At last after three long years of fight he stood before them alone,
confronting twoscore Dogs, and men with guns to back them--but facing
them just as resolutely as I saw him that day in the wintry woods. The
same old curl was on his lips--the hard-knit flanks heaved just a
little, but his green and yellow eye glowed steadily. The Dogs closed
in, led not by the huge Huskies from the woods--they evidently knew too
much for that--but by a Bulldog from the town; there was scuffling of
many feet; a low rumbling for a time replaced the yapping of the pack;
a flashing of those red and grizzled jaws, a momentary hurl back of the
onset, and again he stood alone and braced, the grim and grand old
bandit that he was. Three times they tried and suffered. Their boldest
were lying about him. The first to go down was the Bulldog. Learning
wisdom now, the Dogs held back, less sure; but his square-built chest
showed never a sign of weakness yet, and after waiting impatiently he
advanced a few steps, and thus, alas! gave to the gunners their
long-expected chance. Three rifles rang, and in the snow Garou went
down at last, his life of combat done.
He had made his choice. His days were short and crammed with quick
events. His tale of many peaceful years was spent in three of daily
brunt. He picked his trail, a new trail, high and short. He chose to
drink his cup at a single gulp, and break the glass-but he left a
deathless name.
Who can look into the mind of the Wolf? Who can show us his wellspring
of motive? Why should he still cling to a place of endless tribulation?
It could not be because he knew no other country, for the region is
limitless, food is everywhere, and he was known at least as far as
Selkirk. Nor could his motive be revenge. No animal will give up its
whole life to seeking revenge; that evil kind of mind is found in man
alone. The brute creation seeks for peace.
There is then but one remaining bond to chain him, and that the
strongest claim that anything can own--the mightiest force on earth.
The Wolf is gone. The last relic of him was lost in the burning Grammar
School, but to this day the sexton of St. Boniface Church avers that
the tolling bell on Christmas Eve never fails to provoke that weird and
melancholy Wolf-cry from the wooded graveyard a hundred steps away,
where they laid his Little Jim, the only being on earth that ever met
him with the touch of love.