a circle. The black one at length broke the spell.

THE TRAPPING SEASON

His tail began to wag; he was not a grouch, he whined good-naturedly. Instantly the tension relaxed. There would be no fight after all. The well-fed youngsters of both bands prepared to romp. But Brown Chest moved on. Reluctantly his pack turned away from new friends and trotted after him. They came to the Porcupine where Old Jim’s cabin was near the main trail. The wolves sniffed the tainted air, caught the man scent and with cautious steps sneaked by. But more powerful than man scent was that of dog for Jim’s husky had followed him from the town on his last trip and now was sleeping in a snow-bank beside the cabin. The black pup recognized his enemy of den days, never having forgotten the fight for his life against the great bully in the rear of the burrow. Now his hatred flamed up and he growled so deep down in his throat that Brown Chest looked back, for he took a good deal of notice of Blackie’s pup these days. All of the wolves were now alive to the fact that something was to be done about the dog, and in the dim light of the stars they circled the cabin. Nothing stirred to alarm them. Blackie whined. A sharp-nosed head appeared out of the white snow. Again that enticing, inquiring whine. The husky sprang up, and tried to look into the blackness of the forest. He caught the smell of wolves, very close. Without a moment’s thought he dashed in the direction of the whine, barking furiously, and in his inexperience he plunged headlong right into the waiting line. Between him and the cabin rose up a great black wolf, and Blackie’s pup suddenly found that the dog was not the immense creature he had remembered. He closed with the husky. There was a wild roar of excitement as others joined the fray. The dog rolled over, shrieking, clawing against the merciless, black avengers. Then an explosion rent the air, and the wolves stood for a moment petrified before dashing away. Jim, in the doorway, reloaded the rifle. He had been awakened by the noise and had hurriedly fired at random to save the dog. The husky slunk into the cabin and hid behind the grub box. He was badly cut in several places, one gash, given by the sharp young teeth of the black

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pup, running from his right eye to his ear. His left hind leg was ripped along the tendon; around his heavy shoulders the hair was dyed red. Jim heaped up a big log fire and in the wavering light worked over him for a long time. The pack continued up the Porcupine. Jim was forgotten and they were rejoicing in the return to familiar haunts. They stopped to look at each place where there had once been a kill and feast, they dug up old bones, sniffed along the old moose trails, pattered over the ice. Suddenly there was a fearful howl. One of the gray pups was in a snare. She was dashing around, choking herself, and as long as she leaped and howled the other wolves slunk about in a panic. The fun was over for the pack. They trooped dispiritedly into the forest. Almost mechanically one of the other youngsters stopped at a scent post which Brown Chest and his mate had already passed. There was a click of steel, a yowl of fright and pain. The pup reared up and was thrown head over heels by the jerk on his front foot when the chain was drawn taut. Then the remainder of the pack ran, blindly, into the shadows. By next evening Jim had tacked two fresh skins on his cabin wall opposite the first one. He sat there smoking and looking at them. Yes, he had had great luck, but his trump card had not yet been played, for in a bottle on a shelf he had kept some scent from the stray wolf, the stranger he had snared. Now that the mating season was at hand he would use this as a lure to bring the jealous males of the pack into his trap sets. So far he had done little except keep the traps free from too much snow; they had never been baited. Now he would try the new plan. He thought he heard a wolf howl. Opening the door he looked out. The night was clear and windy. His thermometer, nailed to the logs, registered 30 degrees below zero. The husky climbed stiffly out of his burrow in the snow pile and slipped into the cabin to crouch beside the fire. Above the pass the northern lights flickered, and somewhere in the valley below a coyote began to yap. The old man shivered and braced the crude door against the wind.

CHAPTER TEN

Survival of the Fittest >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

WITHIN TWO WEEKS, JIM’S PLAN SUCCEEDED TO THE EXTENT OF SECURING for him two young wolves from a visiting pack. With the approach of the mating season they seemed to have thrown aside much of their natural discretion, and they were not watched over any longer by their parents. On the twelfth day he actually found the mate of Brown Chest in the trap at the base of the porcupine cliff. Beside her stayed the grim leader himself until Jim’s bent figure came plodding up the trail in plain sight. Only then did the grizzled old wolf rise from the snow and run into the woods before a rifle shot could reach him. The she-wolf also rose to her feet and made a last frantic effort to follow; she fought against the trap, gnashed her teeth against it, then slowly crouched down in the soiled, trampled snow. Jim walked around her. The heavy steel held the left front foot. She did not stir, but with ears laid back followed him with her eyes, a baleful gleam lighting them at times. Jim knew better than to come within reach. Her fur at a distance had always seemed to be black, but now it showed a yellowish undercoat wherever it had been rumpled. It was in perfect condition, however, thick and luxurious from good food and plenty of cold weather. All at once she pricked up her ears and gazed toward the mountains; perhaps she had heard a call from Brown Chest. Jim felt a twinge of remorse. A few days later he caught the remaining two young wolves of Brown Chest’s brood. Showing almost diabolical cunning he had made tracks with one foot taken from the dead mother’s carcass to [57]

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bring them into the snares. If he had any feeling of shame he gave no sign. He had hoped also to catch Brown Chest and the black pup. A new snow added three inches to the drifts and wiped out the old tracks as a sponge wipes out the pencil marks on a slate. Then Jim noticed a strange thing. In this snow he found only a single trail, that of a huge wolf. He measured the tracks with his hand. It was plain that the black pup was roaming the woods alone. The old man pondered on this for a long time and finally decided that Brown Chest had paired with Blackie and sought a safer, better range. His pack having been destroyed, the wolf evidently was discouraged; there had been little but disaster for him in the upper valley of the Porcupine. Jim’s guess was partly right. Brown Chest had become more cross than usual. Whenever the black pup came anywhere near him or Blackie, he showed his teeth and snarled. Finally he lost his temper completely and flew at the younger male, driving him away, slashing at him as an enemy. The pup was taken by surprise. He did not quite understand it, but he had become used to obeying the old leader. For a night he followed at a respectful distance. This too annoyed the jealous, love-crazed wolf. He ran back, again and again, to drive away the other. The pup then went his own way, his feelings hurt, the world seeming somehow all changed and wrong. On the following night Brown Chest started toward the north and Blackie went with him. Had the black pup been of only ordinary intelligence, he would certainly have drifted into trouble while ranging about alone. The mating fever had not however touched him, and having to rely entirely upon his own resources only sharpened his wits. He fled to the edge of the remote basin country, east of the Sulphur, and far from Jim Horner’s trap line. Here the snow was not quite so deep and, as elsewhere, had been well tracked up and broken by moose and deer. In his fear and loneliness he hunted nearly as silently and stealthily as a panther; always on the lookout for the dreaded smell of man or of steel, always keeping in the densest timber, for he expected at any

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

moment to find some dangerous new sign of Jim or of his husky, and did not know that the old trapper was staying on the Porcupine confidently awaiting his return. His one great diversion was war against the coyotes. Remembering his puppy troubles with the pair at Whistler basin, as well as his difficulties in keeping them from eating what he wished to save of his kills, he soon started to lie in wait near the remains of deer he had brought down. Old Brown Chest, sure of the killing power of his band, generally had ignored the sneaking thieves. But to the lone pup a kill meant food for many days; it must be guarded. He developed here the habit of watching over his kills, which in the days of persecution that were to come, saved his life many times. The first time he scored against his thieving enemies was at the carcass of a dead doe near the foot of a rock slide. He had made the kill after an all night hunt, and felt that it was his and his alone, but three coyotes arrived as he fed and sat on their haunches and waited. The wolf growled. They shifted their positions but did not move farther away. The hair on the pup’s back began to bristle; he looked up and showed all his teeth in a blazing snarl that should have been a warning. Another coyote arrived. Then the black wolf charged. In one instant he was among them and had slashed one across the shoulder. The others flew at his flanks but not quite quickly enough. He leaped to one side and turned on them. They separated and ran, but he shot after the nearest. Two more appeared. Four now closed in on him from behind. Again he whirled about. They dodged, all now in a rage. They darted at him from every direction, trying to cut the tendons of his hind legs. He could give his attention only to one at a time and narrowly escaped being maimed by the rear attacks. They seemed impossibly quick. It was wild, furious fighting for him alone in the snow. It had to end in a draw. The black pup stayed at the carcass, but he had not been able to score a real victory. The nimble-footed enemy still sat around him hungrily watching and waiting. With the coming

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of daylight, things had to change. The coyotes became uneasy and withdrew to the edge of the timber; the pup retired to the middle of a spruce thicket. Almost immediately a coyote began furtively to approach the doe. The coast seemed clear, so he swaggered forward, leaped on top of the carcass and glared about him to cow the others of his band. But a raging black demon burst out of the spruce thicket and in the twinkling of an eye threw him sideways. He lurched away howling, and suddenly limping badly. A few minutes later the other ravenous coyotes were greedily tearing to pieces his lifeless body. It was a grim ending, but the black pup had learned how to deal with these thieves. One more scene like this served to educate the coyotes, and after that they rarely tried to steal his meat; but, the pup maintained his guard. One evening he saw at the carcass what looked like a large coyote. He stalked it, then made a rush. The animal leaped to one side, just as he realized from scent and size that it was a wolf. In another moment the two recognized each other, for the newcomer was the gray who had appeared in the trail with two younger wolves weeks before. Again the two brothers had come together, but this time the elder was in pitiful condition from poison. A rancher had put strychnine in the body of a dead colt the three wolves had found in the pasture country, and they, being hungry, had made a full meal. The poison finished the two pups and made Grayback, deathly ill, until he had vomited it out just in time. Afraid of being followed in the new snow, he had then taken to the trail and somehow travelled all of the way to the high basins. Now, after two days without food and with the effects of the poison still ravaging his body, he had been lucky enough to come to meat. Without any ceremony he tore and gnawed at the frozen carcass and the wolf brother watched and did not offer objection. For five days Grayback stayed somewhere near the strength-giving remains of meat and bones, alternately eating and sleeping. When almost nothing was left, he joined with the other in a hunt. The two descended upon a band of six deer in the timber. In the stampede they picked out a young buck and followed him along the narrow paths in

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

the snow until he made a turn. After that, one would follow him in his circling, baying at intervals, while the other either rested or tried to head him off. With two as keen scented as these on the trail it could only end one way; the exhausted buck was finally brought to a stand-still in the snow and pulled down. The remaining deer travelled several miles through the valley and joined another herd. Several days later the two wolves followed and scattered them again. Once more there was feasting. The deer started for the foot-hill country, along the route of the caribou. They knew they would be followed, but they reached the edge of the ranch district where snow was not deep and horses still ranged loose in the willows. A week went by. The wolves arrived, but the deer and the caribou had been stampeded by coyotes. Recklessly Grayback attacked a silly, long-legged colt in daylight. The older horses kicked and squealed and charged about, though without much effect, but a noisy collie then appeared. The black pup with his flaming hatred of dogs, took care of him and ended by chasing him to the edge of a clearing, but the noise brought out two men who caught a glimpse of the mighty, black wolf, now larger than his companion, Grayback, bigger indeed than any wolf they had ever seen. “The king of all the wolves!” someone described him with awe, and the name stuck. But it was generally shortened to just “The King.” And in the adventurous years that followed he more than earned the title. Now, however, he was badly frightened. He realized that this cleared ground was enemy country and that he had invaded it in a stupid way, so he rushed past the busily feeding Grayback to warn him, then took the trail by which they had come. An hour or two later he was far up in the mountains, but Grayback had not followed. He howled at intervals until, at last, there was an answer and the gray came into sight limping from a rifle shot. He had foolishly stayed at the carcass until the men found him. Both wolves had learned a lesson but, as the men observed, the black one needed no teaching.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Day of Spring >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

SPRING THAT YEAR CAME SLOWLY AT FIRST, THEN WITH A HOT RUSH THAT turned the valleys once more into furious floods. The snow melted away. Even the deepest sleepers among the grizzlies came quickly out of their winter dens. Marmots again whistled in the basins. The deer and moose grazed and browsed unafraid in the open meadows. Caribou came in long lines from the foothill country. Grouse began to strut. Red squirrels chattered like mad. Canada jays squawked and squabbled. Everything seemed to be moving up higher in the mountains as if trying to go as far as it could toward the warming sun. The bighorn sheep and the white goats took long journeys to their favorite summer ranges among the higher peaks. The mighty old rams, however, first came humbly down to the valley bottoms to lick and chew the bluish clay and shale banks where salt and medicinal alkali deposits, relics of the time when all this land was under the salt seas, filtered to the surface with the seeping moisture. To keep in good health, all the hoofed creatures had to pay visits to these licks. They wore paths to them from every direction, the moose, deer and caribou having favorite spots where the mixtures of salts seemed particularly to their liking, and the goats having their own chosen licks; the sheep theirs. The more timid the animal the more cautious it was in approaching these places, but go to them it must. The ewes had made visits during the autumn, but the big rams had been too cautious then to leave the heights. Now the urge to get salt was more than they could withstand, so down the game trails they trooped silently, majestically, each band led by the wisest among them. [62]

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The wolf pup, black as the ace of spades, lay stretched out on a flat rock, sunning and lazily watching a flock of fine rams trooping along the face of a steep shale bank opposite to him. The rushing water had in past centuries cut a small canyon through the ridges, exposing layer after layer of limestone, shale, slate and even coal. In a few places there were masses of fossil sea shells. Buckling of the earth’s crust long ago had twisted the strata and broken them up, so that some stood on end, others met each other irregularly across clefts, and the whole rock formation presented a many-colored panorama in which the brown sheep and the black wolf fitted perfectly. Far below them the grayish, silt-laden water swirled and roared over the boulders. Suddenly the rams threw up their heads and stood still, then turned around and began to climb back. At almost the same moment the long body of a mountain lion rose from its crouching position on a ledge far above. Some trick of the wind had brought the killer’s scent to the sheep. The lion trotted along the edge of the canyon, stopping now and then to look over at the rams below, but unwilling to try to reach them on such a dangerously perpendicular cliff. The rams, realizing their advantage, searched out a particularly narrow shelf where they were safe as long as they stayed, so the killer, after trying in vain to find good footholds, crouched on a ledge further up and watched. Two ravens saw what was going on and, after talking it over in hoarse croaks, perched hopefully on a stubby spruce to await the outcome. The wolf growled. He had never before seen a mountain lion, yet he took an instant dislike to the creature with stealthy, sneaking tread. When after a time clouds gathered and a spring shower soaked all things, he and the lion both sought shelter, and the sheep took the golden opportunity to regain their safe ridge. But at nightfall he was still thinking of the big cat and anxious to investigate its tracks and scent. After the rally call to bring Grayback, he led the way down to a fording place across the stream, and soon was studying the ground where the lion had made its stalk. Grayback also was interested in the scent and the two began to trail.

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They followed into the timber where the cat had made a bed under a spruce. From here the trail was very fresh, and suddenly they came upon the animal itself crouching over the remains of a doe, evidently killed by the cat some days before, and partly covered with leaves and brush to hide it from other marauders. The lion instantly growled evilly and began to lash its tail from side to side. The wolves were taken disagreeably by surprise, so to avoid more trouble and to allow the lion plenty of room they circled, still amicably, but with no pleasant feeling. Then suddenly anger got the better of the big brown animal and without more warning it charged Grayback, catching him completely off guard and rolling him over with two wicked cuffs. There was a roar of fury, and into the fight sprang the black wolf. He landed on the lion and bit down at the base of its heavy neck until in a wild effort it rolled partly on its back and raked at his body with its hind feet. He sprang away, then dashed in for a second furious attack, catching its throat and trying to shake the creature; but it threw him off and sprang on him, wrapping him around with spiked paws and carrying him down with its weight. The two rolled over together in a whirling mass, hit against a tree then leaped apart. The lion with ears back, teeth exposed and a long-drawn-out snarling screech pouring from its throat, crouched flat, ready for another spring, the wolf standing his ground and giving such rumbling growls as he alone could muster. Every hair on his back was on end; two rows of terrible teeth gleamed whitely; he was panting from rage and exertion. Grayback slunk around them completely cowed and shaking his head to ease the smart of a badly torn ear. He was a sad sight, particularly as he still limped from the rifle shot; but unwittingly he turned the scales in favor of his brother, for the lion expected a flank attack and lost its nerve when the gray wolf circled to the rear. It leaped to one side and bounded away, but with the black wolf following madly directly back of its tail. Without slackening pace it leaped onto the trunk of a leaning spruce and climbed out of reach. The wolf stood watching it as it glared and snarled in its safe retreat, then he disdainfully walked away.

WITHOUT WARNING THE CAT CHARGED GRAYBACK

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Grayback had wasted no time and was already hastily tearing at the deer carcass. Both wolves fed until full, then moved away a few paces to rest and lick their wounds. A pair of coyotes came slyly to snatch a morsel or two, but they were not disturbed. A gruff cough, however, changed the scene. A grizzly, followed by three brown cubs no taller than foxes, had come stalking into the moonlit glade. Her head was held high as she filtered the telltale air through her nostrils. No man scent, but mountain lion, wolf and coyote in plenty. And a deer carcass just ripe enough to be tender! Long she stood there, the cubs restlessly rubbing against her hind legs. It was evident that all the other meat eaters had fed and were in good humor. The grizzly turned towards the cubs with a muttered “woof.” They understood that they must wait there, and so grouped themselves about the base of a spruce and watched their mother; in case of need they knew they could go up the trunk in a rush. Their mother’s great claws might be dulled by much digging, but theirs were still short and sharp. At the remains of the deer, the bear once more sniffed the air and the ground with utmost caution. She stalked around the carcass, looked again at the two wolves for possible danger signal, listened to the sounds of the woods. Even then she was only half satisfied. Gingerly approaching the deer she seized a front leg in her teeth and with no visible effort, hauled the heavy carcass as far as the cubs’ tree. When however the youngsters tumbled toward her she cuffed them back. She wanted to taste the meat first, to test it for possible poison. At length she lay down to chew in comfort, and the youngsters took this as their cue to rush at the bones and play at crunching them. They were milk fed and cared little about stuffing themselves with tough meat, but they chewed and sucked at the remaining sinews, growled at each other and fought until, thoroughly exhausted, they lay down together in a pile, to sleep. The mother still worked at the carcass. The wolves had moved away to drink at the river and then seek a good bed for the coming day. The mountain lion, smelling the old griz-

A DAY OF SPRING

zly from afar, did not trouble to take another look at its kill. It started on a fresh hunt. The coyotes, tiring of watching the bear eat all of the meat they wanted for themselves, drifted away to hunt hares. But the old mother was uneasy and always watching the shadows. At length she called the cubs and hurried away, with them closely following. Then out from the forest slowly came the huge form of the Hay Stack Grizzly. Without a glance to right or left he marched straight to the deer and began to crunch the smaller bones in his jaws just as easily as a boy would break twigs. The marrow was good. He started on the leg and other larger bones. Soon there was little left. The old fellow had politely waited until the mother had finished, well knowing her temper when the cubs were near. At length he too ambled off. Then a wolverine sneaked out of the darkness. He chewed at what was left of the hide and carried away the skull. Later a weasel darted about the place, and when daylight cut through the shadows, the two ravens circled the woods and, noting the picnic ground, dropped down to search hungrily for scraps. When the mountain lion finally came back for a cautious look, the place was bare, the meat eaters and scavenger animals had done their work. Not a morsel had been wasted, and soon the grass would grow over the spot and hide all signs.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

Climbing in the Clouds >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

AS AUTUMN APPROACHED, THE HUNTING WAS BEST ON WARM, MOIST evenings after a rain when clouds hung low over the valleys and obscured the mountain tops, leaving, however, enough light reflected from the moon to enable the animals easily to find their way about. Under these conditions, scent was more readily followed than in windy weather, and wary creatures could scarcely see the wolves until they were close. On just such a night Grayback and his brother chose to hunt on the bare ridges and cliffs surrounding Goat Mountain which looked down in all directions on narrow grassy basins and spruce-studded valleys. The black was in the lead trotting guardedly along the high top of a shale-covered spur of the main range of mountains. The moistureladen air turned his breath into steam; water was dripping from the rocks and more water was making the soil patches soggy or slippery, depending on their depth. Thousands of feet below, now hidden by the clouds, small tributary streams, muddy and swollen, flowed furiously toward the Sulphur River. It was the kind of wet night when no creature could long force its way through underbrush without getting unpleasantly soaked, therefore even the moose were shunning the thickets and climbing up to open country. So high in the mountains few scents reached the wolves, and for a time they trotted along the sky line with scarcely a check. The first fresh trail they crossed had been made by a small flock of white goats. The black at once stopped to examine the tracks, the gray following his example. The goats had moved westward and gone down the ridge by way of a well-trodden path that zigzagged in the steeper places. With [68]

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wary steps the two wolves slowly followed, their feet avoiding loose stones and scarcely making a sound. The game path led them to a rocky spur near one of the higher cliffs, the scent becoming so much stronger that both wolves could be certain the goats were somewhere on this spur, not very many yards ahead and evidently resting, for the scent did not vary or shift. Presently, through the fog, several white bodies loomed up ahead and Grayback, unable longer to resist a charge, sprang madly over the rocks toward them. With surprising speed the goats were on their feet and galloping for the cliff; eleven in all, four of them half-grown kids. Awkward as they looked with their heavy shoulders and shaggy coats they went over the steep rocks without once slipping, while the two wolves slid or stumbled every time loose stones rolled under their feet. It was a fifty-yard up-hill race, with the black gaining and Grayback close behind him. Then the leading goat reached the cliff, sprang to a ledge and walked along a dizzy rim of rock that looked scarcely wide enough for a cat. The others crowded behind, all madly trying to get to safety at the same time. The last two were big nannies; they were too late and had to whirl around to defend themselves. Each lowered her head just in time to check the rush of the black. Spike horns as sharp as nails and ten inches long faced the wolves, with the goats having all the advantage of the higher position on the steep mountainside. The black climbed to get above them. Instantly one of the nannies, seeing the cliff now clear, spun around and gained the ledge, the other being so closely pressed by Grayback that she could not follow. This one was in a bad position now, unable to charge for fear the black would cut in and separate her from the ledge, unable to turn for fear of being caught by the hind legs. Gradually she backed, holding the wolves at bay while feeling her way to the ledge. A lucky thrust caught Grayback on the lip; he sprang away. The goat heaved her hind quarters onto the ledge and scrambled upon it backwards. Recklessly the black sought to stop her but now she was on the narrow rim almost

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out of reach, shaking her head grimly at the enemy as step by step she edged around the cliff to safety. At the first wide place she turned and slowly climbed after the others. The almost perpendicular wall of rock, broken only by shelves and crevices somehow afforded footing to her padded hoofs, as the goats could climb where no other large animal without wings could follow. Many a day would pass before they forgot this scare and dared again to make a bed for the night anywhere except among the highest precipices. The black and the gray cast a hungry glance or two toward the white shapes, then turned away. Soon they were once more trotting along the ridge. A clatter of rolling stones caught their attention. In the mist they could see nothing ahead; but quickly the scent of a grizzly filled their nostrils and later they made out the bear’s brown form as she dug for a mountain chipmunk among the rocks. She threw up her head to sniff suspiciously, sat there panting for a few moments, then returned to her work with renewed zeal, this time pawing a boulder to one side and pouncing on her luckless prey as it dashed for other cover. She gave the wolves a long look from her weak little eyes, made sure in her mind that they were not bent on any work that would affect her, then calmly and noiselessly moved her seven hundred pounds of strength along the side of the ridge to another promising rock pile. The two brothers passed on. Near a chimney of rock that rose from the ridge they caught the scent of mountain sheep. After a short circle the black stopped short, then cautiously moved ahead in a straight line; his nose had told him the exact whereabouts of the band. Three ewes and two lambs were lying down only a hundred yards away. Foot by foot the distance lessened. Then again Grayback lost his head and charged. The thumping of his running feet on the ground instantly warned the sheep and started them rushing for the steep rocks. With almost as much skill as the goats they picked their way along a precipice, then looked back alertly at the pursuers, well knowing from experience that now they were out of danger.

CLIMBING IN THE CLOUDS

The black sat down on his haunches and watched them. The huge form of a travelling grizzly loomed up, then passed by, the bear showing no interest in the sheep scent. Presently the wolves, too, moved on. A mile or two more was covered. Down in a basin the squalling of a bear cub brought them nearer to investigate, and their noses located a black bear mother travelling swiftly along the edge of a stream with two cubs following her; the pace did not please the last one, an overfat little black fellow, and he was complaining bitterly. The mother looked back occasionally. At length the noise of the cub irritated her beyond endurance and she ran back to cuff him. His grumbling ceased. The family hurried toward the thicker timber. Moose, deer and caribou scent, stale but persistent, encouraged the brothers to make a thorough search around the basin. No very fresh tracks were found, so the next move was up the ridge and into the valley on the other side, where a mixed smell of caribou and fresh blood at once told the wolves that a kill was somewhere ahead. For nearly half a mile they hurried up the narrow draw, expectantly looking for the carcass. Other scents filtered in, particularly that of a lynx. The caribou, a mere youngster, lay on a stony bar near the middle of the stream that ran through the valley. Beside his body crouched a male lynx, with yellow eyes fixed unblinkingly on the wolves. The bar was full of fresh tracks which showed that the game little caribou had put up a fight after the cat had leaped to his back from the top of the bank. The wolves walked carefully around the place, always with one eye on the lynx which growled continually. When quite sure that there were no traps or unpleasant surprises, both started toward the cat which rose to its feet and raised its voice almost to a scream. Neither wolf appeared to pay any attention to it and the lynx was outbluffed, scared by their complete assurance into a dash for the bank. This was very different from the affair with the mountain lion. Instantly the two fell upon the caribou, which had been cut only about the eyes and throat. So far all had been easy for them. Scarcely, however, had they

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taken more than a bite or two when the lynx returned and circled them, weird, hostile mutterings coming from its throat. After that one wolf kept more or less constant guard while the other fed. The lynx did not get up enough nerve to attack, and seemed only anxious to be annoying and show displeasure. Plenty of meat remained when the two left the place, the lynx quickly taking possession though still growling with pent-up rage. Such was the way of the mountains. Now indeed it was time to rest. Denser darkness was falling, for the moon, back of the clouds, was setting. The two brothers were in the best of spirits. They chased each other and frolicked all the way down to the heavy timber, then hunted for a dry bed under cover of heavy spruce trees, and sprawled out for a sleep. At dawn they stirred restlessly. At length the black, tired of sleeping, stood up, stretched and, after hunting up Grayback under another tree, sat down to wait and watch. Honking sounded in the distance and five snow geese flew overhead. Presently another small flock passed in the same direction. Other birds were waking up. Spruce grouse clucked in the thicket near by. Later a red squirrel ran out on a limb and chiselled off a twig which bore a green spruce cone. When the twig fell, he ran down to the ground, hunted for it and then bore the cone to a stump where he sat on the lookout while chiselling it some more. When satisfied that there was no waste material left, he bore off the remains to his storeroom where the seeds could ripen. This he reached by a trick route over several long logs and a final jump almost into his burrow under the roots of a spruce. When Grayback finally came forward, the black and he moved up to a little basin where they could stretch out in the sun and thoroughly dry their fur while at the same time seeing in all directions. Here there was even more animal life. The bleat of little rock conies sounded from higher on the ridge. Marmots whistled loudly. Squirrels chattered, while chipmunks sat on their lookout rocks and hoped not to see any hawks. On a distant pinnacle perched a golden eagle and preened his

CLIMBING IN THE CLOUDS

feathers. As the sun rose, all the animals seemed to rejoice and drink in its rays through their fur. In a blue lake at the base of a snow-bank, several mallards were swimming. Now and then one of them would stand on his head to search the shallows with his bill. A flock of a dozen ptarmigan, already in the brown and white plumage of early autumn, came stealthily from the rocks to the water’s edge to drink. After the wolves settled down, everything seemed peaceful until a slate-colored hawk appeared as if from nowhere and flew swiftly across the basin, dipping at each racing ground squirrel until the animal reached its burrow. Thereupon a red fox with a very long bushy tail came from ambush back of a rock, sniffed at some of the places where the squirrels had been gathering seeds, then disgustedly trotted away and vanished among dwarf spruce trees. Again sounded the honking of snow geese and a V of them came swiftly up the valley high enough to pass over the basin. They set their wings to have a better look at the lake, talked to the ducks but getting no response, resumed their course. As the wolves sleepily curled up for a further rest, six caribou trooped single file out of the timber on the way to the snow-bank for a cool bed; a big-eyed doe with her fawn at heel noiselessly skirted the nearest thicket, and from the ridge came the click of rolling pebbles from the hoofs of a flock of ewes and lambs. The black and the gray blinked at them, yawned and stretched out full length in the sun.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Migration of the Fur-Bearers >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

FOR SOME OF THE SMALLER MEAT EATERS THIS WAS THE BEGINNING OF a season of plenty, for in the language of the trapper, it was a rabbit year. The snowshoe rabbits, or varying hares, had been scarce for three years because disease had greatly thinned their numbers in nearly all sections of the great Athabasca forest and forced many of the coyotes, marten, lynx and other animals that fed largely on them, to migrate to sections where they were still numerous. When, however, the disease had died out in the Athabasca, the rabbits gained in numbers very quickly. Each summer since the scourge had seen many more of them. Little ones appeared everywhere in the valleys. Later there was to be a second litter and in some cases a third before the summer ended. Each litter contained from three to six or eight rabbits. When larger game was obtainable the big wolves gave little attention to these alert little fellows which were too quick and difficult to follow in the woods. Their runways invariably led into thickets and under low-limbed spruce, and when one was caught he was scarcely more than two mouthfuls for a wolf. But marten preferred them to squirrels and began drifting into the Athabasca section as early as August, mostly from country to the north. In September many coyotes arrived, and in October, when the young rabbits were well grown and already shedding their brown fur and replacing it with winter white, a few big Canada lynx appeared in each valley and grew sleek and fat on their favorite diet of rabbit. It was good hunting. A plentiful food supply was a lure to every animal in its struggle to live, and the rabbit disease was now ravaging many outlying sections and forcing a shift of the meat eaters to the better hunting in the [74]

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Athabasca. Inevitably came the trappers too. No sooner was a good covering of snow on the ground than their pack horses began to appear, stumbling single file up the narrow trails, grays, chestnuts, bays and blacks, toiling after the lead horses and neighing to each other whenever they became separated. In most cases the trapper’s assistant would drive these back to the settlements after the goods were deposited and the trapper well established, for the gradually deepening snow would soon make it hard for them with their awkward blunt hoofs to paw through to grass. The paths of the snowshoe rabbits branched about in every direction, and already these busy, hungry rodents were beginning to cut the bark and the buds of the willow with their front teeth which, like those of the porcupine, the beaver, the squirrel and the rat, were placed two in the upper jaw and two in the lower so that they could work like twin chisels. The deeper the snow became as the weeks went by, the more apparent were the paths, but the rabbits themselves being now in their full snow-white coats could scarcely be seen against the white background. The porcupines also were bark-eaters in the winter, but as they could climb, they often gnawed at quite a height from the ground. The lynx stalked the rabbits they saw, or lay in wait for them beside their paths, but the marten, wolverine, coyote and weasel pursued them mostly by scent. All night and often part of the day found the hunting lively in the thickets, especially as owls at night and hawks by day often helped themselves when the four-footed trailers made a luckless bunny burst into the open. It was a hard life for the defenseless rabbits, and it grew worse when the trappers set snares in the runways to catch them for bait on the trap line. The two wolves, one in almost jet black winter coat, the other in soft gray, had been moving slowly toward the Porcupine. There was no particular need for this, but with the coming of the cold weather and the snow the urge to travel somewhere seemed to get the better of them. The hunters had left plenty of carcasses in the mountains; there

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was no lack of meat. The two would feast and then play, rolling about like puppies, wrestling and chasing each other, pretending to fight, then good-naturedly breaking away and rolling each other about some more. Never were two wolves more complete friends; they ate the same kills, hunted together with such perfect teamwork that no deer in the woods could long escape them, drank at the streams standing side by side, travelled the trails, first one leading, then the other. It was always noticeable, however, that the black one was the more aggressive. It was he who rushed in to finish things when some hardfighting buck stood at bay. He was the one who scattered the coyotes, put the lynx and the wolverine to flight at the carcasses, gave the rallying call at evening and faced all strange wolves that met them in their rambles. In the playful wrestling matches on the snow, he was ever practicing fighting holds, feinting at ripping uppercuts, throat locks and the shoulder heave that throws an enemy off his feet in a clinch. In spite of his great size, his hundred and seventy pounds, he was almost as quick on his feet as a cat and could dodge and side leap like a rabbit. Timid, stolid Grayback was no match for the King, but he was a good companion and sparring partner. Stout now and well furred, he looked very much like Old Gray himself, but he lacked the length of head and breadth between the eyes of the black brother. Nor could he wrinkle his face into the terrifying determination which made an enemy quail before the black. There was one important thing, however, that Gray-back excelled in and that was detection of poison in carcasses or baits. He had had a terrible experience with the strychnine in the dead colt and now was always looking for signs of it, and by his fear teaching the other to avoid it. Poisoning was forbidden by man’s law, but a few renegade trappers used it anyway and took the chances of being caught. Fortunately they were not very expert in handling it and always left some trace which Grayback’s sensitive nose would find, whereupon off he would shy as if from a coiled rattlesnake, and away with him would go the black, well understanding that this peculiar odor so feared by Grayback was something terrible, like a trap, which could

MIGRATION OF THE FUR-BEARERS

not be seen but was there waiting nevertheless. Traps they both knew all about. In January they came over Great Pass and into the valley of the Porcupine. Everywhere they found wolf tracks. It seemed as if strange new packs had come in like the marten and the coyotes from the big country in the North, where there was much snow and a growing scarcity of game. One of these packs they saw on the first night; it was made up of seven grays, all so lean that the outline of the bones showed through the heavy fur. These were recklessly galloping down the main trail, when suddenly they stopped. The leader sniffed at the tracks he had found of the two brothers, the other wolves clustering around him. With a howl they threw up their heads and started after the two lone ones. Grayback would have run and probably been killed like any fleeing game, but the black stood waiting. The grays rushed up to him, eyes gleaming, tongues lolling out of long jaws. It disconcerted them however to try to intimidate a motionless statue, so they turned to Grayback; but he too stood stiff and silent. The wild, almost crazy pack, hungry and reckless as it was, fell back, doubtful, surprised, suspicious of some trick. Had Grayback held his ground they would have passed on, but when the gray leader came up close and took a last grim look at him, he suddenly flinched. It was just as if someone had given a signal; every wolf saw he was afraid. With howls of rage and glee they rushed him, carried him off his feet, rolled him down the mountain and followed in a wild, excited scramble that ended in a thicket where the snow was soft and buried half of them in confusing drifts. Few heard the roar that came from the big black as he charged to the rescue. Down the mountain he rushed, with that terrible wrinkle above his eyes and teeth laid bare until his head seemed to be split in two by that double row of white. He threw the first wolf head over heels, the second cried out shrilly from a torn foreleg, the third was ripped across the ribs and thrown after the first. Then four turned on

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him at once. The black giant was overwhelmed. He went down under the gray mass. He rose up and rolled headlong, with the grays clinging to him like leeches. Then something happened. He became a fiend. He reared up and shook himself, stood there glaring, then fairly ploughed through the gray mass, ripping, cutting, roaring, fighting on his back, spitting out fur, blood and fury, gripping throats till he killed. The snow was streaked with red. Gray bodies rolled crazily or lay there without moving. Roars, howls and piercing yells filled the air; then stillness, deathly, absolute. The gray leader and the black were locked in a death grip and rolled about in livid fury, alone in the soft snow. Only occasionally there was a gasp, a throttled sob, a sudden panting as the bodies strained and heaved. Odd, terrible fighting for a pair of wolves! The snow became packed and solid red. Well indeed that the black had played at fighting with Grayback all those happy evenings through the summer and fall. Well too that he had the grit of Old Gray and the cunning of Blackie. As he rolled and tumbled there with the gray killer from the North, he was looking death straight in the face and he knew it and his answer was a rumbling growl and a mightier heave than ever. Something gave way. A new streak of red showed on the gray chest. A sudden terrific roar, another streak. Everything changed in a twinkling. The gray was trying to get away, somehow to elude the punishing black jaws. A flash of white, his left ear was torn to ribbons. Another slash and one of his front legs went suddenly limp. He was down. But he rolled over, caught his balance and ran limpingly away. The black stood there looking about him, torn and bleeding, terrible in his gory victory. King indeed, king of the wildest band of killers of the Northland. Victorious warrior of an ugly, grim, up-hill fight. Nothing stirred about him now. Stiffly he walked away from it all. A gray form rose out of the snow ahead. The great black raged at it, his fury back in a lightning flash. But this gray sank cringing in the snow while over it stood the black king, terrible as ever, waiting for just one

MIGRATION OF THE FUR-BEARERS

vicious move, one quick snap to show its hate before he let himself loose again. But the gray still cringed and whined, though its eyes never left his and real fear did not seem to be in them. There was something about this the King did not understand. There lay one of the deadly band, red streaked from the fight, but it did not seem quite like the others. He growled whenever the gray moved, so each time it sank down again in the snow and quietly watched him. That it was a young she-wolf meant nothing to him, though instinctively he began to sense the right of this creature to expect gentle treatment. A shifting breeze suddenly filled the air with the scent of other wolves. At first the black looked in vain for a glimpse of this new pack which he knew must be very close. Then like shadows the stealthy animals began to appear and cautiously examine the signs left by the fighters. The leader came toward the black and circled him, the others, after viewing the bloody scene, also came up and inquisitively walked around him as he stood there waiting rigidly to learn what new trouble he must meet. None growled, all acted with marked respect. They were well fed, local wolves; they knew about the wandering bands that were coming half starved from the North and they could see from the signs on all sides what had taken place and how the black had withstood and beaten an outlaw pack. Presently they moved away. The black pup then turned in the other direction. Painfully he limped along the side of the mountain looking for sign of Grayback. A shadow followed him. He saw it and wheeled about only to find the gray she-wolf tagging along in his tracks. His suspicion and anger returned with a rush; he growled deep and bitterly. The female shrank back forlornly and started slowly in the direction taken by the other wolves, looking around, however, every few feet as if to see whether he had relented. At length she passed from his sight among the spruce trees.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Snare >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

JIM HORNER, CRUISING ALONG HIS TRAP LINE EARLY IN THE MORNING, heard the lonesome call of a wolf. The howl was repeated at intervals, then suddenly stopped, as if the lone caller had then found his friends. The old man kept a sharp lookout and later caught sight of Grayback and the black moving together slowly down a moose path across the valley. Jim quickly shoved up the sights of his rifle for a far shot and fired two bullets before the wolves could spring out of view. He was flustered by this unexpected meeting with Blackie’s big pup and made bad misses. He saw no more of the two, but when he walked back on the same trail he found wolf tracks in his own footprints and knew that after his departure they had come down there to find out as much as they could about their enemy. It gave him something akin to shivers when a little further along the trail he came upon what was left of a leather jacket he had laid aside. It was ripped into shreds. He saw by the tracks that the smaller wolf stood guard while the larger one did the work. Some pieces of the jacket were cut off cleanly by the powerful shearing teeth in the back of the jaws. Filth was scattered over the remnants. And this was not the last of the incident. That night the wolves trailed the trapper and tore to pieces a red fox caught in one of his snares. When they came as far as his shack they tried to decoy the husky into a fight. Jim had very little sleep, for again and again the husky, who was safely indoors where he was supposed to lie beside a pile of dried pelts, would hear or smell the wolves and launch into a fit of barking. Scolding him only checked the noise for the moment. [80]

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At length Jim became disgusted and ordered the husky out the door. He carried his rifle in readiness but caught no glimpses of the wolves because the dog lost his nerve and would not leave the doorway. It was a bright moonlit night with a sharp wind which made the shadows of the trees move weirdly. The dog quieted down at last and Jim, once more in his bunk, rested more easily. The wolves’ nerves still were on edge. Grayback, in particular, remained restless and uneasy from the days’ experiences. At length, however, the two started for the big spruce timber on the left side of the Porcupine and made beds in a snow-bank; now and then they awoke long enough to lick their wounds and eat a few mouthfuls of snow which served the same purpose as a cooling drink. Even the moose, deer and birds ate snow in winter when water was all frozen over or to be found only at a few warm springs. At daylight four big wolves came trotting through the woods within a few jumps of the resting pair. As soon as they caught wolf scent they stopped to investigate. The black, ever watchful, rose stiffly to meet them; Grayback slunk away and studied them from behind some trees. After careful scrutiny the King began to wag his tail. He had recognized the leader as old Brown Chest. Blackie was among them too; last to come forward, she instantly recognized the two brothers by scent and made a fuss over them which Grayback, who had not seen her for a long time, did not understand, and which the black met with great joy. They licked noses and romped about; then all six started off together on a hunt. With Blackie were two big brownish puppies which were all that the trappers had left of the latest litter of six. These two chased rabbits and ran riot in a way which showed that old Brown Chest, once the great leader, was fast losing his control. He was just as crafty as ever, however. Again and again he stopped to study trails before setting foot in them, or stood sniffing the air where his experience told him there might be traps. Close to him ranged the black, just as cautiously, yet with much quicker thought and action. The continual pottering about and delay in the march irked the black, especially as the jealous old leader would not tolerate any interference.

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At length the black could stand it no longer and so picked his own path. Grayback followed him. Blackie, however, and the two young pups remained with Brown Chest and continued up the valley. A deer snorted in the willows. Grayback at once circled to the right while the black went to the left. A thumping of hoofs warned that the crafty animal had caught the scent and had dashed straight away. The wolves followed the trail in the easy loping gait that never seemed to tire them, and as soon as the deer began to circle, the black turned aside to intercept him, plunged into a side path and then stopped almost as if he had been shot. He had caught both the scent of Old Jim and of iron. The speed and weight carried him forward two steps, however, and right into a snare of double wire which closed like a vise about his body when he gave a leap to one side. He knew he was caught at last; that the trapper had scored against him again; that now he could only struggle and wait like other wolves he had seen, until he hung himself or until the enemy came stalking to kill him. And so he did not struggle but set about pawing desperately at the wire to free himself. His neck had passed safely through and the noose had tightened between his front legs, the loop going over his shoulders. The wire was so placed that he could not reach the noose part, either with tooth or claw. A few violent jumps would tighten it fatally—such jumps as his wild spirit craved. Instead he intelligently tested the wire with his teeth from the nearest point he could reach all the way up to the fastening at the crotch of a cottonwood tree which was several feet over his head and was reached only by standing on hind legs with his forepaws against the tree trunk to steady him. His shearers that could cut small bones as easily as scissors went through braid, grated futilely on the steel, so he ripped at the bark and pulled off strips. The gnawing relieved his fear and anger; he continued to rip and pull. The pile of chips gradually grew. A sharp point at the end of the wire cut his lips but only spurred him on. His great tusks fairly massacred the soft wood. With all his weight and strength he tore out pieces, tossed them to one side and seized new mouthfuls.

THE SNARE

Grayback, in the course of an hour, left the deer trail and came back to find him, but one look at the raging animal in this predicament and one whiff of the fury scent were enough for him. Like the coward he always was, he sneaked away. Crouching in a thicket some distance down the valley, he glimpsed Old Jim plodding up the trail, rifle on shoulder and the husky at his heels. Grayback crouched lower and then sneaked further into the forest. The stout young cottonwood creaked and slowly toppled. The fall of the top tore away the last binding shreds and freed the wire. The great wolf made a leap, carrying the wire with him. Again he sprang. The wire caught feebly on a bush but jerked loose. With each fresh leap it bounced and rustled among the twigs and made the noose cut into chest and shoulders. A violent barking brought the black to his senses. The husky, hearing the strange noise, had run ahead and, brave enough by daylight to raise a fuss, was calling his master. The black guessed what it all meant and ran, straight through the brush and up the nearest mountain. When the wire caught he fought it. When the dog came too close he champed his jaws and gave a growl which even Jim heard, far below in the valley. At last above the timber and among the bare rocks the loose end of the wire no longer caught. The wolf stopped for breath. Thirty feet away the dog stopped too and barked hotly. The wolf, tired and harassed, looked back at the noisy coward and at first expected him to attack; his upper lip curled back and he braced himself. When the dog came no closer he resumed his flight. Up among the bigger rocks he stopped again and lay in wait behind a boulder. As the black and white head of the husky appeared, eyes eagerly looking forward, tongue lolling out as the dog yapped in his excitement, the black shot forth and by impact and surprise alone sent him head over heels down the rock slide. Jim, still toiling upwards through the timber, saw the wolf standing on a rock looking down hill at the cringing dog. Pulling out his binoculars he caught the baleful gleam of the black eyes under the

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puckered brows. Suddenly that gleam was turned full upon him as the wolf caught sight of his figure. Then gradually the expression changed; it became almost wistful as if the great wild dog were asking, “Why can’t you leave me alone?” Slowly the hunted animal turned away and forlornly began again the steep climb, the tail of the wire trailing behind him and pulling now and then against that panting chest. In spite of his size and experience, by age he was still a puppy, for an Alberta male wolf could scarcely be called mature until about two years old. Many developed character until past three years, and all grew in wisdom with every day they lived. Old Jim, with heart as cold and hard as an icicle, raised the rifle, steadied it against a tree and slowly pressed the trigger. Dust flew up around the wolf but he kept on. Again the careful aim. At the shot the black animal seemed to flinch; a splinter of rock let loose by the impact of the bullet had struck him on the jaw. He looked back over his shoulder at the man but never stopped climbing. Suddenly the crest was reached and he was safe.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Finding a Mate >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

SEVEN TERRIBLE DAYS FOLLOWED. THE PUP, UNABLE TO HUNT, HAD done little except tear at the wire and occasionally lie and sleep in utter exhaustion. His skin was badly chafed, his muscles injured. He lived on old bones and on grass that he dug up, and for drink, on many mouthfuls of snow. Grayback had been remarkably faithful in his peculiar way. In spite of the big black’s bad temper from the pain and worry, he had stayed in the vicinity and often stepped up close to work at the wire and try to shear it in two. It was by inadvertently getting one of his front teeth tightly caught in the knot itself that he finally loosened its deadly hold. In a sudden panic, he had leaped away to free himself; then the wire had bent and relaxed its tension all in an instant, the noose flying along the trailing end and giving the agonized black the opportunity to spring free. After that, weak as he was, the King rolled about in the snow and roared his joy to the four winds until the rocks re-echoed. Grayback, sharing the excitement, joined in with his higher-pitched voice. Again and again the long-drawn-out howls drifted down the valley. Then the black pitched himself full length in the snow and slept for hours. A few days later his strength had come back and he was once more flying down the deer trails with Grayback. Game was still plentiful, in spite of the fact that two packs of wolves were operating in the valley. The mating season was again at hand, so quarrels were beginning to be frequent among the wolves and disturbing to the almost perfect leadership that had developed through the first months of winter. The most northerly pack, controlled by an old gray, contained the illassorted number of five males and only two females. One of the latter [85]

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had chosen the leader for mate, but the other was particularly coy, and by her indecision kept the jealousy of the four bachelor wolves at a high pitch. Fights were frequent, and ill feeling kept the pack in a dangerous mood. The two brothers avoided all other wolves whenever possible, but during one of the deer drives came upon the pack of seven near a lick. Deer and moose paths centered here from many directions; scents and tracks were in such abundance as to be confusing to trailers. After looking each other over and milling about in the runways, the wolves went their different ways, but the black suddenly saw that a gray wolf was closely following him. Suspicious and irritated, he stopped to investigate. He realized that he had seen this one before, that indeed it was the young she-wolf which had been with the hunger-maddened grays when he and Grayback were attacked. He turned away with contempt and took up the hunting, but the gray continued to follow. Up on the wooded ridge, Grayback made a kill. He had waylaid a yearling doe that the black had begun to trail, and after a few mouthfuls, had stopped long enough to call. The black at once joined him, and the gray female coyly came too. Grayback was immensely interested in the newcomer, but was snapped at whenever he made friendly advances. While the three were feeding, one of the male wolves from the pack suddenly appeared. He had followed the trail of the she-wolf and was in a bad temper over her desertion, so when he saw Grayback, he flew at him in jealous rage. The battle was short. Grayback was not anxious to fight and took the first opportunity to back away, but with much snarling. The black, who had been walking about in stiff-legged neutrality, was the lovelorn male’s next victim. The newcomer walked forward, growling evilly, and threw himself at the black’s throat; his teeth caught and ripped. Nothing more was needed to arouse the black’s fury; he roared and sprang. Down went the other male under a rush that bore him deep into the snow. Then the black slashed him,

FINDING A MATE

and boring in, slashed him again. Another male appeared from the bushes and seized the King’s flank whereupon the black whirled and closed with him. This male was a wicked fighter; he tried to maim by ripping the legs. The black parried and sprang to one side. Then he rushed. Again his roar. The second male would have been killed in a minute had he not broken loose and run away. Before the two brothers had finished eating, and licking wounds, two more males came running up the trail. This time the black did not wait to be attacked; he saw that the two were looking for trouble and he gave it to them. But the fight was a hard one, for the two worked like a trained team and kept him leaping about to avoid leg bites. At last he had them both badly ripped on the head and neck, and they were glad to back away. When the black made one last rush, they went running helter-skelter down the mountain with no shred of dignity left. Blood was trickling down the black’s left flank, he had two gashes on the neck, and a front leg was chewed near the elbow. He crouched down and began to clean with his tongue the two wounds he could reach, whereupon out of the bushes came the gray she-wolf and timidly licked the blood and poison from his great neck. After that, for several days, the timid gray regularly followed the two brothers wherever they went. Gray-back continued to show her attention which she would not notice, and the black entirely ignored her. Finally, one evening, Grayback’s attentions became so troublesome that she turned on him in a fighting mood. She meant to hurt him and she did. He in turn forgot his chivalry and fought back. Gradually the fight became bitter. The black seemed not to notice it, but when the noise and the scrambling about was at its height, the wrinkles suddenly gathered over his eyes and he flung himself between them. Grayback thereupon turned all his anger against his brother, and for some moments the two big wolves walked backwards and forwards side by side, showing their teeth and growling. The black, however, was not looking for a fight and so turned away; but Grayback then saw his chance and

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sprang. He caught the other by the side of the throat and hurled him to the ground. With things all his own way he made the most of his opportunity, for the love madness was in his blood. He meant to kill, and he had the black down and that huge throat in his teeth, so he bored in with all the strength in his body. Then suddenly a howl of pain came from his clenched teeth; he had to let go. The black had twisted around until he caught the other’s foreleg and worked it back between the great shearing teeth. In another instant he could have crushed the bone, but Grayback howled in a panic and strained to get away, instinct telling him what it meant to have a leg injured. Slowly the black got to his feet, still holding the leg, and as he rose he pushed the other wolf just as slowly to the ground and turned him on his back. One crunch and the leg would be useless for life, but the black stood there holding it and looking at the craven brother. At length he let go and walked away with all the dignity of his race, and with him went the gray she-wolf. And though he had not been interested in her before, from that time he accepted her as mate. For years these two were not to be separated, and through all that time they remained faithful to each other. That spring they dug a den in a remote canyon and raised four black little wolves. No one found their home or was able to catch the whelps which were much wiser than most of their kind. In the autumn they all came down the Porcupine and began one of the strangest reigns of terror among the game animals that wolves had ever perpetrated in that wild valley. It was then that the black really earned his name of the King. And it was then that Johnny Rogers, now head forester, again came into the picture.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The King Begins His Reign >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

JOHNNY HEARD THEM ON A COLD NIGHT IN NOVEMBER. HE WAS camped near Great Pass in an open glade beside a stream. Like Old Gray, the big black encouraged his pack to be cheerfully noisy, so they were baying loudly and gleefully as they swept through the moose woods south of the river. Now and then after a lull, Johnny would hear a mighty roar which would always start the younger voices off again. It was almost a bellow, the distinctive cry of a powerful leader. A week later Johnny saw the pack. Just before sunset he glimpsed a gray wolf crossing a small flat beside the river. Behind it came four leggy black pups in single file. But it was not these that made him suddenly jump to his feet and whip out his binoculars. Trotting along the edge of the bushes as if to avoid the dangerous exposure of the open ground was a black wolf that at first glimpse Johnny mistook for a young moose. The glasses gave him a clear picture of it, the massive shoulders, long body and bushy tail held low and almost trailing. But it was the size of the neck and powerful look of the great head that impressed him most of all. In the past two years he had seen a number of big wolves, but never one like this. And while he gazed through the glasses, he saw the big animal throw up its head, stop and look straight at him. Then in an instant it had vanished, and with it the others. Johnny sat down again on his log and shook his head incredulously. Nearly a quarter of a mile away the wolf had seen, heard or scented him. It was little short of miraculous. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the black pup; but what a huge animal he had grown to be! “At least one hundred and seventy-five pounds, perhaps two hundred,” was Johnny’s guess. [89]

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A few days later, after a heavy snow, he heard much howling in the night. Something was happening among the wolves. At once interested, he took the trail on the following morning and found where there had been a kill and a tremendous fight over the carcass. The snow was trampled and bloody, a great brown wolf with a black back lay dead under the bushes. Everywhere were tracks, and among them always the dominating footprint of a colossal wolf. Johnny circled until he puzzled it all out. Evidently one pack, probably the big black’s, had pulled down a yearling moose; another pack had come to claim the meat; the big black, single handed, had destroyed the leader and routed the others of the new band. The howling he had heard in the night no doubt came from those which were separated and trying to find their leader. Not many days after this, Johnny made the discovery that the big black had collected the scattered wolves and taken them in as part of his own pack. Now he travelled the valley with eleven followers. Late in December the great king wolf was known to have a pack of nineteen, and another fierce old wolf was found dead in the willows; this time a dark gray, the leader of a third pack. Then the nights became weird with the clamor of the wolves, for the black king would have plenty of noise after the evening kills, and always led the baying. He was rarely heard in daytime. Nor could any of the trappers catch him or any other of these wolves in their snares. The band covered hundreds of miles of forest, and two weeks would sometimes go by before they returned to the vicinity of Great Pass. Deer were all being killed or driven out of the upper valley. Moose calves suffered also; and when the big pack grew very hungry, it invaded the rocky fortresses of the bighorn sheep and the white goat. Nothing could long withstand the attack of such a number. The one chance of escape for the sheep and white goats lay in reaching precipices before they were overtaken. Also, tracks showed that the King’s animosity toward the thieving coyotes was as keen as ever, for when the wolves had nothing better to

THE KING BEGINS HIS REIGN

do, they would hunt and run down a coyote just as a pack of hounds would follow a fox. Rabbits were caught by being surrounded. Grouse and ptarmigan were picked up too, as shown by many flurries of feathers in the bush country; altogether the wolves, with their young, daring leader, were having a wonderful time. In January the band hungrily invaded the ranch country to the south and before being stopped by traps and rifles, had killed two horses and only lost one of its number—a gray pup. Back then it turned to the mountains and cleaned out the game in two valleys, even hamstringing and then eating the biggest bulls among the moose. At one time there were twenty-one in this swift, wonderful pack. It was only natural that accounts of the overpowerful band should slowly filter back to civilization. Rangers and trappers united in complaining, and when it was agreed that something had to be done, the bounty was increased on wolves. Johnny and Old Jim were the only ones who knew the strange history of the black leader, and who realized that the work of extermination would have to begin with his capture. They talked it over during several evenings at the trading post. “He’s smarter than all the rest put together,” remarked the old man. “And he’s so big and active and ambitious that he runs everything his own way. He’s been through a tough schooling himself, and now any male that dares thwart him gets beaten or killed. He owns the whole country and I’ll bet he’ll be killing grizzlies if they get in his way and so much as growl.” “But half of it is in play,” remarked Johnny. “He has a good time. Look at the way he hunts the coyotes, goes rabbit catching, fools with the porkies and beards the old billies in their caves. I tell you he hasn’t grown up yet, he acts like a kid. I’d rather follow and study his tracks than go to a circus.” “Next winter we’ve got to get him,” mused the older ranger. “I’ll go out with you next trip and look things over a bit. Remember how he

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got away from us that morning at the den? I have a conscience that pricks me about this black fellow. Besides, maybe the ranchers will place some extra money on his scalp, just to make it worth while to put a little special work on getting him. After all, we’ll find he’s only a wolf when it comes to him stopping a bullet. You’ll see.” But the King continued to roar up and down the valley and through the timber stretches to the east and west. And once, before the split up for the summer, he made another quick raid in the ranch country and left the bones of two colts in the foothills. After that he vanished as suddenly as if carried away on wings, and the ranchers decided he had been poisoned or had gone off somewhere to die; but Old Jim only shook his head and tried to puzzle out the probable location of the den of this year. “Boys,” he remarked, “you’ll see more wolves around here next fall than ever before. You’ll lose every horse you leave out on the range and what’s more you won’t find enough game left to make hunting even interesting. You’ve got a great wolf to fight! He’ll be back as sure as I’m sitting here. And I’ll fix the date at October fifteenth. What do you say?” But no one said anything; they had learned to believe in Jim. “A dude named Jones, who’s been writing me for the last two years,” remarked one of the younger men, “wants me to take him wolf hunting with a lot of dogs he’s trained. Lives in the low country and thinks these timber wolves are like those he’s been after on the prairies. Maybe they are, but I can’t see much being done with dogs in this wolfhunting business around here. It might pay to try it once. Anyway I don’t mind helping him bury a few dogs after the fun is over.” “You might have to get a permit,” said Jim. “And there’d be no end of trouble about keeping the dogs off other game.” “Perhaps I’ll write the dude anyway. He might catch at least one out of so many wolves.” “I’ll gladly throw in my husky,” volunteered Jim. “He knows his way around.”

THE KING BEGINS HIS REIGN

“We’ll remember that,” said his friend. The letter he wrote to Roger R. Jones ended with an odd warning. “Don’t bring any pampered pets you care anything about. A brute that could lick a saber-toothed tiger or has a hide like a rhinoceros is the right kind, and the more of such you take along, the better. Likewise, don’t leave behind your own seven league boots, this is going to be work!” The wolf hunt was scheduled for the following November, after good tracking snow was sure to have fallen in the mountains.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Attack with Hounds >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

OCTOBER FOUND THE BIG BLACK TRAVELLING UP SHEEP CREEK WITH his gray mate and four new black pups. He was in splendid condition. The short summer hair had given place to luxurious fur which fluffed out all over his body and made him seem much stouter. There were just enough long coarse hairs to give him a mane as well as keep the fur in shape and make it able to shed water. Soon his coat would be even heavier, in preparation for the intense cold of the winter nights. The six were strung out on one of the many game trails. First came the black King, next to him his sharp-nosed, slim mate, and then the four big-boned leggy pups. They trotted swiftly and unceasingly, ears cocked forward, sensitive nostrils always at work and eyes scanning every object in their path. Very early that morning they came to Great Pass and looked down on the Porcupine winding in a blue line among the endless evergreens. It was October the fourteenth! That night, after the day rest in the thickets, they began to explore the winter range. Other wolves were there. The King studied the scent posts with utmost care, learning the presence of friends and of strangers. Suddenly he bristled and raised his head; while no creatures were visible, he had detected the approach of other wolves. His mate advanced to stand beside him, the pups moved back to the edge of the bushes; then they saw the other pack. In the lead came Grayback, proud of a black-coated mate, two friendly grays and four big pups of the year. Pride, in fact, showed all over him; he came swaggering up to his brother as if to shove him out of the path. There was a tense [94]

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moment as these two met, for neither had forgotten their parting. The King regarded this as his range; he had already had one bad experience with Grayback and he hated more interference. Yet he hesitated and stood there waiting. All might have been well if, when tension was at its highest, an avalanche had not crashed down the opposite mountain. Grayback, always nervous, instinctively surged to one side, coming in violent contact with the black who misunderstood this and interpreted it as an attack. In a moment the two were face to face, growling and slashing their teeth at each other. Still there would not have been a fight if Grayback had not been at heart a coward. A cow moose came trotting from the direction of the avalanche; the black turned his head to see what might have scared her, for an instant exposing his neck. It was too much for Grayback and he sprang. The two big wolves rose on their hind legs and clashed in the air. Sparring and tottering about, they suddenly locked and came crashing down among the brush. There was a scrimmage before they regained their feet, then a furious tangle of mouths and legs as they rose up again. Battling free, they circled and sparred, snapped and sprang back. This was Grayback’s favorite mode of fighting, avoiding the deadly clinches while manoeuvring for sudden slashes and getaways. The black tried the other’s game, waiting patiently for a chance to bore in. But the fight continued, and still Grayback dodged, in and out and back again. By this time both were cut about the head and bleeding. The black developed a new mode of attack. He manoeuvred Grayback to the edge of the trail and then charged so suddenly that the other went hurtling down the slope. Again and again he did this, until it worked Grayback into a frenzy. Finally the gray remained down the slope and contented himself with furious growls. The King stayed above and waited grimly. They got back their breath. When Grayback finally attempted to come up the slope he saw something different in the look of the black—that odd pucker of the black brows, a more wicked flash of white teeth, a determination to end it. He hesitated,

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well knowing what that meant; then without showing the fear that was in his heart he growled even more evilly and backed away. Soon he was gone, he and his, for his pack had slunk after him. The King went to the nearest stream for a drink, sloshed about in the water a bit and then felt as good as ever, better indeed, for he was cleaning up his range, freeing it of undesirables, and he did not mind the work. Soon he was roaring full cry down the valley on the trail of a young caribou stag, so gleefully that other wolves who heard could not resist joining in and sharing in the sport. Once more the King had come to his own, again the valley of the Porcupine resounded night after night to the chorus of the wolves as, twenty strong, they swept madly through the forest or over the ice with the great black leader bounding ahead. Presently, however, there were two camps in the King’s lower range. The first of these was at the old cabin used by Jim and now refitted to be serviceable for him and Johnny. The other was a new affair of five tents containing the equipment of Roger R. Jones and his three guides. With them were sixteen dogs, the strongest collection ever seen in these mountains. To begin with, there were two bloodhounds to do the trailing; there were eight half-bred wolf hounds to outrun and worry a wolf, and there were six fierce looking mongrels to act as killers when the game had been brought to bay. Altogether they presented a formidable array. “It won’t be long now!” was Mr. Jones’s favorite expression. He used it more than once that first night he was camped beside the river and heard the wolves. In answer to them there burst a great clamor from the excited dogs, all securely tied up for the night. Instantly the wolves stopped their baying. “They will be coming down here now to investigate us,” the head guide, Steve, remarked. “I wish I had some traps set! There’s no telling how many there are, but it’s plenty.” A short time later the dogs broke out in furious barking and continued the row all night. Steve and Jones spent the next day studying the tracks in the snow,

THE ATTACK WITH HOUNDS

finding out the main routes around the lower valley and trying to decide where the wolves could be waylaid when the hunt was on. They saw nothing of the pack except the endless lines of footprints. On the following day all four men started out with the dogs for a trial run. It was not their idea to find a wolf; they simply wanted to familiarize the dogs with their new surroundings. Special attention was given to making them avoid porcupines. On the fourth day the dog pack was given more leeway, and it scoured one of the mountains and ran down a male coyote. Steve was elated. “Did you notice,” he said, “that the coyote didn’t know where to run or what to do? This dog business is a new game to the animals up here and before they learn it you may have some luck.” Jones too was very cheerful over the prospects. “Tomorrow we’ll try for wolves,” he decided happily. At dawn two of the men went across the valley and took stands on the ridge, from whence they could see in all directions. Steve and Jones managed the eager dogs, keeping them in control until a fresh track could be found. All of the men carried their rifles. The rallying call of a wolf had been heard in the evening previous; Steve led in that direction. After several miles the dogs became unmanageable. Jones thought they were simply rioting, but as later events showed they had passed within a hundred yards of two wolves and had scented them. It was scarcely a minute before the bay of the bloodhounds began. Steve ran for the river while Jones followed the trail of the dogs. The chase led to the ridge, then suddenly turned back and after a circle south, headed up the valley. Seeing the direction for certain, all four men gathered at the river and followed on the ice. The pack was soon out of hearing but there was a chance that the wolves would circle back if they were not overtaken. The four men walked as fast as they could and managed occasionally to find tracks which showed that the

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dog pack was still ahead. At noon the first strays began to drift back to them. By one o’clock they had collected four discouraged dogs for whom the pace had been too fast. Soon after that they heard distant baying. The men took new courage and pressed forward. Up the ridge they climbed to a bushy basin which Steve had never before seen or even known to exist. Here they were met by one of the wolf hounds which, instead of being grayish, was striped with red and limping badly. Further on they heard a terrible din. Jones, who was not accustomed to high altitudes, collapsed at this point and lay down. The others kept on. They met two more crippled dogs and could not stop them. A quarter of a mile further on they found the place where the fight began. Here there was a dead wolf in the snow and signs of a struggle at the base of a cliff. Farther on the remaining wolf had made another stand. Here, however, something strange had happened, for the snow was bloodstained and trampled in all directions. Dogs lay about, licking their wounds or stretched out. Still there were sounds of fighting ahead. They heard a roar—the battle cry of the King which they were never to forget, and they came panting through the close-set dwarf spruce trees just in time to see the two gamest of the mongrels come staggering down the slope while away at full speed dashed two wolves, a big black and a small gray. At that moment a shot sounded from the lower end of the basin where Jones had been left. Steve ran back to learn what had happened and found Jones leaning over a big gray wolf—Grayback—who had come limping down the trail to avoid the other men and had almost stumbled upon the prostrate Jones. It was hard to say which of them was more surprised, but the man had a powerful rifle and knew how to use it. Steve had heard of this oddly marked wolf and was tremendously interested. Taking along an impress of his paw he went back to study the battle tracks. After a short time he had correctly worked out the story of the chase: Grayback and a pup had been found by the pack in the lower valley. The two wolves had stayed together and circled until

THE ATTACK WITH HOUNDS

they had learned the size of the pack and the danger they were in. Then Grayback, thoroughly scared, had started for this wooded glade where he knew the big black and other wolves were likely to bed for the day. He had been overtaken at the base of the cliff and had called for help. The other wolves heard him; they had been attentively listening to the dogs for some time; but none stirred from his safe post, except the black. He too heard and he understood; his old comrade was calling; he was being attacked by the yowling dogs. The big wolf left the strip of woods on the run and rushed to the rescue, roaring defiance. After him trailed his mate, but she was far behind. Grayback’s young companion had by that time been killed, and five of the dogs were crowding the older wolf who had his back against the rock and was holding them off. Into this mass of yapping, baying animals the King descended like a tornado, tearing dogs right and left and throwing them about in the way he had so often handled wolves. As other slower dogs came straggling up the trail he piled into them too and cut them up mercilessly. How he hated dogs! It was one against a pack, but the clumsy big hounds were no match for such a wolf. They went down like tenpins, and those that could still run tried to escape in any direction. The avenging fury in the great wolf had not abated; he followed them and threw them about some more. Then the men appeared; but the fight was won. If Grayback had known enough to stay with the black he would have come through all right, however, the coward had actually tried to sneak away as soon as he could, leaving his brother in the thick of the battle surrounded by the dogs. With his mind intent upon escape from the pack he had blundered into the much worse danger. That evening Jones, Steve and the two other men built a lean-to under one of the old spruce trees near the spot where Grayback had fallen. It was the best they could do so far from the base camp, with night approaching. They had buried five dogs under boulders, and carried to their shelter three others that probably would not recover

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from their wounds. The guides were worn out; Jones was ill. As they lay shivering among the hastily collected spruce boughs, Steve suddenly began to chuckle. “I’ve got an idea, I’m going to be warm!” he cried, and taking the great wet pelt of Grayback from the pole on which it hung he wrapped it about him. The other wolf’s hide he spread over Jones. “What’s so humorous about that?” growled one of the shivering men. “We might wake up in the night, mistake you for a wolf, beat you up and skin you.” But Steve was comfortably snoring. Later, far off, somewhere in the mountains a wolf howled. No answering sound came from the sleeping camp.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Johnny’s Old Gray Horse >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

JONES OFFERED ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR THE PELT OF THE KING! News of this spread first along the main trail and then into the furthest recesses of the trapping country. Jones himself had started back to civilization to recover his health. Old Jim heard of the reward through a ranger; he had been expecting something like this. “The wolf’s worth it,” was his remark to Johnny. “He’s what they call a record-sized animal and a grand trophy to have as a rug in a big house. Now we’ll start our trapping.” But the great black had gone from that vicinity taking his pack with him, so Jim’s traps and snares might just as well have been set in his yard at home. Johnny had never felt the hostility toward wolves that Jim had tried hard to teach him. Jim’s advice was to exterminate them if possible, as obnoxious creatures that constantly preyed on all animals prized by man; but Johnny had learned a great deal from the other hunters and trappers and whiled away the time on the slow pack horse journeys by observing everything along the route and deciding things for himself. At such times he rarely carried a gun and if he did, almost never used it. It was natural therefore that Johnny, who was almost constantly in the mountains, began to be looked upon by the wiser animals of the forest as a peculiar but inoffensive creature from whom it was unnecessary to hide. It had taken the wary king wolf some time to overcome his first bad impressions of the forester, but his intelligence and experiments eventually convinced him that Johnny had become a reasonably safe neighbor, one who minded his own business and molested no one. So, while there was always a guarded or watchful [101]

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attitude on the part of the big wolf and those he led, there was no real fear when their paths crossed, provided the forester was alone. Johnny usually rode a buckskin horse named Bob and led an old gray pack horse, affectionately called The Grouch. This pack animal, the first he had ever possessed, had been sold to him in his first green days in the service, as the finest horse in all Alberta. Johnny had liked his powerful build and kindly eyes, and did not learn until later that though one of the most willing beasts imaginable, he possessed the roughest gaits of any horse in the Province. No one could long endure the heaving quality of his stride in walking or the rattle of his awkward trot. Therefore The Grouch was always given the lowly task of carrying the food and other camp necessities. Ordinarily, Johnny managed to get the horses out of the mountains before much snow had fallen in the autumn, but after he parted from Jim and moved on to one of the rangers’ cabins, he was at once caught by an early blizzard and forced to keep both Bob and the gray there until a thaw set in. Instead of a thaw there was more snow, and a high wind which choked the passes and trails with deep drifts. Here was a serious situation, and in vain Johnny tried to break a way through for the horses. In the end he had to leave them where they had been turned out to forage for themselves, and go back on his snowshoes to the settlement for more supplies. He decided that the two could shift for themselves for a few days by pawing the snow away from the grass and by eating willow twigs in the manner of the moose. But when he reached civilization he found a letter calling him East. He had to go; therefore he dedicated to one of the trappers the task of going back to take care of the horses. This trapper delayed until there was a warm rain and general thaw, then set out on his mission. Halfway to the shanty he met Bob. The nimble animal, scarcely more than a pony, had followed the paths made by the moose and thus gradually worked his way toward home through the remaining snow. The Grouch, clumsy, big-boned and slow, could not have followed unaided had he wished to.

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The trapper at once decided that since the gray was not with his buckskin companion he must have fallen down a precipice or starved to death; certainly Bob was thin enough after his hard days in the snow. So the man was glad to turn back without looking further into the fate of the other animal. Months went by. Then Johnny came west once more and looked in the barn for his two faithful horses. To Johnny’s surprise only Bob was there; but soon he found out the story that had been told by the trapper. The man himself was away, so he was spared for a time the anger which the forester would have vented upon him, for Johnny was sure The Grouch had not fallen over any precipice, that indeed the welltrained, faithful old horse might have died rather than leave the camping place where he had practically been told to stay. It took Johnny just half an hour to get a sled laden with his camping outfit and two bags of oatmeal for the horse. He set out alone and covered fifteen miles before night. Six days later he reached the cabin. It stood at the edge of an open glade beside the river, just a brown lump in the deep snow at the very foot of Round Top Mountain. And there was no sign of The Grouch. Johnny, sick at heart, opened the cabin door, brought in his supplies, then at once started out on a hike around the clearing to find out, if he could, what had happened to the poor old horse. Snow over three feet deep covered everything, crusted in places, soft in others, but oppressively plentiful. In the glade there were only coyote tracks, but along the river the moose had worn a path among the willows. Here Johnny suddenly stopped and gazed at well-known tracks, the footmarks of the King and a number of other big wolves. Evidently they had come and gone many times. A sudden pang pierced Johnny’s conscience. He remembered some of Jim’s stories and pictured a hungry pack surrounding the horse, springing at its legs and dodging back as it bravely kicked and bit and fought them in the snow until it no longer had any strength and finally fell there in the shadow of old Round Top.

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Fiercely he followed the tracks, believing that they might lead to whatever bones were left to mark the scene of terrible feasts. Faster and faster he strode until in a sweat in spite of the cold; around a willow clump, through a fringe of spruce and then to a jack pine thicket at the very base of the mountain. Suddenly ahead of him trees thinned out; he was looking across a little glade at one of the most remarkable sights he had ever seen. On the ledge at one side scarcely a hundred yards away stood the black King, while behind him sprawled or sat five other wolves, among them one beautiful gray. The leader had heard and recognized his step, for he was looking in his direction without apparent fear. As Johnny came nearer the black wolf turned away and walked slowly toward the trees, the other wolves taking their cue from him and also moving out of sight. Directly below the ledge between some immense boulders stood The Grouch as if in a stall. Around him in a great circle the snow was scraped or stamped to the very earth so that the place looked like a corral or drove yard where the constant shuffling of hoofs had worn off snow and sod until in places rocks and subsoil were laid bare in spite of the freezing cold. Here the game old horse had lived through all those weeks, digging for grass and bushes, chewing twigs and bark from the trees, and eating snow whenever he felt thirsty. And here the wolves had found him. It had happened on a windy night not many days after Johnny had left. The King came upon the forester’s trail and knew that the cabin must now be deserted. Therefore when next hunting in that direction he did not hesitate to keep straight down the river, through the clearing. He and the pack had then taken a look at the lonely cabin, sniffed around the paths and finally headed for the base of the mountain. Suddenly encountering the almost white old horse in the snow completely surprised them. They melted into the shadows and studied the situation from a safe distance. It was not according to tradition to find a horse all alone in these mountains; they knew something was wrong about it, so away they went. But on the following evening they came cautiously back to have another view and try to solve the mystery. Calmly The Grouch stood there and looked at them.

JOHNNY’S OLD GRAY HORSE

The King still was mystified; the more he looked around and watched the horse the more strange the thing seemed. After that the wolves came often, usually after their hunting when they had nothing special to do and felt like being amused. The horse stood in his selfappointed stall or lay down in it. He showed no fear of them. He was just waiting with the patience of blind faith for Johnny to come. And so it happened that the idea of harming the lonesome old horse scarcely entered the minds of the pack. He was just a thing of interest to them, an unsolved mystery in which there was perhaps a tinge of danger. That he did not starve was a miracle. The snow had deepened and hemmed him in; his iron shoes had been loosened by the pawing and finally lost, leaving the feet too soft and fragile for much more work in the frozen ring. It was really his sound common sense that saved him. He chose in the first place a glade that was full of grass and protected on all sides from the high winds. Then, to conserve his strength, he moved about very little and therefore required less food. Johnny found him very thin, to be sure, a mere hat-rack of bones covered with thick, long hair; but his manner was alert. Like an old soldier at his post he stood there in his bleak stall with head up and a sparkle in his eye. As he looked at him Johnny felt a sudden lump rising in his throat. “Hello, old comrade!” shouted the man and waved his arms. At once the horse’s head turned in his direction and The Grouch looked him over as if scarcely believing his eyes. Then a shrill whinny rang out and the poor old gray backed out of his rock stall and came shambling across the ring as fast as his sore feet would let him. When they met a film had sprung up in Johnny’s eyes which almost blotted out the scene. “But you’re going to be taken care of now, old fellow,” the horse was assured. “You’ve got a lot coming to you to make up for this!” And Johnny got right to work. First he fed oatmeal in handfuls, then shovelled away heaps of snow until a patch of good dry grass lay

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exposed. Next he made a great bed of leaves and spruce twigs in the hard stall to serve until he could build a lean-to on the chimney side of the cabin. Grease was rubbed into the badly cracked hoofs. In three days Johnny, regardless of blistered hands and tired back, had a fairly snug log stable built as an addition to the cabin, and a snow path dug all of the way to the glade. A thaw had helped him. Slowly, and with a certain pride, he led The Grouch along this path and introduced him to his new quarters. That was in the morning. In the afternoon he heard a dull roar and looked up in time to see a snow slide tearing down the glittering side of Round Top. It had quickly filled the glade and piled itself high over the hard trodden ring. Had the work of rescue been delayed for only a day the old horse would have been blotted out! Two weeks later on a cloudless morning the forester started the return trip. Six wolves stopped near the river’s edge to watch him. When he moved out of sight he heard one of them gruffly howling, and smiled, for he had learned something about these wolves. After many painfully slow days on the thawing trail he managed to get back to the settlement, with his camp stuff rattling grandly on The Grouch’s old back instead of on the sled. He felt at peace with the world for he knew now that actually he had bought “the finest horse in all Alberta.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tracks in the Snow >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

IN THE MEANTIME OLD JIM HAD CAUGHT A FEW MARTENS AND COYOTES, and had managed to make a living, but had never lost hope of waking up during some night and hearing again that thrilling roar of the wolf he sought. The weeks went by and the King did not come. The old man therefore spent much of his time in the mountains looking for tracks and searching the country with his binoculars. He noticed that in the absence of the wolves, deer and other animals were becoming more numerous and more tame. The bucks, bull moose and caribou had shed their antlers, but the sheep and the goats, whose horns were never shed, looked as dignified and formidable as ever. On one of the ridges Jim counted thirty rams, while in the neighboring mountains he could sometimes see as many as fifty white goats at a time, climbing about the rocks. There was not as much snow as usual in that section, so the game travelled widely and kept in good condition through finding plenty of food. The moose and deer were living largely on the dormant buds and young twigs of the bush willow, while the goats and sheep, still following their grazing instinct, found dried grass of various kinds, moss and small weeds wherever the wind had swept some of the snow from the mountain sides. Sometimes, too, they pawed the snow away or, like the deer, tried the willow buds. The hair on the sheep was short, coarse and very thick. It was slightly greasy too and so, when clamped against the body, could easily shed rain and melting snow; but the goats had long, woolly coats except on the top of the back where stiff hair grew on the shoulders and along [107]

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the spine. In the heavy storms they had to seek caves or the lee of overhanging rocks, and avoid as much as possible getting their coats water soaked. Jim occasionally looked into these little caves, ill smelling, dirty places on account of the crowding and frequent use. But they were always dry. Keeping dry was an important thing in the cold mountains. On the southeast slopes were many rock benches where the sheep and goats could sun themselves and absorb some warmth even on the coldest days, provided the sky was clear; this kept them in good health. Elsewhere their resting places, round depressions in the snow, could be found on all sides, for they conserved their strength as much as possible. At best it was a hard life in snow time; the intense cold of the long nights had to be guarded against by selecting warm beds somewhere out of the icy winds, and both the goats and sheep, particularly the latter, had to be careful lest their feet freeze. At night, when lying down, they tucked these as close as possible to their bodies. It would have helped them had they possessed bushy tails like the wolf’s to curl around their legs and serve as a pillow for their noses, but even with their odd, stumpy tails they managed to rest in some comfort. Even the caribou found it possible this winter to paw up food in the muskeg or high bog country, therefore many of them did not migrate to the low-lands when the snow began to deepen. On account of their large, wide hoofs, so useful in bog work, they could make good trails in the snow. Usually a wise old female would take the lead, but sometimes a bull. The line of white-maned, black-bodied animals would then weave slowly around the valleys until something scared them when, with stubby tails straight in the air and nostrils wide, they would charge furiously back to more remote bush country. The evergreen forest was so luxuriant and dense that the animals which wished to hide in daytime could easily do so, and the whiteness of the snow blanket made the nights bright, even when the sky was overcast, so night feeding was made easy. In some places a crust had formed as a result of the sun’s hot rays melting the surface of the snow

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and later giving it a chance to re-freeze. Over such hard areas the snowshoe rabbit and any of the other lighter animals could run at top speed. The golden eagle was the one who had the best opportunities to thrive in winter time. Even the swift wolves had to leave tracks, but he soared grandly over the mountains and saw everything against the background of the snow. Sometimes the rabbits’ white coats fooled him, but usually he did not need rabbits anyway. Sitting on a high peak he would lazily watch the world, then launch himself into the blue and braced by air currents go soaring higher and higher until he could see many miles of the mountains laid out below. If one area did not suit him he drifted over another. If he felt cold he sought a warmer air strata in the sky. If the weather grew bad he perched under a ledge, far up on some safely unclimbable cliff. He was the census taker of the mountains; few birds or animals could long escape his eyes. But unlike the raven and the Canada jay, the eagle liked loneliness and silence. Only occasionally he would scream for his mate or go searching for her as if suddenly overcome by the loneliness of his life. On the other hand the croak of the raven and the calling of the noisy jays might be heard any time in the day. Whenever they found anything interesting they had to tell their kind and the rest of the world about it. No weather was too bad for the jays because they had hidden food in trees all over the woods; like the squirrels they had winter stores laid away where these would keep. But there was bitter feeling between them and the squirrels because each stole from the other at every opportunity. While much of the red squirrel’s larder was hidden in his den under the roots of some huge tree, a part of it, particularly the edible kinds of toadstools, had to be hung out in the air to keep dry. These toadstools were large affairs when first gathered in the woods. The squirrel would uproot one, seize the firm stem in his mouth then carry it up a tree and out to the tip of a limb that caught the sunlight. Here the toadstool was rammed tightly among the twigs so that it could cure in the sun and wind without being blown down. In order that it would cure better and not lose any of its flavor through the leakage of

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spore dust from the gills, it was always placed stem uppermost, there to await the time when it might be needed by the provident little animal. Down in the ground the squirrel was sure to have a good-sized store of seeds in pine and spruce cones. There was no telling however when the ground burrow might be raided and appropriated by a bloodthirsty weasel or even a mink, whereupon the stores hidden outside in the trees became very important. There were many weasels. They grew white fur in winter to take the place of the summer brown and while white with black-tipped tails were known by the trappers as ermine. Agile little things, they could run to exhaustion and then kill the big snowshoe rabbits and yet also squeeze their thin bodies through a mouse hole. Because of their bad scent as well as their agility, few animals hunted these little meat eaters at all regularly. Jim’s traps brought in a variety of creatures. Often when setting a snare in a tree for martens or other fur-bearers he would catch a squirrel; sometimes a porcupine. His cabin became lined with drying skins of various sizes. These he examined, worked over and admired by candle-light in the long evenings. He had one silver black fox pelt which would help to make him rich if prices did not drop. Then there were marten skins of various shades of brown, the darkest being the most valuable. In one corner lay a pile of ermine. On the walls hung stretched hides of three coyotes and a lynx. A light brown wolverine skin graced the back of the door. Jim was a cigarette smoker. He rolled his own and puffed at them all day, just for company. The butts lined all the paths to his traps, and usually he stayed in the wilds until his tobacco was exhausted, then thought it time to go back to the settlement for new stores. Toward the end of February his tobacco supply was running low and he prepared for a trip to the settlement, eight days away by slow snowshoe travel. His steel traps were gathered and hidden, the snares sprung, and the deadfalls relieved of all baits. Then he was ready. Johnny had left him some weeks earlier, but for companion the old

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man had the black and white husky. He put the lightest and most valuable pelts in his back pack and took the trail on March the first. All went well until the second day; then the shimmering landscape became drab and the weather threatening. Some snow began to fall silently and persistently. Across the creek from the trail a coyote began to yap and yowl lonesomely, but Jim could not see him through the falling flakes. Shortly after that the husky showed uneasiness, and again and again crowded so close to his master’s legs as to nearly trip him. Jim knew that the dog feared only bears and wolves, so decided that this present menace could only be a wolf because all bears should still be asleep in their winter dens. Presently he felt a distinctly creepy feeling himself and stopped to peer into the dull gloom of the storm. There was no sound, no sign of living creature. At length Jim stepped to one side, climbed a snow-covered cliff and crouched down to watch his back tracks. Close behind him stood the nervous husky with ears pointed in the same direction. Minutes passed; Jim still watched. After nearly half an hour, he gave it up, returned to the trail and walked cautiously back the way he and the dog had come. At the foot of the first sharp dip, where a torrent always coursed down in the spring thaws, he found what he was looking for, tracks mixed up with his own, many of them, all resembling dog tracks but cleaner cut and larger. Jim examined the spot where they had hurriedly turned off at right angles to the path. “Wolves. Six of them,” he muttered. “Wise beggars!” He noted the one especially big track, the footmark he could recognize no matter where he found it, and at once his whole attitude changed. He showed excitement; fame awaited him if he could kill that wolf, and, at last, this might be his chance. Quickly he resumed the march, facing the pelting snow with renewed vigor. Now however he kept a sharp lookout to the rear and had his rifle cocked and in hand instead of on a sling over the shoulder.

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A moving blur, well ahead, caught his attention. It turned into two animals and he recognized the long head and awkward form of a cow moose accompanied by her calf. “Now we will see whether those six critters are looking for meat or just showing how fond they are of me,” he mused. Turning out of the path he circled the moose to prevent them from getting his scent and taking alarm. After a few hundred yards he noted that the dog still showed decided uneasiness and travelled almost on top of his heels. “Well,” he growled, quite undisturbed, “they’re still with us, so that question is settled.” He did not fear an attack. These wolves, knowing considerable about mankind, would be too wary to try that, even if they were nearly famished. He could only explain it one way; they probably were filled with curiosity, a desire to study from a safe distance and with the protection of the snowstorm a creature known to be very dangerous to them. His eye roamed back to the dog, slinking sadly in his wake; evidently the husky felt that he was the intended victim of the pack. Then an idea came to Jim. Perhaps the dog was right. A dog certainly ought to know more about his cousins the wolves than a man could ever hope to. Perhaps in some way the wolves were communicating to him their intentions toward him; he looked low spirited enough. Then Jim hatched a plan. Coming to an open place in the woods he tied the husky to a sapling and started on his way as if he were deserting the animal. At first the dog looked after him inquiringly, then he whined with fear. Since the man continued, without showing any notice, he began to bark and howl. Jim passed out of sight in the woods; but then he turned off sharply, climbed through a few windfalls, and doubled back almost on the run. Soon he was in the edge of a thicket opposite the howling dog but completely hidden from him. The wind was right, the dog still thought his master had forsaken him and was far ahead on the trail; and believing this himself he was not, according to Jim’s reasoning, likely to be able to hide from the wolves the fact that he believed it. The dog

TRACKS IN THE SNOW

might thus convince and fool them, and the big black’s hatred of the husky might then bring him within easy range. It was a great idea. Jim poked the muzzle of the rifle through the intervening brush. His hands were shaking.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Ambush in the Storm >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

HOURS PASSED SLOWLY. JIM, HUDDLED UNDER A YOUNG SPRUCE, became like a part of the forest, motionless and loaded with snow. The dog dug a bed for himself and was out of sight except when occasionally he raised his head to sniff the air. Darkness began to settle down. Jim was cold and hungry. He thought of the campfire he might be enjoying, the coffee bubbling in the tin can. Then a shadow moved across the snow. It brought Jim’s thoughts back with a snap. But it was only a big wolverine, a hungry-looking, bushy-tailed fellow eagerly following the man’s trail with the hope of finding traps to rob of their catches. Jim’s fingers itched to pull the trigger and add his $20 pelt to the collection. It was a real temptation, but Jim resolutely let the chance go. He was after still bigger game and decided that, anyway, the wolverine could wait its turn; he would remember its range. Darkness was coming so fast that Jim began to lose the outline of the trees and to calculate the minutes left until the sights of his rifle would be useless. It seemed queer to him that the wolves had given no sign of their intentions; perhaps they had again left this section; it was uncanny how they came and went. Five minutes more, then he might as well leave and acknowledge another defeat. But when the time came he did not dare stir as much as a finger. Though he had seen no movement, his straining eyes had made out a line of dark forms standing motionless against the edge of the timber perhaps thirty yards away. With shivers running up and down his spine and rifle so tensely gripped that his numb fingers hurt, he waited. [114]

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Two more minutes went by. Jim knew how the wolves were sniffing suspiciously and looking the ground over. Suddenly they were nearer. There seemed to him to be a horde of them. No! Only five. They were rushing now toward the luckless dog who had jumped to his feet and was desperately trying to break loose. Then, almost under Jim’s elbow there was a roar, a mixture of bark, howl and bellow. The black King, not satisfied with appearances, had come on a reconnoitering tour around the glade and had discovered Jim crouching there so ominously. The howl was meant to warn the others. The black wolf then sprang among the evergreens and was lost to view in the snow. Already one of the wolves was dashing back toward the timber; the other four seemed dazed and undecided. Jim, somewhat unnerved, pulled himself together with an effort and fired quickly at the nearest. It fell. That encouraged him. He fired again and again until his magazine was empty. Then he rushed out from his hiding place and yelled like a schoolboy at recess. He had secured all four. They lay sprawled out or kicking in the snow. The old trapper examined them critically. All were young wolves— pups born in the past spring, but they were unusually large and well furred. Their gray mother had escaped, their father had done his best, but they had been too young and inexperienced to act on the warning in time. Then Jim unfastened the husky, much to the latter’s joy. When later he was wrapped in his sleeping bag beside a fire under the jack pines he heard a wolf howling. It was the weirdest, most awful cry he had ever heard in the woods, the lonesome call of the gray wolf looking for her whelps. Once he heard the gruff voice of the King; and at dawn he heard the two howling together, but they were a long distance away and the snow was still falling thickly. Nevertheless Jim undertook the task of finding the tracks. The snow was deep and feathery, but not too soft for his snowshoes. A quarter of a mile down the little valley he found two tracks, partly snowed under but clearly made by wolves. The snow was so deep here that the heavy

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animals had floundered badly and stopped occasionally to rest. Had the storm not been so persistent he might have followed all day or until he had a chance to shoot. As it was, the old man wisely turned away and trudged back to the shelter he had made in the jack pine grove. Here he had work to do with the fresh skins before leaving them hung in a tree at the end of a rope to await a later visit. Without such precaution they might be eaten by coyote, climbing wolverine or some smaller animal. After the task was done he sat back in the shelter and smoked the last shreds of his tobacco. Back in his mind was hatching another plan in regard to the black wolf. The animal’s difficulty in getting through the snow had given him a new idea. He felt that he was too old to track down big wolves, but he guessed that he could interest the Indians in doing it for him. The difficulty lay in finding a wolf when the snow was deep and so fresh that it was still feathery and not trampled by the moose and deer. At such rare times the King would ordinarily be likely to stay in hiding. He wondered what the two wolves were doing at that moment, and pictured them lying curled under some low-limbed spruce, the gray sleeping with ear close to the ground, the black with head erect watching the back track for sign of human trailer. This however was not the correct picture. The wolves were many miles to the westward and still travelling. The black realized the danger of the tracking snow and was bent on going further than any man could follow. Whenever his mate lagged or openly revolted, he coaxed her forward with whines and tugs at her ears and neck. In her mind were the whelps and the possibility of finding them, but the black knew better. Toward noon they came upon a snowshoe trail. An Indian trapper was making his rounds. The wolves backed away and made a wide detour to the rear, but still the trail was between them and their goal. They heard a dog howling lonesomely. At once the King bristled. He started south to find out about the dog, while his mate circled to approach from the other direction. It was she who found the animal,

AMBUSH IN THE STORM

a brown and white well-grown puppy, part husky, part wolf, like many of the Indian dogs. Plainly it was alone and lost. As soon as the puppy saw the gray animal it sprang back in fear, but when it caught the wolf scent it actually seemed reassured and ran forward wagging its tail and crying out with joy at finding what it thought would be a friend. So confident was the pup and so pathetically happy, that the wolf was completely discomfited and instead of killing, tried to move away with dignity; but the dog followed, frantically anxious not to be left alone. When the wolf growled, the puppy dropped to the ground and dragged itself toward her on its belly in abject servility and with ingratiating whines. The wolf did not know just what to do. Here was something totally disarming. She sniffed at the grovelling creature and ended by letting it lick her nose and prance about her crazily in excess of joy. The pup was making such a fuss that it did not see the black come bounding through the bushes. But the gray saw, and threw herself between him and the youngster. When he tried to pass, she flew at him in a rage. The King stood looking at her in surprise. He saw that she was defending the dog; in fact he could not take a step toward it without being attacked. He sensed that this was a youngster, a mere miserable thing. Slowly the bristles on his spine smoothed down; but when the dog came crawling toward him in the snow he gave a growl that again brought his mate flying to the defense. At length he walked away. The gray slowly followed him and the puppy brought up the rear. It was a strange-looking company; the great black with his bushy tail held almost straight out behind him, the handsome gray walking in his footsteps with equal dignity, and the leggy, ugly Indian dog ambling in their wake with its ratty yellow tail curled over its back in a jaunty half circle. The gray continued to watch over the pup as though it were her own. When later they met other wolves she guarded it even more jealously. The fact that the dog was a female helped to save her from the natural

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hatred of the male wolves, and members of her own sex could not very well pick a quarrel with such a poor, humble creature, especially since she was under the protection of the King and his mate. Gradually in travelling about, she became known to various packs and strays, and was accepted by them as one who somehow “belonged.” Thus the Indian, Harry Lightning, lost a promising dog, and the wolves gained a recruit who learned to outguess man almost as successfully as the King.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Behind the Smoke >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

TO THE KING AND HIS MATE THE DOG TOOK THE PLACE OF THE FOUR PUPS they had lost, and because the mating season had broken up the big pack, these three began to hunt as a lone group. Harry’s pup was noisy and excitable, always ready to bark on the trail, and her tail kept its gay curl; but otherwise she could pass as an undersized, oddly colored wolf. The trappers, rangers and guides soon knew all about her and learned to recognize her small track. They called her Harry Lightning’s Wolf and tried to catch her alive. At night she had little fear of man and liked to roam about the camps stealing anything that seemed edible. Harry never lost the feeling that she was his dog. “She come back soon,” he would say. And when he heard her familiar bark somewhere in the forest he would always call her with his shrill whistle. Twice she responded and in the cover of the darkness came so close to her former master that he heard her rustling through the bushes and whining in a friendly way. But while the Indian was slyly offering tempting food, there would be a gruff howl from the forest which instantly called her away. That spring, when the King redug the old den, and his mate was suckling four little whelps, Harry’s wolf, following the example of the King, actually took up the duties of carrying food to the mother, and later to the pups. It was a strange arrangement, but after the first fits of jealousy wore off, the gray wolf accepted the dog as a kind of foster mother for her young. No wonder the pups grew fat, and no wonder the uneaten, surplus meat collected in heaps in the den and grew so [119]

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sour that the family had to move to a new location. The following year the arrangement was the same. The dog did not take a mate, and instead of raising a litter of her own, took care of the little wolves. It happened again the third year and the fourth. But, during that summer, a catastrophe fell upon the woods. In such a land of plenty there was nothing that could affect the lives of the wild things as much as fire. Every woodsman had seen how destructive it could be and therefore took care how he built campfires and dropped lighted cigarette butts. However, the thunderstorms which occasionally swept through the mountains in summer and let loose strings of lightning flashes as they roared over the valleys, could cause fire whenever the woods were very dry and the storm carried little rain. The wolves knew the various kinds of smoke and took interest in any fast spreading woods fire because it stirred up all kinds of game. When the great fire of the Smoky filled the whole region with dense haze and made days almost like nights, the wolves and coyotes did not try to leave. They found that they could easily outrun the flames and they discovered new and strange things in the path of this creeping death. So powerful, however, was the sting of the smoke that they could not scent as well as usual and in the gloom were easily separated. The crackling and roar of the fire in the big spruce timber filled the air. Flames would start at the base of a tree and rush up to the top, making the whole a pillar of light. All kinds of things were happening, for this was entirely upsetting the ordinary course of events in life about the mountains. On the third day, the black King sat on his haunches near the main trail and watched. He was not hungry; it was interest alone that held him. The deer and other big grazing animals were now thoroughly scared and trying to leave the section. Singly or in small bands they came trotting and running through the woods. Most noticeable were the moose. First a tall bull walked noiselessly from the shadows with velvet-covered antlers held well back on his neck to protect them as

BEHIND THE SMOKE

much as possible from low limbs. When two trees in his path grew close together he tipped the antlers sideways just enough to pass them through without touching. Next came an older bull. He trotted impetuously, disregarding the smaller twigs and impatiently breaking through the thickets. The velvet on the soft tips of his broad palms was torn and bloody. Farther away, gray shapes were occasionally rushing past, mule deer ranging in size from heavy bucks to unweaned fawns. A few were panicky, others moved more guardedly, not so much afraid of the fire as they were of what unknown dangers they might encounter ahead of them. An occasional brown snowshoe rabbit skulked by, in advance of the main drove of rabbits being driven just ahead of the line of unbearable heat. A coyote trotted almost in front of the wolf’s nose, caught sight of him, leaped wildly aside and then walked off with what dignity he could quickly gather to signify his absolute indifference. The black rose slowly to his feet, and the coyote immediately dropped his bluffing and ran. The thump and clatter of iron-shod hoofs came faintly from lower in the valley. As they drew nearer and the wolf could make sure that they were safely in the main trail, he sank lower among the bushes until entirely hidden. Two riders trotted by, rangers on their way to reinforce those already fighting the spread of the flames. Like the deer and the moose they and their horses quickly vanished in the smoke, but the click of iron on stones continued for several minutes to mark their course, and once or twice the harsh sound of their voices drifted back. A cow moose, followed by a scared calf, slipped stealthily into the trail and went trotting down the valley; others closely followed her. Then came three large animals of a type the black had never seen before, elk, strays from a herd that ranged farther south. The two leaders were young bulls; after them trotted a bull with such mighty antlers that they seemed to fill the trail. The wolf jumped up and hastened down to sniff and study the tracks they left. A new picture

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was registered in his brain for future use. More animals were passing. A black porcupine, with quills raised in fear, shuffled through the bushes. A lynx sped by like a shadow. Then came a regular stampede of snorting caribou. In spite of a light breeze the advance of the fire was slow in the main bodies of timber and few animals were trapped by it except those that could not or would not move away. Those fared the worst who were not wide travellers and feared to leave the small wood or ridge where they had been born and always lived. Among these were the rabbits, many of whom had never wandered much beyond the edge of a single big thicket. These dodged irresolutely backwards and forwards in the suffocating smoke, became completely confused and in the end usually perished. The little creatures that hid in hollow trees and burrows had a chance of escape if these holes were too deep to allow smoke and heat to reach into them. The porcupines, accustomed as they were easily to defend themselves against all attacks by sticking their heads under a root or other protective place and leaving only their quill-studded backs exposed, usually did not have sense enough to run far. Young grouse flew about in the smoke until singed or suffocated. The fire moved on. The rangers, unable to stop it by trenching, were trying “back fires.” Any animals caught between the main blaze and these counter fires were in an almost helpless situation. The increased heat sent clouds of smoke high into the air. The big wolf sneezed often and began to feel the fear of the smoke menace; so he loped further into the mountains. Mile after mile he covered until in the highest basin country where there was not enough timber or dry grass to burn, and where the other animals still went as peacefully as ever about their travels. A band of mountain sheep was coming slowly down from the peaks to feed in one of the basins before night; several white goats grazed among the cliffs. At four o’clock the smoke blanket which even here had at first made the sun look like a red ball, gradually obscured it entirely and produced the effect of early night. Birds at once went to roost. A coyote trotted

BEHIND THE SMOKE

out of a dwarf spruce thicket, sat down and began his evening series of howls and yaps which another coyote answered from across the valley. Then a solemn stillness settled over the peaks. The black walked out on a jutting rock and watched the darkening scene. Nothing about him seemed to stir. Once he heard a stone roll down the high cliffs and clatter among the rock piles below, then all was quiet again. The wolf felt more alone than ever before; he pointed his nose upwards and howled, the sound beginning low, then increasing in strength and finally drifting into a long wail that travelled from one canyon to another and filled the whole basin with weird sound. Unlike the coyote, he did not expect an answer and he got none. For hours he sat on the rock listening and watching but seeing and hearing nothing that interested him. It seemed as if all the world had suddenly become still. Morning brought the alarming clatter of many horses. Rising from his bed under a low spruce at the edge of the timber, the King saw in the distance through the trees a pack train winding up the valley. Gay colors and numerous dogs indicated Indians on the march. They too had reason to move away from the area of the fire and to put up their tepees in the treeless basin country. Men, women and children, some riding, some on foot, completed the procession. The black moved into the shadows and slipped away. As he followed a trail through the forest, intently listening to the many sounds of the pack train, he came almost face to face with two of the Indians’ leggy dogs. If he ran they would noisily follow, therefore he stood looking at them. The elder of the two, a smart-looking brindle, quickly circled into the bushes until far enough to feel safe, then he set up a furious barking to bring help. At once, answering yelps came from the valley as all the other dogs, realizing something unusual was on foot, joyfully started up the mountain. The black understood the danger. He charged straight for the bristling dog in the trail, swept him yelping to one side and went tearing through the woods. Before the dogs could gather into a strong pack to

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follow him he was far down the valley in a heavy windfall section of the forest. Standing on a log to look back he could hear the barking die down as the chase became more difficult and less interesting to the dogs. He had been surprised by the barking and was unnerved now, fearful lest some lurking Indian, in league with the dogs, might waylay him. Moving slowly and as stealthily as a lynx, he headed into the wind in the direction of the fire. Like a shadow he passed moose lying down in the woods, porcupine busily eating the red bear berries, and even a tired black fox that lay curled up asleep under a bush. At midday he rested and in the late afternoon was wandering about the mountains where he had last seen his mate and the half grown pups. It was here that the smoke and confusion had separated them. The wind had changed and saved a part of this section from the flames, but the smoke still smothered it. Beyond was black desolation. Trotting farther up the mountain the King at length came into clear air. There was no sign of any other living creature. After looking and listening for a few minutes, he risked giving the rallying call. There followed a long interval of cautious waiting, for man might hear it just as well as wolf; then he repeated the call. Almost immediately there was a patter of feet and Harry Lightning’s dog, more wolfish looking than ever, ran up to him, whining and prancing about with joy. She, at least, was a companion, though her antics bored him. Rain came; lightly at first, then in a steady downpour. Soon it had cleared the air; after a few hours it had conquered the fire except where burning logs stubbornly managed to absorb it. Toward morning it turned into a mere drizzle through which the light from the night sky easily penetrated and encouraged the animals to renew their rambles. The King and Harry’s dog, led by an impulse to examine the burned ground, left their spruce-tree shelter and came down to the valley of charred sticks. Everything was black, trails were wiped out, cover entirely gone. Gingerly walking about, the two found the singed bodies of various rabbits, porcupines, mice and other creatures that had been

BEHIND THE SMOKE

killed. They hungrily ate the pick of these until they could hold no more, then the dog commenced burying others to serve later need, for already bears, a lynx or two, coyotes, foxes, wolverines and different kinds of owls were cleaning up the whole vast place, some gorging themselves until scarcely able to walk. Much to the wolf’s disgust, the dog ended by carrying around with her a long-legged rabbit with which she teased the coyotes and played at intervals. When signs of dawn were noticeable, the King led the way to a stream where the two could drink without climbing down any slippery bank. After that they ate a few blades of grass that grew in a damp place and licked some of the moisture out of their fur. Back in the burn coyotes were yapping. The clouds suddenly split up overhead and showed a sickle moon. From far up the mountain came the long howl of a wolf. The King recognized the call of his gray mate and in an instant had located the sound exactly and started swiftly for the spot. The dog did not wish to be left behind; she made a motion as if to pick up the heavy rabbit, thought better of it and hurriedly followed the black; but once more she hesitated and cast back a longing glance, too late, however, for all she could see this time were her rabbit’s long legs dangling from the jaws of a proud coyote. Bitterly then she turned and again took up the trail of the King.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Harry Lightning Goes Hunting >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

IN OCTOBER JONES CAME BACK FOR ANOTHER HUNT, THIS TIME WITH OLD Jim as head guide, and Steve and Harry Lightning as assistants. Jones had written to Steve regularly to make sure that the King was still alive. Now he was bringing a new pack made up entirely of tough husky dogs instead of the more tender hounds. He vowed he would succeed in getting the big black’s pelt, though the hunt might take all winter. Jim counselled them to wait for a big fresh snow and then send Harry on the trail with snowshoes, to follow the King, until he was tired out by the hard travel. If the wolf pack came back to the lower Porcupine they would put the fresh dogs on the trail and run him down. Day after day they set traps and sat around waiting for the storm. It grew cold but remained clear. The camp was pitched within a mile of a lick where moose, deer and caribou came in the late evening and night. The moose were docile enough after their fighting for mates in late September and earlier in October, but the mule deer bucks, who had not rubbed the velvet from their new antlers until recently, were still in a dangerous mood toward each other. Jones spent every evening near the lick watching the big animals come cautiously down to the sour water, the moose silently, the caribou with an occasional loud snort of fear at unfamiliar scents, and the deer with more assurance than usual. Sometimes there were wicked fights in the meadow between jealous old bucks whose antler prongs would clash together as they locked heads in pushing contests. First there might be deer at the lick, then moose, after that perhaps [126]

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a caribou, but never two of different species at the same time. Sometimes a number of moose would come in succession or in pairs and occupy the place so long that deer would grow tired of waiting and drift away to return at some other time. Once a dark brown grizzly came to sniff and paw about; it was on one of these few evenings when Jones did not have a gun. On the same occasion he heard bear cubs bawling for their mother. “Everything except a wolf!” he remarked in disgust. And as if in answer to his words, several black shadows stole out of the woods at the far side of the lick. Then Jones saw eight members of the Porcupine River wolf pack, great black fellows that trotted about in the thickening dusk with the assurance which comes with knowledge of power and good leadership. One, the biggest, came toward the grizzly, and the big animal actually moved quickly out of his way. Lords of the forest they certainly were. Jones ground his teeth together and made vows about always carrying a rifle. The wolves left as suddenly as they had come; but later Jones heard the well-known bark of Harry Lightning’s wild dog and knew that they were hunting; he had not seen the dog. Toward midnight the coyotes set up a great yapping across the valley, which soon had all the huskies barking defiant answer. Jim fairly leaped out of his sleeping bag to quiet them. “That’s bad,” he muttered to Steve. “Just as we have the wolves all around us those curs have to give the whole show away. There won’t be another wolf near here all winter.” “Perhaps they’ll fool you!” suggested Steve, but he believed the old man. The black leader had learned his lesson, and sure enough, as late as March, the disconsolate Jones left for home without the pelt of the King or of any other wolf. That spring the rabbit fever broke out again in the mountains. Toward the end of summer there were rabbit carcasses nearly everywhere. The coyotes, foxes and grizzlies grew fat from having all this food without any effort, but the more careful wolves would not touch the quickly

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rotting, unhealthy flesh. When autumn came again the coyotes were so used to eating dead animals that one of the trappers who broke the law and used poison baits was able to make heavy hauls. His favorite method was to poison a carcass left in the woods by hunters. Around one of these he would sometimes on the following day pick up as many as three dead or dying coyotes, and perhaps a fox or other small furbearer. He worked so diligently that he exhausted the supply of fur in the lower valley of the Porcupine and moved on, not taking the trouble to destroy what was left of the poisoned meat. The King had kept his pack well to the north to avoid this trapper whose dangerous scent he had learned to recognize just as unerringly as Old Jim’s. He kept an eye on the man’s wanderings, however, and knew when he had left the Porcupine flats and where he was making his next camp site. Soon the wolf was leading an experimental hunt in the lower Porcupine country, cautiously studying the ground for traps and making sure that all was well. The very first thing the pack did was visit every carcass they scented. They were not hungry and they were suspicious of everything until they were well settled in the district. Cold weather, however, kept the meat in the carcasses fresh, and before long even the King was approaching them with hungry eye. A great moose, whose antlers and scalp alone had been taken, was the first on which they feasted. A young grizzly bear was there before them, but they drove him away. The King studied the scents, held back the eight other members of the pack until he was sure all was safe, then let loose the attack on the mountain of flesh. The gorge satisfied them for two days. Later they came to the carcass of a caribou at the edge of the timber. The black leader looked it over from a safe distance, circled it, then came closer to hunt for any hidden sign of man or traps. He found neither, but detected the faint taint which poison leaves in spite of every care, the scent that Grayback had years ago taught him to fear. Instantly he veered away with an angry snap at a young wolf who was pressing too close. His mane stood on end as he trotted between

THE KING RARELY LEFT THE SIDE OF HIS POISONED MATE

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the pack and the carcass, driving them back. They understood, but turned from the meat with some disappointed glances. Most of them had never before happened upon poison and knew nothing about it. If the pack had been fortunate enough to make a kill that night, all would have been well, but luck was against them. A deer escaped by crossing the river at several places, and the herd of white goats they located managed to reach the cliffs in safety. They made a halfhearted attack on a bull moose but gave this up when he tossed one of the pups and stood at bay in a tangle of low brush where they were at his mercy. The King travelled resolutely on, but at sunrise part of the pack stopped in a spruce thicket to rest. These were only half a mile from the caribou carcass, a faint whiff of which was suddenly carried to them by the wind. They became uneasy and before long let hunger get the better of their caution. In a body the five trotted back to the meat and in a few minutes were rolling on the ground in the agony of strychnine pains. They had bolted down so much of the poison that four died. The only one that lived was the gray mate of the King who disgorged the meal just in time, but she was too ill to leave the place. All day she lay near the carcass partly paralyzed. At evening she began to howl and brought the big leader running to her. Then she dragged herself toward the nearest water, and he helped to pull her along as if she had been a pup. After she had drunk a little she crawled into the bushes and lay down as if dead. But next day she was stronger and on the day following, she ate some deer meat brought by her mate. After three more days she was gamely travelling again with the remnant of the pack but lagging behind on account of weak hind quarters. She had lost weight and looked ill enough to die, yet since the daily life of the pack had to go on she calmly suffered rather than be left alone. The King lost his usual energy, slept little, watched her every move and rarely left her side for long, all of which slowed up the work of the wolves and kept them in or near the lower valley.

HARRY LIGHTNING GOES HUNTING

One of those heavy early snows came which often last on the ground only a few days. The pack, lying under logs and brush near some giant spruce trees, suddenly heard a faint whining followed by the crunch of awkward footsteps and the cautious clearing of a man’s throat. Instantly all were on their feet and, under the lead of the thoroughly aroused King, soon slipping away as quietly as shadows. A shot rang out and echoed far and wide. Men shouted, dogs barked. The wolves had been glimpsed but only for a fleeting moment; Steve and Jim had this time brought Jones into the mountains at the right moment. Now Steve ran in one direction, Jim turned to the right, and the dogs tried to pick up the trail. But the wolves were gone over the first rise, the last thing seen being the jaunty, curled tail of Harry Lightning’s former pet. After a council of war, Steve went back to get Harry who had stayed in camp that morning to chop fire wood. Jim collared the dogs and later sent Harry on the trail of the wolves. It began to snow again. That night the Indian did not return to camp, which was according to Jim’s plan, for he was directed to stick to the trail until the wolves made a turn and came back to the lower valley. If they did not make a turn within three days he could leave them. Meanwhile the others waited impatiently in camp, all ready to start off with the huskies when they heard a signal from Harry’s rifle. Two days and two nights the snow fell. The camp had been only hastily constructed when Jones and his outfit arrived just ahead of the storm. It was not comfortable. The eight dogs, kennelled under the cover of big trees, howled often and continually broke loose to indulge in little hunts of their own; but the snow was very deep and they would not travel far. Jones was in a fever of excitement. In his wildest dreams he had never seen a better tracking snow. If the Indian’s strength and his snowshoes held out, he would surely have a fair chance to tire out the wolves. Two more days went by. On the sixth day the campers started a hunt for Harry. The weather

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was clear and cold. From the mountain tops the party scanned basin after basin with their glasses without finding a sign of human life. Snow was over everything, sparkling brilliantly white on rock, tree and ground. Steve called attention to seven caribou, stormbound but slowly breaking their way down the valley. In the lead came a cow with her calf; at the rear of the line was another calf timidly stepping in the first deep snow he had ever seen. No other animals were visible until the deer and moose came out of their retreats just before dusk. The men finally gave up the search and returned to the tents for the night. They were awakened before morning by the barking of the dogs. Both Steve and Jim l000ked out to see what was happening and saw Harry calmly sitting by the camp-fire warming the coffee pot. He nodded to them grimly and swallowed the full mouthful of bread he was chewing, then he smiled so broadly that all his teeth flashed in the firelight. “Wolves down there,” he said, pointing toward the river.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Shoot the Leader! >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

DURING THE BEST PART OF AN HOUR HARRY STUFFED HIMSELF WITH food, and stopped only when he had consumed everything he could find. He was a sturdy little man, with straight, jet black hair and eyes with much white surrounding the iris. For a time he sat there looking into the fire; then, between puffs from endless cigarettes he gave out his story in short, jerky sentences. He had hurried from the camp laden only with rifle, raincoat and a small sack of food. Taking the trail of the five wolves, he found that it led almost straight down the valley, along the left bank of the river. Most of the day, amid the falling flakes, he had doggedly shuffled along on his home-made snowshoes, cautiously enough to avoid again scaring the wary animals, yet swiftly enough to prevent them from getting so far ahead that the snow might blot out their tracks. When the light began to fail he stopped for the night under the protecting branches of a very old spruce. Here he lit a fire and with a great mass of green spruce twigs heaped around him and with his raincoat as a blanket spent the night comfortably enough. Anyone who had not been raised in the mountains would have fared miserably, but the Indian liked this free life. All night the snow fell. By morning it was more than a foot deep. By noon it was up to the knees of the deer he encountered in the thickets. Before night it had reached the two-foot mark on his rifle barrel which he used as a yardstick. Several things of importance had happened. He had found where the wolves had slept sometime during the early part of the night; he had surprised them in their later resting place for the day and had had time to shoot at a gray one which was so inquisitive as to stop and look back at him. The hasty shot had gone wide of the [133]

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mark. By good luck, however, he had killed two spruce grouse, not with the rifle but by throwing sticks at them as they perched in low willows. The wolves he thought would realize their danger and try to put many miles between him and them before they slowed up, but as the snow was beginning to fall more lightly he did not worry much about this. Toward evening he came to a glade where more moose were feeding than he had ever seen together. The willows grew here profusely and the big animals, black against the snow, were tearing down the branches as they bit off the more tender twigs. Two were old-timers with colossal antlers which could thrill the heart of an ordinary hunter. But Harry had seen many moose in his life; he merely noted that the beasts had not been disturbed by the wolves, then passed on. Shortly after this he had his first real surprise. By the tracks he learned that the wolves had not dashed away for miles at full speed. Indeed they were travelling rather slowly. The King however was keeping careful watch, often running out on ledges to look back over the trail, or circling where the wind was right to give him, through scent or sound, an inkling of the trailer’s whereabouts. Harry was puzzled. He was still more mystified when that night he was awakened by the barking of his lost dog. Without doubt this was directed at him and had in it an angry quality never before noticeable. Evidently the wolves were thoroughly alarmed yet staying somewhere near by. No seductive whistling could induce the former pet to come any closer, so Harry finally completed his preparations for sleep and with both grouse safely cooked and eaten, soon began his usual loud snoring. One last heavy flurry of snow spread itself over the earth, then the stars came out and the northern lights began to flicker and dance. Before morning Harry was shivering, but he built a fire of dead branches torn from the jack pines, and boiled some coffee in an old condensed soup can. Almost before daylight he was again on the trail; and very soon he found that the wolves had stopped their flight long

SHOOT THE LEADER!

enough to hunt for food. Spreading out in the thickets they had surprised a young deer and caught the frightened animal before it could dash through their line. Very little of the carcass remained except some hide, entrails and such hard bones as the skull and some of the vertebrae. The Indian knew that they would not want to run far with so much food in their stomachs. Slowly he crept through the white forest. Moose trotted out of his way, grouse flew loudly out of trees over his head, sheep rattled loose stones on the ridges, but he scarcely so much as turned his eyes from the wolf trail which ran like a winding path far ahead of him. He knew it was very fresh. He had seen the five deep beds from which the pack had sprung only a minute or two before he came into view from behind a tangle of young spruce trees. The leafy bottoms of those beds had still been warm. Several miles from this spot he came upon a split in the trail; two wolves had turned west and broken a path for themselves. Harry saw that these at once increased the length of their strides and travelled much faster than before, showing that something had been holding them back when in the pack. The Indian studied the other tracks. First had come the big leader, breaking the trail through the snow—his mighty track was unmistakable —then a much smaller animal, easily recognizable as Harry’s former dog, and last of all a good-sized wolf whose tracks coming on top of the others’ should have been plain but in reality were indistinct and blurred by loose snow. Harry became more and more interested. He could easily guess that the last wolf which followed the others so listlessly as to drag its feet through the feathery flakes must be sick, perhaps very sick; the lack of depth in its tracks showed that it was not nearly as fat and heavy as it should be. Because the King would not desert this wolf even though his every action showed his alarm and restlessness, it was evident that the sick one was his mate. Fresh hope spurred on the Indian; he was wise in the ways of the mountain animals and knew now that the great wolf’s endurance and speed could be measured by the failing powers

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of this poor, poisoned female whom he would not leave while there seemed to be any chance to save her life. The day ended in a little gorge where Harry saw several large trout of the Dolly Varden variety in a clear pool and succeeded in stabbing two of them with his knife fastened to the tip of a stick. At once he prepared to camp. The fresh fish made a good meal when well cooked by the simple method of pegging them split open on a log and propping this close to the fire to act as a heat reflector. Later he sat with his back against a tree trunk, smoking cigarettes and listening to an owl hooting somewhere in the forest. The fire shadows danced among the snow-laden limbs and started two coyotes barking. Somewhere, miles away, a wolf howled twice. Well contented, the Indian crawled into the middle of a fresh pile of spruce twigs he had gathered and slept through the third night. Again the morning was cold. The snow was not as spotless as at first, for the mountain animals had been very busy foraging. Coyotes and wolverines added their trails to those of the deer and the moose. Here and there a porcupine had left his storm shelter and shuffled to a favorite jack pine for bark. Squirrels and rabbits had made a tracery of tracks in all the thickets; but Harry took up the wolf trail where he had left it and plodded on. Toward the middle of the day he found where his quarry had dug the snow from a moose carcass and feasted. Near by were their three beds, deserted and cheerless. Their trail now was turning in a gradual circle westward and back toward the lower valley of the Porcupine, but through country entirely new to Harry. Along the cliffs were many white goats but rarely any sheep. Here, however, were tracks of grizzlies which had not yet holed up for the winter sleep and were feeding on a moose carcass in the dense timber. Harry killed three blue grouse and one white ptarmigan with sticks he threw at them, otherwise his day was uneventful and tiring because of a light crust on the snow. On the fifth day he sighted the wolves. They were far ahead, mere black specks against the whiteness of a ridge. Single file as usual the

SHOOT THE LEADER!

three travelled slowly along the edge of the timber. By afternoon he had seen them many times, and when night shut down, his dog came back to bark and growl at him in the safe blackness. That night he ate fresh porcupine and the remainder of his bread. The sixth day found the wolves moving very slowly. They had gained almost nothing during the night. The leader’s tracks showed how he circled and fretted on account of the lagging pace, yet always came back to the gray mate. Suddenly Harry looked up and saw them distinctly, ahead. Up went his rifle. The King was in front of the others, bounding now to gain the timber. Harry dared not shoot, for if by mistake he killed the mate, the King would certainly start away on a tireless dash into the wilds of the North. Glimpses like this came again and yet again. Each time the dog and the gray were between him and the mighty black. Harry tried to circle around them in the timber, but was always discovered by either the dog or the watchful black. At such times the dog would bark fiercely and irritate the Indian to the point of wanting to shoot her. This idea soon became uppermost in his mind and when the chance did come to shoot one of the three it was the dog that he fiercely picked out for his revenge. The shot rang out and echoed against the rocks, then was drowned out by yelps as Harry’s former pet, wounded only slightly in the back, but badly scared, stampeded off at right angles and went bounding toward the river. The black and the gray leaped straight ahead and vanished quickly in the timber. Now they were coming to mountains familiar to Harry, winding along the easiest game paths in the general direction of the camp. Every half mile or so there was a depression in the snow where the gray had thrown herself down to rest until the ceaseless vigilance of the black would lead to the detection of the stealthily approaching Indian. Then away they would go again, the King breaking a trail in which the other wearily travelled, unable any longer to ascend steep banks or ridges and so forcing the leader to keep in the valley and head steadily toward territory he feared.

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When night came they were only three or four miles from the camp, in a forest jammed with windfalls. They were about twice that distance from the rangers’ cabin on the other side of the river, where Harry knew that Johnny was staying while making a map of some timber areas. The Indian left the trail here and made a detour to reach the camp without driving the wolves any farther. He felt sure that they would lie down and rest somewhere nearby for most of the night, if not so close to the men and dogs as to be frightened by the sound of voices or of barking. Harry’s story worked miracles in the camp. No one thought any more of sleep; rifles were examined, snowshoes overhauled and heavy fighting collars put on the dogs. Jones could scarcely wait till morning came; up and down he walked, nervously throwing more wood on the fire or perhaps for the hundredth time trying to light a pipe in which he had forgotten to put fresh tobacco. At first signs of dawn the other men clustered around Harry who was calmly eating a very good breakfast while they fidgeted. At length the Cree laid aside his empty plate, lit a cigarette that he rolled for himself, took up his gun, looked at the brightening sky and said the magic words, “Now we go!” The excited dogs were let loose and held back of the men by cracking of whips and harsh threats from Steve. Grimly the little army moved through the trees. Presently light rain began to fall; it was just a drizzle, but it froze as it fell and coated everything with ice. Harry, striding silently ahead, full of the importance of his present position, was the only one who really enjoyed the walk, for Jones was soon panting with the exertion and complaining about having too many clothes, Steve was nearly crazy from the trouble he had with the eight dogs, and Old Jim was suffering from rheumatism in his left leg. Then suddenly the Indian stooped down and showed them the wolf tracks. “Whatever you do,” cautioned Jim, “don’t shoot the gray female before you make sure of the big one. I’m with Harry on that. If you do,

SHOOT THE LEADER!

you’ll never in the world get another chance at his scalp.” Jones and Steve nodded agreement. “We’ll follow until we hit fresher tracks,” continued Jim, “then the dogs can go ahead with Harry and Mr. Jones, while Steve and I try to butt in on the chase whenever there is any circling. Remember, shoot the leader! Twenty minutes later they found the wolves’ beds under a windfall. Tracks in several directions showed that the King had gone off to stand guard or hunt food while the gray rested. Later in the night he had come back to rest near her. A wail from one of the dogs showed that the scent here was fresh. “Let them try the trail,” suggested Jones. They needed no urging. In a moment all eight were floundering through the crusted snow yelping joyously and sticking to the wolf tracks like a well-trained sled team. Harry hurried up the nearest bare ridge to have a look ahead. Soon his whistle caught the attention of the others, who were in the thick timber. He was frantically waving with one hand and pointing toward the river with the other. Jones and Steve began to run in that direction; they came out on an open meadow just in time to see the two wolves entering the far edge of the Woods, leaping high over the snow. “Shoot the leader!” cried Steve. Both men hastily aimed and fired. “I hit him,” Jones yelled. “I know I did!” They hurried to the spot where the wolves had disappeared. The tracks were easily found, and sure enough there was blood—little drops of it. Steve gave gruff shouts for the dogs. Presently they came running across the meadow, black and white ones, yellows and grays. They rushed around in circles at first looking for the wolves, then seeing nothing of them began to use their noses again and settle down to trailing. In a few minutes there was a great burst of barking; Steve and Harry ran ahead, the two others following as fast as they could. What they saw was the King running along the side of the treeless ridge in plain view of the pack which raced after him but on a lower level.

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There was something so deliberate about the way he showed himself and loped along, that both men guessed at once he was decoying the dogs away from his mate who no doubt had reached the end of her strength and was hiding somewhere in the windfalls. Steve, puffing hard and a bit excited, threw up his rifle and, at three hundred yards, sent shot after shot whizzing just over or under the wolf, while Harry watched through his binoculars and grunted at each miss. “You never hit,” the Indian calmly remarked as he replaced the glasses in their case, “but the wolf’s already wounded in the left hind leg; perhaps we get him!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

At Bay >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

THE KING WAS NOT TRAVELLING FAST. HE DESPISED AS WELL AS HATED the yowling dogs; it was the men only he knew he must evade. Through the snow he went, searching for a place where it would be safe to take time to fight the pack. Watching him run away, the dogs thought he was afraid of them and so grew bolder every minute. But the wolf suddenly sensed that the men were again near and that he should put the ridge between him and them. At once he changed his direction and struggled straight up a snow-covered rock slide. And it was a struggle, for his injured leg was stiffening. Seeing him turn tail completely, the dogs nearly went wild with excitement, but clumsily fell all over each other in trying to climb too quickly. Only one reached the crest in time to see which direction the King had taken on the other side; that was Jim’s cunning old husky who had been given a place in the pack. This dog, so timid when alone, now led the others down the ridge and into the timber almost on top of the great wolf who was nursing his leg and limping badly after the slippery climb. Jim’s dog held back then, but a younger one dashed forward and threw himself on the black foe so grimly and silently forcing his way through the crusted snow. There was a tense moment as they met, then a roar and clash of naked teeth; before the others could rush in, the wolf was on his feet and limping away, while in the snow the young husky sat and howled with surprise and pain, for in that moment the black had slashed his cheek. This disconcerted the other dogs; but down to the tall willows they followed, then along a frozen stream bed, then again into the willows on a narrow pathway made by moose. [141]

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One of the big-hoofed animals had turned from this path and made a trail of his own back over the ridge by way of a narrow valley. The wolf passed this turn, then suddenly changed his mind and returned to it. He followed the single track into the little valley, across the ridge and then down toward the river, where it joined the main trail of the moose leading across the muskegs and natural pastures to the shadow of Round Top Mountain. The wolf was dragging one leg. Every few yards the dogs, crowding each other in the narrow trail behind him, would get too close, whereupon he would stop, turn like a flash of lightning and with a snarl send them back on their haunches. They dared not struggle through the snow to head him off, so they followed, always menacing, while waiting for a good chance to surround him. And the King understood all this, but thought mostly of escaping the rifles that also were following. With the leg stiffening more and more he knew he should not again take to the deep snow; at all costs he must follow the moose trails to make any speed, and watch every inch of the way lest the hunters get a chance at him. He was in his old haunts, his favorite range whose hiding places he knew so well, but the worry of the many long days was telling on him now and the wound was growing worse. It was in the clearing beyond Johnny’s cabin that he suddenly found himself being headed back in a circle to the wood he had run from in the morning, the place where he had left his mate and where the valley had seemed full of men. The moose trail led there. Suddenly the huskies shied back; the King had made up his mind and spun around to face them. They barked excitedly, furiously, their hair on end and fangs exposed. They edged around the wolf. The big fight at last! But no, the King suddenly leaped into the snow and floundered back to Johnny’s well-worn path that led from the cabin to the river for water. The dogs pressed him closely; he dared not risk the snow any farther and so followed Johnny’s path. At the first bend he hesitated, for the scent of man was strong; but it was a friendly

AT BAY

scent, belonging to the only human being he had no real cause to fear. The pack once more spread out to surround him there in the open. He had to go on or somehow reach the forest. He was looking around him, searching for a way out. His leg was nearly useless now; it dragged like a dead weight. Then he made up his mind again, so quickly that it took the dogs by surprise. With something like his old fire he dashed straight through the open door of the cabin and stood at bay inside. The fight that followed may well go down in history. Johnny saw all of it, for he was writing, propped up comfortably in the upper bunk, when wolf and dogs burst in and took possession of the shack as completely as if he did not exist. The wolf stood with his weak leg propped against the wall in the farthest comer of the room. He crouched slightly and laid back his ears until his head seemed all mouth and eyes. The eight dogs formed in front of him in a wild mass, barking, yelping and growling. Not a sound came from the king wolf as he waited. The dog mass surged forward, then back; it moved again, wavered and broke, disgorging one snarling brown and white husky. Then at him the wolf sprang and for an instant pandemonium broke loose. With big dogs all over his back the King never stopped till he had taught the luckless one a lesson. After that he broke into the air until his head struck the ceiling, hurled seventy-pound dogs this way and that, then retired to his corner. From his high perch Johnny watched, fascinated. The dogs edged back. They were mad now, reckless with the battle lust and taste of blood; but none cared to go in first. They were all panting; the air in the little one-room shack seemed gone and in its place was rank odor. Then the black wolf crouched lower and charged the whole line. Dog after dog was hurled against the walls. Like bees then they clambered over him and clung, blotted him out, smothered him, formed a solid mass which heaved, then turned inside out and burst all over the room as again by super effort he broke away, gasping, spitting hair, flashing fury from bloodshot eyes.

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Back once more in the corner he stood as before, but Johnny saw now that strange pucker, deep and heavy above his eyes. It meant that at last all the smouldering hatred of the King was aroused. It meant that he would fight not just to defend himself but to kill, to exterminate this band of enemies. There was something so terrible in his look that Johnny instinctively pressed closer to the wall of logs at his back. The man was practically cornered by the fighters, but he would not have left the cabin now for anything. The dogs were getting up their courage for another attack, all but one which had crawled into a corner and another which had rushed yelping into the snow. Their best chance lay in breaking down the wolf by maiming one or more of his three remaining good legs, and they knew it. Jim’s husky edged in from the left, another big black and white dog challenged from the right, the remaining four held the wolf’s attention in front. But suddenly the King seemed aware of his old enemy; he turned slightly to the left and from that time scarcely ever took his eyes from Jim’s dog. The husky slunk away and tried to hide among the others, but still those eyes followed him. Johnny started the next attack by clumsily knocking over a box of nails on a rafter. The sudden noise startled the wolf and made him look quickly in that direction. Instantly the dogs were upon him. He went down, overwhelmed by the mere weight of so many, and Johnny saw he was on his back, thrusting and slashing, doing all he could against the heavy odds. Then a dog whirled out of the battle and limped to the door; a second one spun about oddly and collapsed against the wall; a third rolled over and over, howling and trying in vain to get on his feet. Then the black wolf, now red almost from head to tail, staggered up and met the last three face to face. Now it was bite and slash and jump away. All were winded, panting for breath, steaming from the heat of the fighting. Johnny noticed that Jim’s husky was constantly circling the floor, dodging twice as often as the others. Watching closely for a few minutes he saw then that while the two other dogs were attacking and

LIKE BEES THE DOGS CLAMBERED OVER HIM AND CLUNG

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worrying the black giant whenever they had a chance, the wolf, on three legs, was actually following Jim’s dog and trying to corner him. What prevented him was the agility of his enemies. The two brown and white huskies were trying to hamstring and cripple him. He had to keep constant guard against this. But between rushes he always headed toward Jim’s husky and waited for his chance. One of the dogs caught him by the flank and held on. He came around like lightning and slashed. With a howl the dog let go and tumbled back. But his big comrade meanwhile dashed in and had the wolf by the throat, just as Jim’s husky descended on him from the other side. The King reared and came down crashing, with the first dog underneath his full weight. Somehow, then, he twisted his neck around until he brought his teeth to bear on the hard skull of the husky that was throttling him. The dog let go and scrambled from under; but he was not quite quick enough. The King, free again, slashed twice with all his fury, then turned on Jim’s dog, now the only one that remained. The latter sprang away. For a few moments the wolf crouched there catching his breath, then slowly, grimly moved toward his old enemy. Jim’s husky suddenly saw his fate. He tried to edge toward the door but was thwarted; he lost all his bravado, cringed and whimpered and slunk about with tail between his legs; and still the wolf came on. Johnny suddenly realized that the impossible had happened; the big wolf had won against all the odds man could put against him. And now he was going to punish the dog he had reason to hate above all others. The man knew in his heart that had the fight gone against the King he would not have allowed him to be murdered there, before his eyes. Now he must save Jim’s dog. A yell made the wolf glance in his direction, but only for a second. Then Johnny began to throw things, anything he could lay his hands on, the pillow, a hairbrush, his shaving things. The black warrior hesitated and looked at him again as if accusing him and trying to understand. He stood there on three legs, almost tottering, bleeding in a dozen

AT BAY

places, covered with dirt and foam; the victor, gazing at man and wondering why now he interfered. And for a moment Johnny felt mean, unfair, contemptible. Then the wolf turned his head toward the door as if listening. His whole attitude changed and the dog seemed forgotten. Cautiously he moved to a point from which he could look down the valley without exposing himself to view. His head went up and the hair bristled anew over his shoulders and along his spine. In another moment he was gone. Johnny looked again to make sure. The wolf had moved quickly and yet had seemed to glide or fade away. There had been no sound. Outside, the setting sun gleamed on the snow. The husky slunk out of the door. Voices sounded. Presently Steve, Harry Lightning and Jones appeared in the path. In another minute they were clustered in the doorway looking at the wreckage on the floor of the cabin. Slowly all eyes turned to Johnny who still sat on the edge of the high bunk as if petrified. “What happened and where is he?” snapped Steve. “Don’t know where,” answered Johnny, “but he’s gone. He licked your pack right here, where they drove him.” “And you sat there just cheering, I suppose.” Steve was fast losing his temper. “What kind of a ranger are you anyway? Enjoyed the fight, I guess, because that black butcher cleaned up the place with our dogs. Well, if Jim hadn’t broken his leg in a fall on the other side we’d have been here in time to spoil your party. Bah!” “Get out!” said Johnny, and in his eyes when he said it was something of the look of the big black. Jones pushed in between them. “Come along,” he begged, “don’t waste time here.” Steve looked around the cabin once more, kicked a coat out of his way and stalked furiously out of the door. “Sorry about all this,” Jones said to Johnny in a lower voice. “Not

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much left of your things. Very sorry.” Then he too was gone. Johnny heard their voices outside; snatches of talk. “Here’s the trail,” “No, it’s this way,” “Never mind that dog,” “Yes, over the ridge,” “Hurry along, the sun’s nearly gone.” Johnny let himself down from the bunk and began picking up scattered grocery cans. One had rolled into the snow. He retrieved it and stood there looking at the endless wooded valley and the giant rock piles above it, snow covered and fast growing gray. Each minute that went by without the sound of a gunshot meant hope for the wolf.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Call of the Northland >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

HARRY LIGHTNING STOPPED TRAILING AT SIX O’CLOCK. IT WAS THEN SO dark that the men could not push their way through the bristling evergreen thickets without likelihood of losing an eye or of breaking a leg in the windfalls. Already Jones had suffered several bad scratches and bruises and had lost his hat. Neither he nor Steve guessed that the wolf was scarcely thirty yards ahead, well within the reach of their voices and barely able to plunge through another drift. Iron nerves had carried him along; but when he heard the men turn back he sank down in the snow. Before the sun had again risen over the ridge the King forced his body up on three legs that felt like one big ache, and stiffly dragged himself to the edge of a thicket from whence he could watch his back trail. There he lay all day, while the Canada jays held gatherings above him in the jack pines, and two ravens who saw him, circled and searched in the confident belief that a kill must be somewhere near by. The men did not come; they had their own troubles, for Jim’s leg needed attention and the dogs were very badly chewed up. On the second day he dragged himself some distance farther, and on the third he reached the remains of a moose carcass left by hunters. It was scarcely more than bones because of the work of grizzlies; but the bones were full of marrow and he lived on them and on snow for several days while his body burned with fever from the clotted wounds. More snow had fallen, enough to blur all old footprints and make trailing him almost impossible with so many deer and coyote tracks to cause confusion. [149]

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During these days the great wolf was a sad sight. Gaunt and shaggy he crouched there, listening and watching. Several coyotes and a red fox took a look at him and at the bones, but backed away lest they arouse the rage they knew was pent up somewhere in that long, black body. No wolves came anywhere near. At length the King was able to travel, but still on three legs. Under cover of darkness he headed direct for the place where he had left his sick mate when her strength had completely given out and he had had to decoy the dogs over the ridge to save her. Everywhere he found tracks of man and of dogs. It seemed as if the valley had been combed for days, without, however, any of the hunters coming near his own hiding place. His mate was gone, he could find no trace of her except where she had rested under a windfall evidently for a long time. Here too was the scent of man, much of it. Circling carefully to catch the breeze from every part of the wood, he tried to make sure that she was not somewhere near by. He could not understand why she had left no trail from the windfall. At one point he stood for many minutes, sniffing. Here the odor of a far-away camp came to him in occasional puffs, the latest stopping place of his enemies. His nose picked out from the smoke odor the individual scent of several dogs, among them Jim’s husky; of men he had learned to know and of a newcomer, brought by Steve to doctor Jim’s leg. But what held him there was an elusive something that suggested his mate. He could not understand this; it was impossible! Suddenly more wood was put on the fire and all strange scents were obliterated by the heavy smoke. The King slowly turned away. Resolutely he headed now for a favorite rallying place beyond the ridge. As he topped the rise he looked back and, just to make certain, gave a call, the rough throaty roar that all the valley knew. There was no answer. The wolf spent the night where he and the Porcupine pack had so often gathered. This place too was deserted now. He stayed in the vicinity and three days later came upon the trail of a band of wolves. These he followed to the first scent post, recognizing several who had

CALL OF THE NORTHLAND

run with him in the past; and with them was Harry Lightning’s dog. Long he stood there looking down the trail; but he followed no farther, for the one he hunted was not in the pack. When at length he moved, it was toward the west, in the beginning of a great circle that was to take in and search the many miles of his range. When spring came with its floods and greenery, the King took up his stand near the den where his last two litters of pups had been born in happier days. Evening after evening, just as the shadows grew dense, he walked up to the lookout rock and gave that gruff, throaty call. For minutes he stood quite still listening and looking out over the valley, then slowly he would turn away and silently re-enter the woodland shadows. By autumn he was again in the lower valley of the Porcupine, wandering and hunting alone, terrible in his singleness, yet somehow winning the admiration of all the rangers. Trappers were after him, but traps he spurned. Ordinary ones could no more hold him now than a string could stop a tiger, for the colossal weight of two hundred pounds lay behind his drive. When March came again he headed northwest and deliberately left behind him all the familiar places of his life. The rangers said he would stay away,—wolves had acted that way before; but in the following February, the mating month, they heard his call and knew that once more he had come to search for his mate. The giant track was always by itself. Another year rolled by and again the gruff call broke the winter stillness and haunted the valley. It had a quaver now, an added loneliness in the closing note. “He is getting old and tired,” one of the rangers later said to Jim. “And kind of sad, hopelessly sad,” added Johnny, who had also heard him. “Then I don’t believe that he will come again,” said Jim. The three of them remained silent for a time thinking of the leader in the days gone by.

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“He must be here next year!” at length cried Johnny. “What would the Porcupine be without him? Think of the deadness of the woods in winter if we never see his trail!” Spring, summer and autumn rolled by. Once more the woods animals were making trails in soft, deep snow. Johnny, ranging along the Porcupine, saw countless tracks and began to notice especially the trail of a band of wolves. There seemed to be eight of them. All through December they stayed either to the north or west of his cabin, but near enough often to be heard. There was no sign of the black King. Deer were scarce, and many of the cow moose had moved with their calves to safer territory, leaving a few tough old bulls in the denser thickets. The wolves had difficulty with these powerful ones and avoided them until hunger at last drove the pack to attack occasionally those that seemed least formidable. But the fights were always long and hard. The pack was badly led by a lanky gray who had had little experience. He was never able to keep moose from reaching swampy places around warm springs, or dense thickets in which they had the advantage. The soft snow hampered the wolves even more than it did the long-legged bulls. Inevitably the underfed pack began to grow careless and to make trips into trapping country where sooner or later it was sure to get into trouble. Near the cabin Johnny often saw one particularly big bull moose. His color was almost black, and from the base of his chin hung a long, hairy bell which made his head seem very large. At first he had carried antlers with the spread of nearly six feet, but these had been shed late in December, after serving their purpose very well in the fighting season, for this one had proved himself the king bull of the year. He had been so cruel to the smaller males that he had won the dislike and fear of all of them, and now, when other moose were companionable to each other, he had found himself deserted and left to roam his favorite range entirely alone. It was on a moonlight night in January that the wolf pack first gave him real attention. After hours of hunting without finding game they

CALL OF THE NORTHLAND

ran across his deep trail and turned to follow it. Eight lean, hungry creatures, with a dark gray female now in the lead. The bull scented them from afar and sensed the danger of their stealthy approach. He started for the thickets in a long, swinging trot. Suddenly the wolves appeared and rushed after him, but he gained the thick low willows and turned grandly to face them. Beside his bulk they seemed almost insignificant as they slunk about and studied his position. A less hungry pack would have passed on. The bull stood quite still, sure of his powers but wisely cautious. Soon, however, a wolf came too close to his hind legs for safety; he swung around to protect them. Instantly another sprang at his left thigh and barely missed as he whirled and struck with his sharp front feet. Then all took a hand and dashed around him, threatening from all sides, almost under his hoofs at times but so elusive as to dodge his plunges. However, two were grazed and cut, though not badly; a third was thrown against a tree trunk and nearly smashed before he could scramble away. The big, clumsy-looking animal showed the quickness and fury of a tiger. He meant to kill and he dashed about in pursuit of the wolves until they quailed before him and ran to cover. Then he started for the river. The wolves followed in a long line. Twice they stopped him and again fought and teased until tired. At the river the bull waded into a slough where a spring kept the water from freezing. Here, among tussocks and endless mud, he was in his real fighting element and could use his long legs and spreading hoofs much better than his enemies could handle their feet. He breathed more freely, the fight seemed virtually won. But the hungry, thoroughly excited wolves did not leave. Though they could not navigate the mud they stood around him on tussocks and bayed. Even Johnny a mile away in his cabin plainly heard the noise and wondered what was going on. It was then that three more wolves, attracted by the clamor, joined the fight, one of these being the

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famous renegade dog of Harry Lightning, now shaggier and wilder than ever. Morning found the situation still the same; the great bull stood in watery mud up to his knees while around him in a respectful circle was a straggling line of eager-faced wolves varying in color from light gray to deep black. Then came a change in the scene. Another wolf walked quietly down the bank and stood at a little distance on the ice, watching; a great black wolf he was, graying about the muzzle but with sparks still in his eyes. The others saw him and as if wishing to have all the glory for themselves were spurred to a sudden new attack. Again the bull defended his legs, furiously and ably, mud flew, the discomfited wolves floundered out of the way and still the old King wolf watched. Only Harry Lightning’s dog seemed possessed with the will to fight on. She leaped in again and barely missed the right hind leg where the tendon was the softest. Before she could recover, the moose was upon her with the swiftest bound of the whole fight. She went down in a sea of mud. The pack came howling to the rescue. The wolves snapped, dodged, then weakly scattered as before; but over the ice to the mud hole now came the big black, his mane on end and a deep pucker across his brow. Straight toward the waiting bull he came neither looking to right nor left as the pack made way for him. Eight feet away, directly in front of the moose, he stopped and crouched slightly, every muscle tense. For fully a minute the two animals faced each other, the bull as rigid and ready as the wolf but for the instant surprised. Absolute stillness had fallen upon the pack. Nervously the bull moved his head just enough to cast a glance over his shoulder, and in that second the wolf sprang. There was a wild scene as water, mud and black bodies came together in a blurred mass, then the moose went down like a log, knocked completely off his balance by the force of the impact. The moose no longer stirred; only then did the King let go his hold and spring back. A whirling, snarling mass of wolves rushed forward.

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In a moment they were all over the carcass, ripping, feasting, fighting and muddying everything. The old black King watched them, but to him they paid no attention whatever. Slowly then he came forward, circling the half-submerged carcass covered by the busy, ravenous horde. A black wolf snarled at him, a gray bared its fangs evilly, a sudden chorus of growls warned him to keep away from his own kill which when alive the whole hungry pack had failed to humble. The hair stiffened along his back, his ears flattened and the wrinkle again almost covered his eyes. Not for years had he mixed with wolves; they had forgotten him and his leadership days; he was considered a mere outcast now, to be snarled at and bullied by the skinniest pup. Johnny heard the roar he gave when he charged, but the forester did not reach the scene in time to see the fight. Leaping on the broad side of the prostrate bull, the King caught the biggest gray wolf back of the ear and hurled him into the water; striking low he threw a black after him and then a gray. When four mobbed him, he slashed with lightning jaws and then charged backwards and forwards over the long body of the moose, punishing whatever one dared face him and hurling one and all into the mud. His teeth were not as sharp as they used to be, but he had the same strength and weight, the same quickness and courage. Not a wolf could stay with him on the body of the old bull. Up and down it he walked, daring them to come on again; stiff legged, bristling, growls rumbling in his throat, he defied the pack of ten, humbled them until they ceased to bay and slunk about or crouched on the tussocks. Johnny saw him at this instant and marvelled at the scene. He had come out on a bar several hundred yards away and was looking through his binoculars. As he watched, the King calmly crouched down and began to eat while around him milled the horde of hungry wolves licking their lips yet not caring to interfere or come too close. The King took his time; finally he stood up and looked the pack over; disdain was in his every move. How different this ill-fed, craven lot from the sleek, vigorous packs he had led roaring up and down the

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Porcupine! He stepped from the carcass, sniffed about and pulled at something he found in the mud. Johnny focused his binoculars more carefully and strained to see what it was the wolf was striving to lift from the water. Gradually he distinguished the head and front of what looked like a dead wolf. Then he saw a white streak on the neck and recognized Harry Lightning’s poor dog. The King let the head slowly fall back and turned to give the bull moose a long look. Perhaps the sight of the dog had freshened old memories, for suddenly the wolf raised his grizzled nose and howled, long and lonesomely, until the other wolves listening became filled with the mournful spirit and howled too. Over their voices ever sounded the roar of the King. Then the old wolf ran, still baying, up the snowy bank, along a game trail, down to the river ice again and onward toward the north, as if wildly trying to leave behind as quickly as possible all the places that recalled the past. And after him rushed every wolf in that half-starved pack, baying with him like mad, forgetful of the meat that lay there waiting, carried away by enthusiasm, following a wolf who was born to be leader. Over the ice they ran, further into the wooded ridges, growing smaller and smaller until, mere specks, they faded from view around a bend and their voices too died away, the final note being the gruff roar of the Wolf King, the last time that it was ever to be heard in the valley of the Porcupine.

The End

Afterword >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<

AN ANIMAL SO FULL OF ACTIVITY AS THE BIG KING, SO FULL OF WANDER-lust, could not be lost sight of indefinitely, particularly as in Johnny, the ranger, he had a thoroughly interested friend. He turned up again in another wild section of the Alberta mountains, was recognized by his size and his voice, and again became the animal hero about whom thrilling stories were told. That Johnny happened to be transferred to this same section was not altogether an accident; the ranger wanted more than anything else to go there and follow once more the fortunes of this magnificent black wolf that no man or beast could conquer. At first he did not know how closely he was to become associated with the King or that his own favorite dog was to be the means of bringing them together. This dog too was a notable character, a very large hound named Reddy that grew up among the wolves and became the King’s hunting companion and only close friend. As might be expected, theirs was a very wild, hazardous companionship which could well have ended in disaster a hundred times, but which instead developed the natural instincts of the hound and made him as safe and formidable in the wilderness as the King himself. Unlike Harry Lightning’s wild dog, however, he never quite became like a wolf. So deep and strange was the friendship of the great wolf and the great hound that it had its effects even on Johnny and has warranted the writing of another book to chronicle the adventures of the hound with the wolves and later with mankind in the many parts of the country where fate and Johnny brought him while the King continued his terrific reign. There was something lovable about Johnny. He understood the wilderness and its ways, the animals and the manner in which they fitted into the general plan of nature. He did not like to interfere; he even felt a kind of kinship with [157]

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THE WOLF KING the creatures, large and small. Johnny and men like him get the very best from life in the rugged mountains; they see and feel what may escape all others. And so around these three,—the black wolf, the hound and Johnny,—is written another book, before the curtain comes down on the life of one of the greatest wolves of all time. That much of this wild animal’s indomitable spirit, courage and love of leadership could be implanted in one of man’s humble companions, the dog, is understandable only after many events are chronicled and Reddy truly earns his title, WILDERNESS CHAMPION.

JOSEPH WHARTON LIPPINCOTT, author, publisher and sportsman, has been a student of nature from boyhood. He has hunted and fished in some of the wildest parts of the North American continent, and in connection with his exploration trips has made valuable collections for museums. His books about outdoor life, distinguished for liveliness of narrative and scientific accuracy, have become classics in the field.

Books by Mr. Lippincott COYOTE, THE WONDER WOLF WILDERNESS CHAMPION OLD BILL, THE WHOOPING CRANE BLACK WINGS THE PHANTOM DEER THE RED ROAD PONY THE WOLF KING THE WAHOO BOBCAT CHISEL-TOOTH, THE BEAVER

For Younger Readers The American Wildlife Series (Illustrated by George F Mason) : PERSIMMON JIM, THE POSSUM LONG HORN, LEADER OF THE DEER STRIPED COAT, THE SKUNK GRAY SQUIRREL LITTLE RED THE FOX BUN, A WILD RABBIT

J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY Good Books Since 1792

Philadelphia • New York ISBN-0-397-30156-1