painfully to a sitting posture on a large flat rock and from this
vantage point glared at his followers who had hitherto been obedient to
his will. And though he was old and wounded, the pack quailed for a time
before his glance. His advantage could not last, however. The others
soon grew restless, the circle of dark forms tightening in a menacing
way about the rock upon which the old leader crouched. Then a young wolf
who had long chafed under the leadership of Gray Wolf, sprang for a
throat hold.
Gray Wolf's mate was absent. There was none to defend him and, though he
would not have given up easily, there could have been but one ending to
the fight had not a strange interruption occurred. The young wolf was
suddenly hurled backward as from a catapult, his neck being broken as he
struck the ground, while upon the rock beside the old leader appeared a
great white wolf, fangs bared and eyes glowing with savage fire. For a
moment the pack stood aghast. Never had such a wolf been seen in all the
Little Vermilion country. With tails between their legs they retreated
to a safe distance where they paused, uncertain whether to stay or to
flee.
The white wolf, however, turned scornfully from them and looked down at
the wounded leader. Gray Wolf did not cower, nor did his staunch heart
fail him. He tried to rise, but the movement started the flow of blood
afresh and the next moment he sank back dead. The white wolf gazed at
him; then, standing upon the rock, he raised his muzzle to the stars
and sent out a long mournful howl which carried over miles of dark
wilderness and seemed the very embodiment of the night and the solitude.
Without a sound the pack slunk away, scattering to the four winds just
as the first streaks of dawn appeared in the east.
A short time later the white wolf might have been seen before the
entrance to his den, high among the ledges. He stood as if carved from
the rock at his back, while the sky grew rosy with the gleams of the
rising sun which drove the darkness before them and made rainbows of the
mist that shrouded the cataract. Before the sun itself appeared above
the horizon, the wolf had vanished into the dark cave.
Dusk of the following day found him once more abroad. He descended the
mountain and swiftly threaded the wilderness until he came to the rock
upon which Gray Wolf had perished. Here he stationed himself and as
darkness fell, he proudly raised his head, sending out over the
wilderness a full, deep-throated rallying-call, the like of which the
forest had never known. Lesser creatures of the wilderness shivered with
fear, cowering in their burrows for some time before daring to venture
forth.
One of the lynxes which had so severely wounded the old leader heard the
challenge and, though it struck fear into even his savage heart, he
stole soundlessly forward until he could see the beast upon the rock.
But at sight of the snow-white wolf he shrank back in utter terror and
attempted to steal away.
Unfortunately for him the eyes of the white wolf had pierced his
hiding-place and in a moment he was hurled from his feet by the force of
the attack. The lynx fought but feebly, seemingly benumbed by the
strange apparition, and in a few minutes his limp form was stretched
upon the ground. As for his mate, she too cowered before the sight of
the white wolf and fled afar, never to return. So was Gray Wolf avenged
and his avenger, once more mounting the rock, sent his cry of victory
echoing over the wilderness.
Now the wolves began to arrive, settling themselves in a ring about the
great rock where the new leader stood silent, staring out over the heads
of the pack. When all had arrived, as if at some signal they fell
hungrily upon the body of the lynx which in a very short time was
devoured. Only the big white wolf stood aloof.
Without question the pack accepted the new leadership. That same night
they started northward, led by the white wolf, traveling always with the
tireless lope which enables their kind to cover great distances. Thus
they came out upon the edge of the barrens, a vast, treeless country
which few care to penetrate during the snows of winter. Nothing moved in
all its white expanse and the silence of death hung over it. Yet without
hesitation the white wolf trotted out upon it and the pack followed,
only a few hanging back in the shelter of the pines.
Ten minutes later the faith of the pack in their leader was justified.
Not far away a gray blur drifted across their path and vanished, hidden
by the curtain of snow which had begun to fall. It was a caribou herd,
that drifting band which in midwinter is at once the hope and the
despair of the larger flesh-eating animals. Wandering as they do at
will, none can foretell their movements; yet the white wolf had led his
pack unerringly through mile after mile of snowy forest, straight to the
path of the herd.
The sight brought fresh courage to the famished wolves and they did not
stop to question the wisdom or the instinct which had led them. They
soon overtook the herd, but instead of charging into it, a proceeding
which would have caused the caribou to bolt at a pace that would have
left the wolves hopelessly behind, they followed silently and with
apparent indifference. Nevertheless they kept a close watch upon the
deer, singling out one who had been wounded before, and was showing
signs of weakening. This animal soon lagged and was cunningly separated
from the herd, thus falling an easy prey to the wolves. Another was
treated in the same manner before the savage appetites were satisfied
and the wolves turned back to the woods.
For a time good fortune seemed to travel with the pack, but, as February
dragged by and gave place to March, the most bitter month of all in the
wilderness, the wolves once more grew gaunt and famished. This time the
white wolf led them, not to the far north, but to the south in the
direction of the settlements.
Late afternoon of a bitter March day found Dave Lansing, hunter and
trapper, returning from a trip to the nearest town after supplies. He
was plodding along the snowy trail, his eyes upon the ground and his
thoughts far afield, when a distant, long-drawn howl caused him to
raise his head. Dave knew that howl. It was the call of a wolf and,
though armed, it filled him with uneasiness. He did not believe that the
wolves would attack a man in daylight, but night was coming rapidly and
he was some miles from his cabin. For a moment he considered turning
back and spending the night with the Hermit, but his heart revolted at
the thought. Dave was never one to show the white feather and he pushed
resolutely on, though he quickened his steps.
For a time the woods were very still. With his cabin almost within
sight, the trapper had begun to breathe more freely when suddenly the
howl was repeated, this time so close that he stopped in dismay. A
moment later he saw them coming, flitting silently along his trail or
from tree to tree, like gray shadows of the coming night.
There would not be time to reach his cabin. Muttering angrily, Dave
kicked off his snowshoes and drew himself into the branches of the
nearest tree. He was just in time, for he had scarcely drawn up his feet
when the pack closed in. His snowshoes were quickly demolished while the
man could only look on, angry but helpless. Then the wolves sat down in
a circle in the snow and looked hungrily up at him.
"Yes, look at me!" Dave remarked, shaking his fist at the pack. "Think
you've got me, don't you? Well, you just wait."
He brought his ever-ready rifle into position and looked about for the
leader, thinking that if he could be killed, the pack would disband. For
a time he hesitated, unable to determine which wolf it might be; then he
stared, forgetting his discomfort in his astonishment. Among the pack
had suddenly appeared a snow-white wolf, the like of which the trapper,
in all his years in the wilderness, had never beheld, though it was said
that a tribe of them was to be found in the far north. Here was the
white wolf about whom so many stories had been told, stories to which he
had listened unbelieving.
For a moment he could only stare in admiration at the powerful animal;
then the hunter's instinct asserted itself and he fired. So quickly did
the wolf swerve that the eye of the hunter could not perceive the
movement. Dave only knew that he had missed, he, the best marksman in
all the Little Vermilion country! Again he fired, but the bullet
embedded itself harmlessly in a tree.
This was too much for the hunter. Here was no wolf. He felt sure that
the bullets had reached their mark, yet the beast was unharmed. Dave was
a mighty hunter but, like most ignorant people, he was superstitious. He
had often heard tales of the loup-garou, or witch wolf, whom no bullet
could kill. With a hand that trembled slightly he laid his gun across
his knees, deciding not to waste his bullets.
He had settled himself for a long cold wait in his tree when, without a
sound, the white wolf turned and trotted swiftly away into the forest,
the whole pack following. The trapper stared after them, unable to
believe his eyes. Fearing an ambush, he waited for some time; then as
the wolves did not reappear, he lowered himself cautiously from the tree
and set out once more for his cabin, minus his snowshoes and greatly
perplexed at the mystery. Dave could not know that the keener nose of
the white wolf had scented a deer at no great distance and so had led
the pack to the safer game.
Now began a time of annoyance for the farmers at the borders of the
wilderness. Sheep and pigs were killed and devoured, and now and then a
cow. Many had seen the wolf pack and a few had glimpsed the big white
leader, but, although scores of shots had been fired, apparently none
had reached the mark. So the fame of the white wolf grew, and many, like
Dave Lansing, were inclined to the belief that the leader at least was
gifted with supernatural powers. Traps and poison, no matter how
cleverly concealed, he uncovered or avoided with an uncanny wisdom,
while he continued to take toll of the farmers' flocks and herds.
The Hermit in his lonely cabin heard the tales, which lost nothing in
the telling, and though he knew them to be greatly exaggerated, he
wished ardently for a sight of the big wolf. The beast's cunning and
courage had aroused his admiration. Pal was kept strictly within bounds,
and when his master went into the woods he carried a weapon which,
however, would never be used save in self-defense.
One day the Hermit's wish was granted and he came face to face with the
white wolf not far from the clearing. The beast suddenly appeared among
the trees, not many paces distant, and the two stood staring curiously
at each other. The Hermit made no move to draw his gun and the wolf, on
his part, seemed to know that no harm was intended, for he showed no
sign either of fear or antagonism. He stood for a long minute gravely
regarding the man; then he turned and trotted away without a backward
glance and with no sign of haste. The Hermit did not know that for days
the wolf had secretly followed him and found him to be harmless.
Spring came at last, and when the snow had given place to the new, eager
life of the forest, and food was once more abundant, the pack turned
northward to the wilds. It was never seen again, but the fame of the big
white wolf lived in the minds of the farmers, and stories of his prowess
and cunning were handed down long after the wolf had passed to the Happy
Hunting Grounds of his tribe.
THE END
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[Trasncriber's Note: In the original edition, each picture's caption was
clearly identified in the List of Illustrations, though the pictures in
the text only included the caption with the picture when a full-page
image was used. In this e-text, the captions assigned in the original
have been included with each image.]