THE WERWOLF
Now, as all men know, Bill Carmody had done a most foolish and insane
thing.
But the very audacity of his act--and the god of chance--favored him,
for as the axe whizzed through the air the keen edge of the whirling
bit caught one of the larger wolves full on the side of the head.
There followed the peculiar, dull scrunching sound that stands alone
among all other sounds, being produced by no other thing than the
sudden crush of a living skull.
The front and side of the skull lifted and turned backward upon its
hinge of raw scalp and the wolf went down, clawing and biting, and over
the snow flowed thick red blood, and a thicker mucus of soft, wet
brains.
At the sight and scent of the warm blood, the companions of the
stricken brute--the gaunt, tireless leaders, who had traveled beside
him in the van, and the rag-tag and bobtail alike--fell upon him tooth
and nail, and the silence of the forest was shattered by the blood-cry
of the meat-getters.
Not so the great she-wolf, who despised these others that fought among
themselves, intent only upon the satisfaction of their hunger.
Her purpose in trailing this man to destruction was of deep vengeance:
the assuagement of an abysmal hatred that smoldered in her heart
against every individual of the terrible man kind, whose cruel traps of
iron, blades of steel, and leaden bullets had made her a monstrous,
sexless thing, feared and unsought by mating males, hated of her own
breed.
And now, at the moment she had by the cunning of her generalship
delivered this man an easy prey to her followers, they deserted her and
fell in swinish greed upon the first meat at hand.
So that at the last she faced her enemy alone, and the smoldering fury
of her heart blazed green from her wicked eyes. She stood tense as a
pointer, every hair of her long white coat bristlingly aquiver.
Suddenly she threw back her head, pointed her sharp muzzle to the sky,
and gave voice to the long-drawn ululation which is the battle-cry of
wolves.
Yet it was not the wolf-cry, for long ago the malformation of a healing
throat-wound had distorted the bell-like cry into a hideous scream like
the shriek of a soul foredamned, which quavered loud and shrill upon
the keen air and ended in a series of quick jerks, like stabs of
horrible laughter.
And then, with tight-drawn lips and jaws agape, she hurled herself
straight at the throat of the stumbling man.
* * * * *
Darkness was gathering when, a mile to the northward, Jake LaFranz and
Irish Fallon, who were laboring with six big horses and a rough log
drag to break out the trail, suddenly paused to listen.
Through the thin, cold air rang a sound the like of which neither had
ever heard. And then, as if in echo, the long-drawn wail of the great
white wolf.
They stared at each other white-lipped; for that last cry was a thing
men talked about of nights with bated breath and deep curses. Neither
had heard it before--nor would either hear it again--but each
recognized the sound instinctively, as he would recognize the sound of
Gabriel's trump.
"It's _her_!" gasped LaFranz. "God save us! It's Diablesse--the
_loup-garou_!"
"'Tis none other--that last. But, man! Man! The first wan! Was it a
human cry or from the throat of another of her hell-begotten breed?"
Without waiting to reply the Frenchman swung the big six-team in their
tracks and headed them toward camp. But Irish Fallon reached for him as
he fumbled at the clevis.
"Howld on, ye frog-eater! Be a man! If 'twas human tore loose that yell
he'll be the bether fer help, notwithstandin' there was more av foight
nor fear in th' sound."
"No, no, no! It's _her_! It's Diablesse!" He crossed himself.
"Sure, an' ut is; bad cess to her altogether. But Oi got a hear-rt in
me ribs o'good rid blood that takes relish now an' agin in a bit av a
foight. An', man or baste, Oi ain't particular, so 'tis a good wan.
Oi'll be goin' down th' thrail a piece an' see phwat's to see. Oi ain't
axin' ye to go 'long. Ye poor prayer-dhrivlin' haythen, wid yer limon
av a hear-rt ye've got a yallar shtripe that raches to th' length an'
width av ye. Ye'd be no good nohow.
"But 'tis mesilf ain't fearin' th' evil eye av th' werwolf--an' she is
called be the name av th' divil's own.
"But listen ye here, ye pea-soup Frinchy! Ye'll not go shnakin' off wid
thim harses. Ye'll bide here till Oi come back."
The other made a whimper of protest, but Irish Fallon reached out a
great hairy hand and shook him roughly.
"Yez moind now, an' Oi mane ut! Here ye shtay. An' av ye ain't here,
ye'd bether kape on goin'. F'r th' nixt toime Oi lay eyes on ye Oi'll
br-reak ye in two! An' don't ye fergit ut!"
The big Irishman turned and swung down the tote-road, the webs of his
rackets leaving a broad trail in the snow. LaFranz cowered upon the
snow-plow and sought refuge in craven prayer and curses the while he
shot frightened glances into the darkening forest.
He thought of cutting the horses loose and starting them for camp at a
run. But, much as he feared the werwolf, he feared Irish Fallon more;
for many were the tales of Fallon's man-fights when his "Irish was up."
* * * * *
When the white wolf sprang the man had nearly reached the snarling
pack. Before him, scarcely six feet away, lay his axe, the blade
smeared with blood and brains, to which clung stiff gray hairs.
Instinctively he ducked and, as the huge form flashed past, his right
arm shot out straight from the shoulder. The long, clean blade entered
just at the point of the brisket and, ranging upward, was buried to the
haft as the knife was torn from his grasp.
One step and the man's fingers closed about the helve of his axe, and
he whirled to meet the second onslaught.
But there was small need. The great brute stood still in her tracks
and, with lowered head, snapped and wrenched at the thing that bit into
her very lungs.
The stag-horn plates of the protruding hilt were splintered under the
clamp of the mighty jaws, and the long, gleaming teeth made deep dents
in the brass beneath. Her lips reddened, and before her the snow was
flecked with blood.
All this the man took in at a glance without conscious impression. He
gripped his weapon and sprang among the fighting pack, which ripped and
dragged at the carcass of the dead wolf.
Right and left he struck in a reckless fume of ferocity, which spoke of
unreasoning fights in worlds of savage firstlings. And under the
smashing blows of the axe wolves went down--skulls split, spines
crushed, ribs caved in--a side at a stroke, and shoulders were cloven
clean and deep to pink sponge lungs.
As if realizing that her hurt was mortal, the great she-wolf abandoned
her attack on the knife-haft and, summoning her strength for a supreme
effort, sprang straight into the midst of the red shambles.
The man, caught unawares, went down under the impact of her body. For
one fleeting second he stared upward into blazing eyes. From between
wide-sprung rows of flashing fangs the blood-dripping tongue seemed to
writhe from the cavernous throat, and the foul breath blew hot against
his face. Instantly his strong fingers buried themselves in the shaggy
fur close under the hinge of the jaw, while his other hand closed about
the dented brass of the protruding knife-hilt.
With the whole strength of his arm he held the savage jaws from his
face as he wrenched and twisted at the firmly embedded knife. Finally
it loosened, and as the thick-backed blade was withdrawn from the wound
it was followed by spurt after spurt of blood--bright, frothy blood,
straight from the lungs, which gushed hot and wet over him.
Blindly he struck; stabbing, thrusting, slashing at the great form
which was pressing him deeper and deeper into the snow. Again and again
the knife was turned against rib and shoulder-blade, inflicting only
shallow surface wounds.
At length a heavy, straight upthrust encountered no obstacle of bone,
and the blade bit deep and deeper into living flesh.
As with a final effort the knife was driven home, a convulsive shiver
racked the body of the great white wolf, and with a low, gurgling moan
of agony her jaws set rigid, her muscles stiffened, and she toppled
sidewise into the snow, where she lay twitching spasmodically with
glazing eyes.
Bill staggered weakly to his feet.
The uninjured wolves had vanished, leaving their dead upon the snow,
while the wounded left flat, red trails as they sought to drag their
broken bodies to the cover of the forest.
Irish Fallon rounded a turn of the tote-road. He brought up sharply and
stared open-mouthed at the man who, sheath-knife in hand, stood looking
down at an indistinct object which lay upon the blood-trampled snow.
Carmody turned and shouted a greeting, but without a word the Irishman
advanced to his side until he, too, stood looking down at the thing in
the snow. Suddenly Bill's hand was seized in a mighty grip.
"Man! 'Tis _her_, an' no mistake! She's done for at lasht--an' blade to
fang, in open foight ye've knoifed her! Sure, 'tis a gr-rand toime
ye've had altogether," he said, glancing at the carcasses, "wid six
dead besides her an' three more as good as."
Bill laughed: "This wolf--the big white one--seems to enjoy a
reputation, then?"
"R-r-reputation! R-r-reputation, is ut? Good Lord, man! Don't ye know
her? 'Tis th' werwolf! D'ablish, th' _loup-garou_, the Frinchies call
her; an' the white divil, the Injuns--an' good rayson, f'r to me own
knowledge she's kilt foive folks, big an' shmall, an' some Injuns
besides. They claim she's a divil, an' phwin she howls, 'tis because
some sowl has missed th' happy huntin' grounds in th' dyin', an' she's
laughin'."
"I don't know that I blame them," said Bill. "She favored me with a
vocal selection. And, believe me, she was no mocking-bird."
"Well, she looks dead, now," grinned Fallon; "but we'd besht make sure.
Owld man Frontenelle kilt her wunst. Seven year back, ut was over on
Monish.
"He shot her clean t'rough th' neck an' dhrug her to his cabin be th'
tail. He was for skinnin' her flat f'r th' robe she'd make. He had her
stretched out phwin wid a flash an' a growl, she was at um, an' wid wan
clap av th' jaws she ripped away face an' half th' scalp.
"They found um wanderin' blind on th' lake ice an' carried um to
Skelly's phwere he died in tin days' toime av hydrophoby, shnarlin' an'
bitin' at folks till they had to chain um in th' shtoreroom."
As he spoke, Fallon picked up the axe, and with several well-directed
blows shattered the skull of the werwolf against any possibility of a
repetition of the Frontenelle incident.
"But come, man, get yer rackets an' we'll be hittin' the thrail f'r
camp. Sure, Frinchy'll be scairt shtiff av we lave um longer."
"Rackets?" asked Bill, with a look of perplexity.
"Yer shnow shoes, av coorse."
"Haven't got any. And I don't suppose I could use them if I had." The
other stared at him incredulously.
"Not got any! Thin how'd ye git here?"
"Walked--or rather, stumbled along."
"Phwere from?"
"It started to snow as I left the old shack--the last one this way, I
don't know how far back. It was there I traded my boots to an Indian
for these." He extended a moccasined foot.
"'Tis a good job ye traded. But even at that--thirty-foive moile
t'rough th' snow widout webs!" The Irishman looked at him in open
admiration. "An' on top av that, killin' th' werwolf wid a knoife, an'
choppin' her pack loike so much kindlin's! Green, ye may be--an'
ignorant. But, frind, ye've done a man's job this day, an' Oi'm pr-roud
to know yez."
Again he extended his hand and Bill seized it in a strong grip.
Somehow, he did not resent being called green, and ignorant--he was
learning the North.
"Fallon's me name," the other continued, "an' be an accident av birth,
Oi'm called Oirish, f'r short."
"Mine is Bill, which is shorter," replied Carmody, smiling.
For just a second Irish hesitated as if expecting further
enlightenment, but, receiving none, reached down and grasped the tail
of the white wolf.
"'Tis a foine robe she'll make, Bill, an' in th' North, among white min
an' Injuns, 'twill give ye place an' shtandin'--but not wid
Moncrossen," he added with a frown.
"Come on along. Foller yez in behint, f'r th' thrail'll be fair
br-roke. Phwat wid two thrips wid th' rackets an' th' dhrag av th'
wolf, 'twill not be bad. 'Tis only a mather av twinty minutes to phwere
Frinchy'll bether be waitin' wid th' harses."