No longer, as in the days of old, did the darkness of the forests hold a
fear for Baree. This night his hunt-cry had risen to the stars and the
moon, and in that cry he had, for the first time, sent forth his
defiance of night and space, his warning to all the wild, and his
acceptance of the Brotherhood. In that cry, and the answers that came
back to him, he sensed a new power—the final triumph of nature in
impinging on him the fact that the forests and the creatures they held
were no longer to be feared, but that all things feared him. Off there,
beyond the pale of the cabin and the influence of Nepeese, were all the
things that the wolf-blood in him found now most desirable:
companionship of his kind, the lure of adventure, the red, sweet blood
of the chase—and matehood. This last, after all, was the dominant
mystery that was urging him, and yet least of all did he understand it.
He ran straight into the darkness to the north and west, slinking low
under the bushes, his tail drooping, his ears aslant—the wolf as the
wolf runs on the night trail. The pack had swung due north, and was
travelling faster than he, so that at the end of half an hour he could
no longer hear it. But the lone wolf-howl to the west was nearer, and
three times Baree gave answer to it.
At the end of an hour he heard the pack again, swinging southward.
Pierrot would easily have understood. Their quarry had found safety
beyond water, or in a lake, and the _muhekuns_ were on a fresh trail. By
this time not more than a quarter of a mile of the forest separated
Baree from the lone wolf, but the lone wolf was also an old wolf, and
with the directness and precision of long experience, he swerved in the
direction of the hunters, compassing his trail so that he was heading
for a point half or three quarters of a mile in advance of the pack.
This was a trick of the Brotherhood which Baree had yet to learn; and
the result of his ignorance, and lack of skill, was that twice within
the next half-hour he found himself near to the pack without being able
to join it. Then came a long and final silence. The pack had pulled down
its kill, and in their feasting they made no sound.
The rest of the night Baree wandered alone, or at least until the moon
was well on the wane. He was a long way from the cabin, and his trail
had been an uncertain and twisting one, but he was no longer possessed
with the discomforting sensation of being lost. The last two or three
months had been developing strongly in him the sense of orientation,
that “sixth sense” which guides the pigeon unerringly on its way and
takes a bear straight as a bird might fly to its last year’s
denning-place.
Baree had not forgotten Nepeese. A dozen times he turned his head back
and whined, and always he picked out accurately the direction in which
the cabin lay. But he did not turn back. As the night lengthened, his
search for that mysterious something which he had not found continued.
His hunger, even with the fading-out of the moon and the coming of the
gray dawn, was not sufficiently keen to make him hunt for food.
It was cold, and it seemed colder when the glow of the moon and stars
died out. Under his padded feet, especially in the open spaces, was a
thick white frost in which he left clearly at times the imprint of his
toes and claws. He had travelled steadily for hours, a great many miles
in all, and he was tired when the first light of the day came. And then
there came the time when, with a sudden sharp click of his jaws, he
stopped like a shot in his tracks.
At last it had come—the meeting with that for which he had been seeking.
It was in an open, lighted by the cold dawn—a tiny amphitheatre that lay
on the side of a ridge, facing the east. With her head toward him, and
waiting for him as he came out of the shadows, his scent strong in her
keen nose, stood Maheegun, the young wolf. Baree had not smelled her,
but he saw her directly he came out of the rim of young balsams that
fringed the open. It was then that he stopped, and for a full minute
neither of them moved a muscle or seemed to breathe.
There was not a fortnight’s difference in their age and yet Maheegun was
much the smaller of the two; her body was as long, but she was slimmer;
she stood on slender legs that were almost like the legs of a fox, and
the curve of her back was that of a slightly bent bow, a sign of
swiftness almost equal to the wind. She stood poised for flight even as
Baree advanced his first step toward her, and then very slowly her body
relaxed, and in a direct ratio as he drew nearer her ears lost their
alertness and dropped aslant.
Baree whined. His own ears were up, his head alert, his tail aloft and
bushy. Cleverness, if not strategy, had already become a part of his
masculine superiority, and he did not immediately press the affair. He
was within five feet of Maheegun when he casually turned away from her
and faced the east, where a faint pencilling of red and gold was
heralding the day. For a few moments he sniffed and looked around and
pointed the wind with much seriousness, as though impressing on his fair
acquaintance—as many a two-legged animal has done before him—his
tremendous importance in the world at large.
And Maheegun was properly impressed. Baree’s bluff worked as beautifully
as the bluffs of the two-legged animals. He sniffed the air with such
thrilling and suspicious zeal that Maheegun’s ears sprang alert, and she
sniffed it with him; he turned his head from point to point so sharply
and alertly that her feminine curiosity, if not anxiety, made her turn
her own head in questioning conjunction; and when he whined, as though
in the air he had caught a mystery which she could not possibly
understand, a responsive note gathered in her throat, but smothered and
low as a woman’s exclamation when she is not quite sure whether she
should interrupt her lord or not. At this sound, which Baree’s sharp
ears caught, he swung up to her with a light and mincing step, and in
another moment they were smelling noses.
When the sun rose, half an hour later, it found them still in the small
open on the side of the ridge, with a deep fringe of forest under them,
and beyond that a wide, timbered plain which looked like a ghostly
shroud in its mantle of frost. Up over this came the first red glow of
the day, filling the open with a warmth that grew more and more
comfortable as the sun crept higher.
Neither Baree nor Maheegun were inclined to move for a while, and for an
hour or two they lay basking in a cup of the slope, looking down with
questing and wide-awake eyes upon the wooded plain that stretched away
under them like a great sea.
Maheegun, too, had sought the hunt-pack, and like Baree had failed to
catch it. They were tired, a little discouraged for the time, and
hungry—but still alive with the fine thrill of anticipation, and
restlessly sensitive to the new and mysterious consciousness of
companionship. Half a dozen times Baree got up and nosed about Maheegun
as she lay in the sun, whining to her softly and touching her soft coat
with his muzzle, but for a long time she paid little attention to him.
At last she followed him. All that day they wandered and rested
together. Once more the night came.
It was without moon or stars. Gray masses of clouds swept slowly down
out of the north and east, and in the treetops there was scarcely a
whisper of wind as night gathered in. The snow began to fall at dusk,
thickly, heavily, without a breath of sound. It was not cold, but it was
still—so still that Baree and Maheegun travelled only a few yards at a
time, and then stopped to listen. In this way all the night-prowlers of
the forest were travelling, if they were moving at all. It was the first
of the Big Snow.
To the flesh-eating wild things of the forests, clawed and winged, the
Big Snow was the beginning of the winter carnival of slaughter and
feasting, of wild adventure in the long nights, of merciless warfare on
the frozen trails. The days of breeding, of motherhood—the peace of
spring and summer—were over; out of the sky came the wakening of the
Northland, the call of all flesh-eating creatures to the long hunt, and
in the first thrill of it living things were moving but little this
night, and that watchfully and with suspicion. Youth made it all new to
Baree and Maheegun; their blood ran swiftly; their feet fell softly;
their ears were attuned to catch the slightest sounds.
In this first of the Big Snow they felt the exciting pulse of a new
life. It lured them on. It invited them to adventure into the white
mystery of the silent storm; and inspired by that restlessness of youth
and its desires, they went on.
The snow grew deeper under their feet. In the open spaces they waded
through it to their knees, and it continued to fall in a vast white
cloud that descended steadily out of the sky. It was near midnight when
it stopped. The clouds drifted away from under the stars and the moon,
and for a long time Baree and Maheegun stood without moving, looking
down from the bald crest of a ridge upon a wonderful world.
Never had they seen so far, except in the light of day. Under them was a
plain. They could see its forests, lone trees that stood up like shadows
out of the snow, a stream—still unfrozen—shimmering like glass with the
flicker of firelight on it. Toward this stream Baree led the way. He no
longer thought of Nepeese, and he whined with pent-up happiness as he
stopped halfway down and turned to muzzle Maheegun. He wanted to roll in
the snow and frisk about with his companion; he wanted to bark, to put
up his head and howl as he had howled at the Red Moon back at the cabin.
Something held him from doing these things. Perhaps it was Maheegun’s
demeanour. She accepted his attentions rigidly. Once or twice she had
seemed almost frightened; twice Baree had heard the sharp clicking of
her teeth. The previous night, and all through to-night’s storm, their
companionship had grown more intimate, but now there was taking its
place a mysterious aloofness on the part of Maheegun. Pierrot could have
explained. With the white snow under and about him, and the luminous
moon and stars above him, Baree, like the night, had undergone a
transformation which even the sunlight of day had not made in him
before. His coat was like polished jet. Every hair in his body glistened
black. _Black!_ That was it. And Nature was trying to tell Maheegun that
of all the creatures hated by her kind, the creature which they feared
and hated most was black. With her it was not experience, but
instinct—telling her of the age-old feud between the gray wolf and the
black bear. And Baree’s coat, in the moonlight and the snow, was blacker
than Wakayoo’s had ever been in the fish-fattening days of May. Until
they struck the broad openings of the plain, the young she-wolf had
followed Baree without hesitation; now there was a gathering strangeness
and indecision in her manner, and twice she stopped and would have let
Baree go on without her.
An hour after they entered the plain there came suddenly out of the west
the tonguing of the wolf-pack. It was not far distant, probably not more
than a mile along the foot of the ridge, and the sharp, quick yapping
that followed the first outburst was evidence that the long-fanged
hunters had put up sudden game, a caribou or young moose, and were close
at its heels. At the voice of her own people Maheegun laid her ears
close to her head and was off like an arrow from a bow.
The unexpectedness of her movement and the swiftness of her flight put
Baree well behind her in the race over the plain. She was running
blindly, favoured by luck. For an interval of perhaps five minutes the
pack were so near to their game that they made no sound, and the chase
swung full into the face of Maheegun and Baree. The latter was not half
a dozen lengths behind the young wolf when a crashing in the brush
directly ahead stopped them so sharply that they tore up the snow with
their braced forefeet and squat haunches. Ten seconds later a caribou
burst through and flashed across an open not more than twenty yards from
where they stood. They could hear its swift panting as it disappeared.
And then came the pack.
At sight of those swiftly moving gray bodies Baree’s heart leaped for an
instant into his throat. He forgot Maheegun, and that she had run away
from him. The moon and the stars went out of existence for him. He no
longer sensed the chill of the snow under his feet. He was wolf—all
wolf. With the warm scent of the caribou in his nostrils, and the
passion to kill sweeping through him like fire, he darted after the
pack.
Even at that, Maheegun was a bit ahead of him. He did not miss her; in
the excitement of his first chase he no longer felt the desire to have
her at his side. Very soon he found himself close to the flanks of one
of the gray monsters of the pack; half a minute later a new hunter swept
in from the bush behind him, and then a second, and after that a third.
At times he was running shoulder to shoulder with his new companions; he
heard the whining excitement in their throats; the snap of their jaws as
they ran—and in the golden moonlight ahead of him the smash of the
caribou as it plunged through thickets and over windfalls in its race
for life.
It was as if Baree had belonged to the pack always. He had joined it
naturally, as other stray wolves had joined it from out of the bush;
there had been no ostentation, no welcome such as Maheegun had given him
in the open, and no hostility. He belonged with these slim, swift-footed
outlaws of the old forests, and his own jaws snapped and his blood ran
hot as the smell of the caribou grew heavier, and the sound of its
crashing body nearer.
It seemed to him they were almost at its heel when they swept into an
open plain, a stretch of barren without a tree or a shrub, brilliant in
the light of the stars and moon. Across its unbroken carpet of snow sped
the caribou a spare hundred yards ahead of the pack. Now the two leading
hunters no longer followed directly in the trail, but shot out at an
angle, one to the right and the other to the left of the pursued, and
like well-trained soldiers the pack split in halves and spread out
fan-shape in the final charge.
The two ends of the fan forged ahead and closed in, until the leaders
were running almost abreast of the caribou, with fifty or sixty feet
separating them from the pursued. Thus, adroitly and swiftly, with
deadly precision, the pack had formed a horseshoe cordon of fangs from
which there was but one course of flight—straight ahead. For the caribou
to swerve half a degree to the right or left meant death. It was the
duty of the leaders to draw in the ends of the Horseshoe now, until one
or both of them could make the fatal lunge for the ham-strings. After
that it would be a simple matter. The pack would close in over the
caribou like an inundation.
Baree had found his place in the lower rim of the horseshoe, so that he
was fairly well in the rear when the climax came. The plain made a
sudden dip. Straight ahead was the gleam of water—water shimmering
softly in the starglow, and the sight of it sent a final great spurt of
blood through the caribou’s bursting heart. Forty seconds would tell the
story—forty seconds of a last spurt for life, of a final tremendous
effort to escape death. Baree felt the sudden thrill of these moments,
and he forged ahead with the others in that lower rim of the horseshoe
as one of the leading wolves made a lunge for the young bull’s
ham-string. It was a clean miss. A second wolf darted in. And this one
also missed.
There was no time for others to take their place. From the broken end of
the horseshoe Baree heard the caribou’s heavy plunge into water. When
Baree joined the pack, a maddened, mouth-frothing, snarling horde,
Napamoos, the young bull, was well out in the river and swimming
steadily for the opposite shore.
[Illustration: When Baree joined the pack, a maddened, mouth-frothing,
snarling horde, Napamoos, the young caribou bull, was well out in the
river and swimming steadily for the opposite shore.]
It was then that Baree found himself at the side of Maheegun. She was
panting; her red tongue hung from her open jaws; but at his presence she
brought her fangs together with a snap and slunk from him into the heart
of the wind-run and disappointed pack. The wolves were in an ugly
temper, but Baree did not sense the fact. Nepeese had trained him to
take to water like an otter, and he did not understand why this narrow
river should stop them as it had. He ran down to the water and stood
belly deep in it, facing for an instant the horde of savage beasts above
him, wondering why they did not follow. And he was black—_black_. He
came among them again, and for the first time they noticed him.
The restless movements of the waters ceased now. A new and wondering
interest held them rigid. Fangs closed sharply. A little in the open
Baree saw Maheegun, with a big gray wolf standing near her. He went to
her again, and this time she remained with flattened ears until he was
sniffing her neck. And then, with a vicious snarl, she snapped at him.
Her teeth sank deep in the soft flesh of his shoulder, and at the
unexpectedness and pain of her attack, he let out a yelp. The next
instant the big gray wolf was at him.
Again caught unexpectedly, Baree went down with the wolf’s fangs at his
throat. But in him was the blood of Kazan, the flesh and bone and sinew
of Kazan, and for the first time in his life he fought as Kazan fought
on that terrible day at the top of the Sun Rock. He was young; he had
yet to learn the cleverness and the strategy of the veteran; but his
jaws were like the iron clamps with which Pierrot set his bear traps,
and in his heart was sudden and blinding rage, a desire to kill that
rose above all sense of pain or fear.
That fight, if it had been fair, would have been a victory for Baree,
even in his youth and inexperience. In fairness the pack should have
waited; it was a law of the pack to wait—until one was done for. But
Baree was black; he was a stranger, an interloper, a creature whom they
noticed now in a moment when their blood was hot with the rage and
disappointment of killers who had missed their prey. A second wolf
sprang in, striking Baree treacherously from the flank; and while he was
in the snow, his jaws crushing the fore-leg of his first foe, the pack
was on him _en masse_.
Such an attack on the young caribou bull would have meant death in less
than a minute. Every fang would have found its hold. Baree, by the
fortunate circumstance that he was under his first two assailants and
protected by their bodies, was saved from being torn instantly into
pieces. He knew that he was fighting for his life. Over him the horde of
beasts rolled and twisted and snarled; he felt the burning pain of teeth
sinking into his flesh; he was smothered; a hundred knives seemed
cutting him into pieces; yet no sound—not a whimper or a cry—came from
him now in the horror and hopelessness of it all.
It would have ended in another half-minute had the struggle not been at
the very edge of the bank. Undermined by the erosion of the spring
floods, a section of this bank suddenly gave way, and with it went Baree
and half the pack. In a flash Baree thought of the water and the
escaping caribou. For a bare instant the cave-in had sent him free of
the pack, and in that space he gave a single leap over the gray backs of
his enemies into the deep water of the stream. Close behind him half a
dozen jaws snapped shut on empty air. As it had saved the caribou, so
this strip of water shimmering in the glow of the moon and stars had
saved Baree.
The stream was not more than a hundred feet in width, but it cost Baree
close to a losing struggle to get across it. Until he dragged himself
out on the opposite shore, the extent of his injuries was not impressed
upon him fully. One hind leg, for the time, was useless; his forward
left shoulder was laid open to the bone; his head and body were torn and
cut; and as he dragged himself slowly away from the stream, the trail he
left in the snow was a red path of blood. It trickled from his panting
jaws, between which his tongue was bleeding; it ran down his legs and
flanks and belly, and it dripped from his ears, one of which was slit
clean for two inches as though cut with a knife. His instincts were
dazed, his perception of things clouded as if by a veil drawn close over
his eyes. He did not hear, a few minutes later, the howling of the
disappointed wolf-horde on the other side of the river, and he no longer
sensed the existence of moon or stars. Half dead, he dragged himself on
until by chance he came to a clump of dwarf spruce. Into this he
struggled, and then he dropped exhausted.
All that night and until noon the next day Baree lay without moving. The
fever burned in his blood; it flamed high and swift toward death; then
it ebbed slowly, and life conquered. At noon he came forth. He was weak,
and he wobbled on his legs. His hind leg still dragged, and he was
racked with pain. But it was a splendid day. The sun was warm; the snow
was thawing; the sky was like a great blue sea; and the floods of life
coursed warmly again through Baree’s veins. But now, for all time, his
desires were changed, and his great quest at an end.
A red ferocity grew in Baree’s eyes as he snarled in the direction of
last night’s fight with the wolves. They were no longer his people. They
were no longer of his blood. Never again could the hunt-call lure him or
the voice of the pack rouse the old longing. In him there was a thing
new-born, an undying hatred for the wolf, a hatred that was to grow in
him until it became like a disease in his vitals, a thing ever present
and insistent, demanding vengeance on their kind. Last night he had gone
to them a comrade. To-day he was an outcast. Cut and maimed, bearing
with him scars for all time, he had learned his lesson of the
wilderness. To-morrow, and the next day, and for days after that without
number, he would remember the lesson well.