It seems that Fiddler Paul, the handsome ne'er-do-well of the
half-breed world, readier to hunt than to work, was prowling with his
gun along the wooded banks of the Red River by Kildonan, one day in the
June of 1880. He saw a Gray-wolf come out of a hole in a bank and fired
a chance shot that killed it. Having made sure, by sending in his Dog,
that no other large Wolf was there, he crawled into the den, and found,
to his utter amazement and delight, eight young Wolves--nine bounties
of ten dollars each. How much is that? A fortune surely. He used a
stick vigorously, and with the assistance of the yellow Cur, all the
little ones were killed but one. There is a superstition about the last
of a brood--it is not lucky to kill it. So Paul set out for town with
the scalp of the old Wolf, the scalps of the seven young, and the last
Cub alive.
The saloon-keeper, who got the dollars for which the scalps were
exchanged, soon got the living Cub. He grew up at the end of a chain,
but developed a chest and jaws that no Hound in town could match. He
was kept in the yard for the amusement of customers, and this amusement
usually took the form of baiting the captive with Dogs. The young Wolf
was bitten and mauled nearly to death on several occasions, but he
recovered, and each month there were fewer Dogs willing to face him.
His life was as hard as it could be. There was but one gleam of
gentleness in it all, and that was the friendship that grew up between
himself and Little Jim, the son of the saloonkeeper.
Jim was a wilful little rascal with a mind of his own. He took to the
Wolf because it had killed a Dog that had bitten him. He thenceforth
fed the Wolf and made a pet of it, and the Wolf responded by allowing
him to take liberties which no one else dared venture.
Jim's father was not a model parent. He usually spoiled his son, but at
times would get in a rage and beat him cruelly for some trifle. The
child was quick to learn that he was beaten, not because he had done
wrong, but because he had made his father angry. If, therefore, he
could keep out of the way until that anger had cooled, he had no
further cause for worry. One day, seeking safety in flight with his
father behind him, he dashed into the Wolf's kennel, and his grizzly
chum thus unceremoniously awakened turned to the door, displayed a
double row of ivories, and plainly said to the father: "Don't you dare
to touch him."
If Hogan could have shot the Wolf then and there he would have done so,
but the chances were about equal of killing his son, so he let them
alone and, half an hour later, laughed at the whole affair. Thenceforth
Little Jim made for the Wolf's den whenever he was in danger, and
sometimes the only notice any one had that the boy had been in mischief
was seeing him sneak in behind the savage captive.
Economy in hired help was a first principle with Hogan. Therefore his
"barkeep" was a Chinaman. He was a timid, harmless creature, so Paul
des Roches did not hesitate to bully him. One day, finding Hogan out,
and the Chinaman alone in charge, Paul, already tipsy, demanded a drink
on credit, and Tung Ling, acting on standing orders, refused. His
artless explanation, "No good, neber pay," so far from clearing up the
difficulty, brought Paul staggering back of the bar to avenge the
insult. The Celestial might have suffered grievous bodily hurt, but
that Little Jim was at hand and had a long stick, with which he
adroitly tripped up the Fiddler and sent him sprawling. He staggered to
his feet swearing he would have Jim's life. But the child was near the
back door and soon found refuge in the Wolf's kennel.
Seeing that the boy had a protector, Paul got the long stick, and from
a safe distance began to belabor the Wolf, The grizzly creature raged
at the end of the chain, but, though he parried many cruel blows by
seizing the stick in his teeth, he was suffering severely, when Paul
realized that Jim, whose tongue had not been idle, was fumbling away
with nervous fingers to set the Wolf loose, and soon would succeed.
Indeed, it would have been done already but for the strain that the
Wolf kept on the chain.
The thought of being in the yard at the mercy of the huge animal that
he had so enraged, gave the brave Paul a thrill of terror.
Jim's wheedling voice was heard--"Hold on now, Wolfie; back up just a
little, and you shall have him. Now do; there's a good Wolfie"--that
was enough; the Fiddler fled and carefully closed all doors behind him.
Thus the friendship between Jim and his pet grew stronger, and the
Wolf, as he developed his splendid natural powers, gave daily evidence
also of the mortal hatred he bore to men that smelt of whiskey and to
all Dogs, the causes of his sufferings. This peculiarity, coupled with
his love for the child--and all children seemed to be included to some
extent--grew with his growth and seemed to prove the ruling force of
his life.