THE PACK AND ITS MASTERS
When Finn took up his abode in the den of his mate, Warrigal, he
entered what was to him an entirely new world, and this new world
was in fact one of the most interesting corners of the wild in all
Australia. For example--
When Finn and Warrigal tired of their play on the flat ledge
outside their den, the moon had set, and in the eastern sky there
was visible the first grey hint of coming dawn. In that strange,
ghostly light, which gave a certain cloak of mystery even to such
common objects as tree-stumps and boulders of rock, Finn saw two
unfamiliar figures emerge from the scrub below the spur next that
of Warrigal's den, and begin slowly to climb toward Mount
Desolation itself. There was a deep, steep-sided gully between Finn
and these strange figures, but even at that distance the Wolfhound
was conscious of a strong sense of hostility toward the creatures
he watched. Their scent had not reached him, because the spur they
climbed was to leeward, yet his hackles rose as he gazed at the
ghostly figures, whose shapes loomed huge and threatening against
the violet-grey sky-line. The Wolfhound and his mate were just
about to enter their den, and Finn touched Warrigal with his
muzzle, "pointing" meaningly at the strangers. Warrigal looked, and
though her shoulder hairs did not rise at all, her lips curled
backward a little from white fangs as she indicated that these
figures were perfectly well known to her.
The foremost of them was of great length and bulk, low to the
ground, and a savage in every line of his massive frame. His tail,
carried without any curve in it, was smooth and tapering, like a
rat's tail; his chest was of immense depth, and his truncated
muzzle was carried high, jaws slightly parted, long, yellow tusks
exposed. In general outline he was not unlike a hyaena, but with
more of strength and fleetness in his general make-up, more,
perhaps, of the suggestion of a great wolf, with an unusually
savage-looking head, and an abnormally massive shoulder. From spine
to flank, on either side, the strange creature was striped like a
zebra, the ground colour of his coat being a light yellowish grey
and the stripes black.
This was old Tasman, the Zebra Wolf, who had been turned loose in
that countryside six years before with a mate of his species, who
had died during the first year of their life in the Tinnaburra.
Behind Tasman, burdened with the weight of a fat wallaby which he
dragged over one shoulder, marched Lupus, his son, now almost four
years old and the acknowledged master of Mount Desolation. Lupus
had none of his sire's stripes, and his tail, though not so bushy
as a dingo's, was well covered with hair. He was longer in the
muzzle and more shapely in the loin than his father. Lupus, in
fact, was a half-bred dingo, differing from other dingoes of the
Mount Desolation pack only inasmuch as that he was greater than the
rest, more massive in trunk and shoulder, more terrible in tooth
and claw. His feet were weapons almost as deadly as a bear's feet,
by which I mean the feet of the northern and western bear, and not
those of inoffensive Koala. His loins and thighs were those of a
fleet runner, and his fore-part, in every hair of it, was that of a
killer. Tasman was feared on that range rather as a tradition than
as a killer; Lupus was feared and obeyed as an actual, living
ruler.
It was many months since Warrigal had seen the old wolf Tasman, but
Lupus was abroad every night of his life. Also, his eyes, unlike
those of his terrible old sire, could face the daylight. All the
wild folk knew that Tasman was like an owl by day; light actually
hurt him. Lupus was not fond of the light, but he could endure well
enough, and kill by it if need be, as was well known. He still
shared with his savage old sire the den in which he had been born,
deep in the heart of Mount Desolation, and it was stated among the
wild folk that he had killed his own mother towards the end of his
first year of life, and that he and Tasman had devoured her body
during a season of drought and poor hunting. Be that as it may, her
blood had given Lupus his rating in the Mount Desolation country as
a dingo, and his own prowess and ferocity had given him his
unquestioned rank as leader and master of the pack. He had never
openly preyed upon the pack, but he had killed a round half-dozen
of its members who dared to thwart him at different times, and the
manner of their killing had been such as to form material for
ghastly anecdotes with which the mothers of that range frightened
their offspring into good and careful behaviour. It was supposed
that Tasman did not hunt now, and that Lupus hunted for him, but
venturesome creatures of the wild, who had dared to climb the upper
slopes of Mount Desolation, claimed to have seen Tasman foraging
there after insects and grubs; and as for Lupus, his hunting was
sufficiently well known to all on the lower ground. And, in the
meantime, though Tasman was credited with very great age, there was
no creature in that countryside who would have dared to face the
old wolf alone.
It was not very much of all this that Warrigal managed to convey to
her mate, as they stared out through the grey mist at these strange
creatures, but Finn was profoundly and resentfully impressed by
what he did gather from her. The shuddering way in which she
wriggled her shoulders and shook her bushy coat before turning into
the den for rest after their long play in the moonlight, told Finn
a good deal, and it was information which he never forgot. It did
not seem fitting to the great Wolfhound that his brave, lissom mate
should be moved to precisely that shuddering kind of shoulder
movement by the sight of any living thing, and, now, before
following her into the den, he stepped well forward to the edge of
the flat rock and barked fierce defiance in the direction of old
Tasman and his redoubtable son. Lupus dropped his burden in sheer
amazement, and father and son both faced round in Finn's direction,
and glared at him across the intervening ravine. It was a fine
picture they saw through the ghostly, misty grey half-light, which
already was getting too strong for Tasman's eyes, over which the
nictitating membrane was being drawn nervously to and fro as a mark
of irritation.
[Illustration: Finn was standing royally erect.]
Finn was standing, royally erect, at the extreme edge of his flat
table of rock, from which the side of the gully sloped
precipitately. His tail curved grandly out behind him, carried
high, like his massive head. That head was more than fourteen
inches long, and when, as now, its jaws were parted to the
expression of anger and defiance, and all its wealth of brows and
beard were bristling, like the hair of the grandly curving neck
behind it, and of the massive shoulders, thirty-six inches above
the ground, which supported that neck, the sight of it was
awe-inspiring, and a far more formidable picture than any dingo in
the world could possibly present. Tasman and Lupus glared at this
picture for fully two minutes, while themselves emitting a
continuous snarling growl of singular, concentrated intensity and
ferocity. This savage snarl was not the least among their weapons
of offence and defence. Its ferocity was very cowing in effect, and
had before now gone more than half-way towards deciding a combat.
It introduced something not unlike paralysis into the muscles and
limbs of the lesser creatures of the bush when they heard it; in
hunting, it might almost be said to have played the part of a first
blow, and a deadly one at that. On this occasion, it merely served
to add wrath, and fierceness, and volume to the roar of Finn's deep
bay.
As the light in the east strengthened, old Tasman's eyes blinked
furiously, and his snarl died down to a savagely irritable grunt,
as he turned again to the mountain. Lupus bent his head, still
snarling, to pick up his heavy kill, and together the two trailed
off up the mountain side to their den, full of angry bitterness.
They had not eaten since the small hours of the previous day, and
both were anxious to reach the twilit shelter of their stony
mountain den, where they would feed before sleeping, among the
whitened mouldering bones that told of six long years of hunting
and lordship, bones which probably included those of Lupus's own
dam. No creature of that range other than themselves had ever seen
the inside of this den and lived. No man had ever set his foot
there, for the climbing of Mount Desolation was a thankless task
for all save such as Tasman and Lupus, who liked its naked
ruggedness and its commanding inaccessibility, high above the
loftiest of the caves inhabited by other wild folk of the
countryside.
Barking fiercely at intervals, Finn watched the savage lords of
Mount Desolation ascending, till their forms were lost among the
crevices and boulders of the hillside, and then, with a final,
far-reaching roar, he turned and entered the den, where Warrigal
sat waiting for him, and softly growling a response to his war-cries.
This defiance of the admitted lords of the range was not altogether
without its ground of alarm for Warrigal; its utter recklessness
made the skin over her shoulders twitch, but it was something to
have a mate who could dare so much, even in ignorance. Long after
Finn had closed his eyes in sleep, Warrigal lay watching him, with
a queer light of pride and admiring devotion in her wild yellow
eyes.
The afternoon was well advanced when Finn and Warrigal finally
sallied forth from their den in quest of food, though in between
short sleeps they had lounged about in the vicinity of the den
several times during the morning, and Finn had accustomed himself
to the bearings of his new home, and taken in the general lie of
the land thereabouts. Now, before they crossed the patch of
starveling bush which skirted the foot of their particular ridge,
they were approached by Black-tip and two friends of his, who were
also preparing for the evening hunt. Warrigal growled warningly as
the three dingoes approached, but it seemed that Black-tip had
spread abroad news of the coming of the Wolfhound in such a manner
as to disarm hostility. It was with the most exaggerated
respectfulness that the dingoes circled, sniffing, about Finn's
legs, their bushy tails carried deferentially near the ground.
Seeing the friendliness of their intentions, Finn wagged his tail
at them, whereat they all leaped from him in sudden alarm as though
he had snapped. Finn's jaws parted in amusement, and his great tail
continued to wag, while he gave friendly greeting through his
nostrils, and made it quite clear that he entertained no hostile
feeling towards his mate's kindred.
After this the dingoes took heart of grace, and there was a general
all-round sniffing which occupied fully ten minutes. Finn stood
quite still, his magnificent body erect and stretched to its full
length. Occasionally he lowered his head condescendingly to take a
sniff at one or other of the dingoes, who were employed in gravely
circling about him, as though to familiarize themselves with every
aspect of his anatomy, with eyes and noses all busy. During this
time Warrigal sat a little to one side, her face wearing an
elaborately assumed expression of aloofness, of lofty unconsciousness,
and of some disdain. Finally, the whole five of them trotted off into the
bush, and then it was noticeable that Warrigal clung closely to Finn's
near side. If any small accident of the trail caused a change in the
position of the dingoes, Finn instantly dropped back a pace or two, and a
quick look from him was sufficient to send the straying dingo back to his
place on the Wolfhound's off side. There was no talk about it; but from
the beginning it was clearly understood, first, that Finn was absolutely
master there, and, secondly, that place on his near side was strictly
reserved for his mate, and for his mate only; that no creature might
approach her except through him. The manner in which Finn's will in this
matter was recognized and respected was very striking indeed; it meant
much, for, from the point of view of the three dingoes, Warrigal appeared
at that time in the light of an exceedingly desirable mate, and one for
whose favour the three of them would assuredly have fought to the last
gasp that night but for the dominating presence of the great Wolfhound.
Finn appeared to lead the hunting party, but its real leader that
evening was Warrigal, who had taken note on the previous day of the
exact whereabouts of a big mother kangaroo. She now desired two
things: a good supper and an opportunity of displaying before the
three dingoes the fighting prowess of her lord. Black-tip had had
his lesson, as various open wounds on his body then testified, but
it was as well that his friends should see something of Finn's
might for themselves, apart from the information they had clearly
received. That was how Warrigal thought of it, and she knew a good
deal about mother kangaroos as well as dingoes. She knew, for
instance, that they were more feared by dingoes than the "old men"
of their species, and that, even with the assistance of his two
friends and herself, Black-tip would not have thought of attacking
such prey while there were lesser creatures in plenty to be hunted.
In due course Warrigal winded the mother kangaroo, and conveyed
instant warning to Finn and the others by a sudden checking of her
pace. Silent as wraiths between the shadowy tree-trunks then, Finn
and the four dingoes stalked their prey, describing a considerable
circle in order to approach from good cover. To Warrigal's keen
disappointment, they found as they topped a little scrub-covered
ridge that the mother kangaroo was feeding with a mob of seven,
under the guidance of a big, red old-man. Then she conceived the
bold plan of "cutting out" the mother kangaroo from the mob, and
trusting to Finn to pull her down. This plan she conveyed to her
fellow-hunters by means of that telepathic method of communication
which is as yet little comprehended by men-folk. One quick look and
thrust of her muzzle asked Finn to play his independent part, and
another, flung with apparent carelessness across her right
shoulder, bade the three dingoes follow her in the work of cutting
out.
It was a careful, silent stalk until the hunters were within ten
yards of the quarry, and then with a terrifying yowl of triumph, a
living rope of dingoes--four of them, nose to tail--was flung
between the big mother kangaroo and the rest of the mob. The red
old-man gave one panic-smitten look round his flock, and then they
were off like the wind, in big twenty-foot bounds. But the mother
could not bring herself to leap in their direction by reason of the
yowling streak of snapping dingoes which had flung itself between
them. She sprang off at a tangent and, as she made her seventh or
eighth bound, terror filled her heart almost to bursting, as a
roaring grey cloud swept upon her from her right quarter, and she
felt the burning thrust of Finn's fangs in her neck. She sat up
valiantly to fight for her life and the young life in her pouch,
and her left hind-leg, with its chisel claws, sawed the air like a
pump-handle. The dingoes knew that it would be death, for one or
two of them, at all events, to face those out-thrust chisels. They
surrounded the big beast in a snarling, yowling circle, and gnashed
their white fangs together with a view to establishing the
paralysis of terror. But they did not advance as yet. Finn slipped
once, when he tried to take fresh hold, and in that instant the
kangaroo slashed him deeply in the groin. But the wound was her own
death warrant, for it filled the Wolfhound with fighting rage, and
in another instant there was a broken neck between his mighty jaws
and warm blood was running over the red-brown fur of the kangaroo,
as her body fell sideways, with Finn upon it.
The three other dingoes approached the kill with Warrigal, but she
snarled at them, and a swift turn of Finn's head told them to
beware. In the end Warrigal settled down to make a meal at one side
of the kangaroo's hind-quarters, Finn took the other side, and the
three dingoes were given their will of the fore part. There was
more than enough for all, and though, when they left the kill to
the lesser carnivora of that quarter, Finn carried a good meal with
him between his jaws, it was not that he needed it for himself, but
that he wished to place it in the den at Warrigal's disposal; a
little attention which earned for him various marks of his mate's
cordial approval. She was extremely pleased to have this evidence
of Finn's forethoughtfulness as a bread-winner. Instinct told her
the value and importance of this quality in a mate. And while she
carefully dressed the wound in her lord's groin that night,
Black-tip and his friends, with much chop-licking, spread abroad the
story of their glorious hunting and of Finn's might as a killer.
They vowed that a more terrible fighter and a greater master than
Lupus, or than his even more terrible sire, whom few of them had
seen, had come to Mount Desolation, and old dingoes shook their
grey heads, feeling that they lived in strange and troublous times.
But as for Lupus, he was ranging the trails at that moment on an
empty stomach in savage quest of no other than this same stranger
who had dared to defy him, and challenge his hitherto unquestioned
mastery over the dingoes and lesser wild folk of that range.
[Illustration]