THE SWIMMING OF KIOPO
When Kiopo had leaped upon the Indian, and had fallen with him over the
precipice edge, he had, like his foe, crashed down to almost certain
death. The Indian, indeed, had been killed instantly, with a broken
neck; but the wolf, instead of falling straight upon the boulders at the
bottom of the gorge, had turned a somersault in mid-air, and had landed
in a thick clump of junipers growing on a slope some thirty feet above
the creek bed.
Probably it was the passionate instinct of self-preservation, when all
hope seemed gone, which had made him give his body that violent
contortion. Apart from that, he owed his life to a miracle which must
always remain a mystery unexplained.
In spite of the break in his fall, he lay half-stunned among the bushes
for some time. And when at length his senses came to him again, he felt
sore in every limb.
There is an unfailing law among the wild peoples that, when an
individual is injured, it creeps into the most secret place it can find,
and there rests till it recovers sufficiently to face the world. Kiopo
had no need to look for a place more secret than the one he had fallen
into, so he stayed where he was, and let nature do the rest. For fully
two days, he remained in hiding. On the third, he crawled out into the
open; on the fourth, was sufficiently recovered to make a kill in the
shape of a fat buck rabbit; and, on the evening of the fifth, made his
way back to camp.
Instantly he returned, he knew that something was wrong. He ran
anxiously this way and that, scenting and looking. Eyes and nose told
him the same story. Dusty Star had gone, and he had not gone alone.
Kiopo soon found the trail, and immediately started off. The scent was
getting a little stale, but, faint though it was, it was sufficient for
the wolf's unerring nose. It was the well known Indian smell that he had
learned to distrust, and as he ran, his hackles rose. He ran on swiftly,
growing angrier as he ran, and eating up the distance with his long,
loping stride. Here the scent was a little fainter, there a little
stronger; but always the trail kept going on in the same direction to
the south. Kiopo knew that he was getting beyond his usual range. He had
never penetrated so far into the southern forest country before. He was
uneasy, as well as angry. There was a bad smell in the trail. It meant
mischief. And mischief towards his beloved little brother was the thing
in all the world which Kiopo would not stand.
Under the solemn shadow of the trees the great wolf sped on soundless
pads that carried his body like a phantom through the silence of the
woods. Now and then he would come to a cross trail, where some other
animal had lately passed, or the trail itself would be obscured. But
Kiopo had far too serious a business on hand to waste time upon the
cross trails, and when the double trail divided, he followed the
fainter, and the human one, as before. Of other hunters who, like
himself, were abroad in the woods, he saw little, for his eyes rarely
wandered from the ground under his nose. And those of the
forest-dwellers who caught sight of the great grey shape that went
floating through the trees, gave it a wide berth, with that curious
forest etiquette which is deeper than politeness, and is close in touch
with death.
When he emerged from the forest into the open country, Kiopo paused to
reconnoitre. His eyes became of the utmost importance now, because the
world was widening. In the forest you could only see where the trees
permitted, but now its place was taken by long grassy swells that
rippled under the wind. Into it, Kiopo swung his nose. It came in a
series of soft surges from the south. Many faint odours were travelling
down it now; scents that were the body of the wilderness lifted into the
air. They were subtly mixed, it would take the very finest nose to
disentangle them. With his eyes narrowed, and his head raised, Kiopo
searched the wind. His sensitive nostrils gave little quivers and rapid
twists that were like a play of fingers that dabbled delicately in the
air. The scents that came were chiefly those of the growing things,
grass, flowers and trees. But running through them, in fine streams of
odours, there were other scents that were like the flowing souls of
birds and beasts, spilt, in spite of themselves, into the wandering
world.
Was some tiny drop of Dusty Star's body-scent mixed among them--sending
out its wordless message through the enormous space? For all the keen
searching of Kiopo's nostrils, the drop, if it were there, escaped them.
But if the trails of the air were lost in the wilderness of the wind,
the trails of the earth remained, and still the one he had hitherto
followed went plainly through the grass. Once again Kiopo took it up,
following it steadily till at length he came to the spot where the
Indians had taken to the canoe. In the marshy ground under the willows,
he lost it completely. It was as if it was sucked into the marsh. In
vain he searched the whole neighbourhood, and ran backwards and forwards
in a desperate effort to find some vestige of the broken trail, always
returning with the same result to the roots of the willows among the
black ooze.
Now Kiopo's faultless wood-craft taught him, without the slightest
uncertainty, that there had been no back trail. If, therefore, the trail
ended at the water, those who had made it must have gone _through_ the
water. There was no other way. Once he had made up his mind, Kiopo did
not hesitate. He plunged into the lake.
When once in the water, Kiopo, like all wolves, was a powerful swimmer;
but he had never before had any experience of such an immense expanse of
it. The further he went out, the wider it seemed to become. He swam on
and on. As he swam, the shores receded further and further on either
side. He found himself out in that whispering vastness, alone in a world
of waters, with no sign of any human being, nor the faintest trace of a
trail. After a while, he grew disheartened. The great water gave him a
sense of loneliness and fear which he had never felt before. In the dark
silences of the woods, you could smell the good smells of the travelling
folk, hunting or being hunted, which you could not even see. But here
there was no hunting, nor good smells; only a wet, uneasy movement, and
a watery smell which his growing fear made hateful to his nose. And the
sound of its wetness beat unceasingly on his ears like a din of
unintelligible voices bewildering his brain. The only living things that
he could see were two fish-hawks sailing overhead. In their annoyance at
his appearance, they gave piercing cries of disapproval; for they knew
well that no fish was likely to come to the surface while this great
hulk of wolfishness went churning up the water in that unwieldy way. And
if they had only dared, they would have swooped down to strike at him
savagely with the terrible talons which made their feet such formidable
weapons.
At last Kiopo grew tired of battling against that vast wetness, with its
loneliness, and voices that rang against his head; and so he turned and
swam straight towards the shore.
The distance was much further than he expected. He found himself
swimming more and more slowly. In spite of all his efforts the shore
seemed still very far away, while always that great weight of water
seemed to push itself continually in between him and the trees, as if it
were a living thing which had determined that he should never land. His
strength and power of endurance were enormous, even after they had been
weakened by his recent injuries; yet for the most powerful wild creature
there is a limit to its strength. And now Kiopo knew that his capacity
was being taxed to the utmost. Gradually, but surely, his great strength
was ebbing. But he also knew that, unless he could reach the shore
before his force gave out, all hope of once more joining the little
brother would be for ever lost. His strong fore paws worked valiantly,
beating down the water which seemed rising and rising in spite of all
his efforts. The trees were nearer now. He could see that, even though
his eyes were dimmed by the splashing of the ripples. And yet they
seemed so terribly far away for the effort he knew he must put forth, if
he were to reach them before his strength was done. He swam more and
more slowly, his breath coming in short gasping sobs that quivered
through him from head to tail. The fish-hawks, circling above him, came
sloping down, with triumph in their shining eyes. They needed no
explanation of the tragedy that was taking place beneath them. They knew
that the hated intruder was slowly but surely being dragged down to a
watery death, and their wild hawk-hearts approved.
Slowly, and still more slowly! Kiopo felt now as if the heavy wetness of
the water had developed long tentacles that seized him and sucked him
down. His head was becoming too heavy to hold above the water. There
were moments of terror when it swirled about his nose, and when the
fish-hawks, screaming with excitement, would hover, as if about to
swoop. And then, once again, the big head would force itself up and,
choking, spluttering, gasping, the struggle would continue.
When at length, Kiopo, beating his last desperate strokes, felt his feet
touch ground, he could scarcely stand. Fortunately for him, a sandy spit
of land at this very point thrust itself out for some distance into the
lake. The sensation of ground under his feet gave him courage. With a
last supreme effort, he dragged himself above the water-line, and sank
exhausted on the sand.
If any watchful enemy had attacked him now, the big wolf would have
offered an all but resistless prey. Even the fish-hawks, in their
exultation might have safely swooped upon him and threatened his eyes;
but now that the detested intruder had shown sufficient strength to drag
himself out of the lake, they became more wary, and as they knew that a
wolf ashore was a far more formidable foe than a wolf afloat, they
thought better of their rashness, and once more climbed up the steep
afternoon to sit again in the wind.
Other eyes besides the fish-hawks' noted the dark shape that lay on the
sand-spit, motionless as a log. Log-like though it appeared, there was
something about its dusky bulk that, to their wary gaze, looked
remarkably like a wolf asleep, or possibly even dead. But even a dead
wolf is not beloved by the wilderness folk; and a buck who had pushed
his way warily through the willow shoots to drink, when he saw the
sinister form on the sand-spit, stopped, threw up his head suspiciously,
and blew his breath angrily from his nostrils. The wolf never stirred.
The buck looked longingly at the water, looked again at the shape on the
sand-spit, drew back softly into the shelter of the willows, and went to
quench his thirst elsewhere.
The buck had scarcely disappeared, when a fox, also thirsty, came down
the trail, placing his slender feet delicately one after the other so as
not to disturb the slumber of the afternoon. When he caught sight of the
sand-spit, he stopped instantly, and wrinkled his nose to feel the wind.
As the wind did not help him, he advanced a few steps further with
extreme caution, ready at the slightest warning to leap back upon his
trail. He observed that the great body was stretched out flat as if
lifeless; the head resting between the paws. But there is flatness _and_
flatness. The fox noted with disapproval that this particular flatness
_breathed_! Drawing back his lips, he disclosed his teeth in a low snarl
of hatred against the hereditary foe of his tribe. Then he doubled his
flexible body till his nose nearly touched his brush, and slunk back
into the woods.
Totally unconscious of all these happenings, Kiopo took his rest. The
forest-folk might come and go as they pleased. Hour after hour he slept
that heavy sleep of sheer exhaustion through which no messages pass from
the outer world. The sun blazed down upon the sand-spit, drying his
coat; and sleep, that marvellous medicine to which all the wild things
turn, brought his strength slowly back to him in the waning afternoon.