FIGHTING A WOLF
The storm had not abated, but so well had the hunters built their camp
that the snow and the cold had even improved it; for the snow had
drifted in around the bottom of the tepee making the shelter much
warmer than it would have been without the snow. Some of the snow had
partly melted on the spruce thatch, but with the falling temperature it
had frozen and thus made the thatch of boughs almost as tight as a roof
of shingles; of course some of the fine snow had drifted in, but that
had been expected, and the lads scraped it together and threw it out.
The outside of their cover blanket was a little damp from snow that had
sifted in and melted, and the lads hung up the blankets so that the
reflection from the fire and the warm rock would dry them.
There was now plenty of time for everything at this camp. Cutting wood,
fetching water, cooking, and eating were all the campers had to do
besides sleeping and talking. For two days the storm continued and it
grew so cold that Bruce spent two hours a day cutting wood for the
fire. As long as the fire was kept burning, the camp was very
comfortable, but naturally when the fire went out, the camp grew
chilly; however, the lads had a feeling that they had miraculously
escaped freezing to death, and minor discomforts did not annoy them.
On the third morning, the weather had cleared, although it was now
colder than ever.
“We must start for our lake camp to-day,” Ganawa said, after he had
taken a look at the weather. “We must each take some meat with us, but
we cannot carry much, because it will be hard travelling.”
Travelling was much harder than the lads had anticipated. Their
snowshoes were, as Ganawa had said, not of the best, and the going was
very tiring, because a crust had begun forming over the surface of the
snow, but it would not yet support the weight of a man.
They struck straight out for their camp, which was not more than twelve
miles southwest of them, but it took them all day to complete the trip,
and Ray was so tired that he claimed he could not have walked another
mile. They found their home camp not at all inviting, and the five days
they had been away seemed like a long time. Much snow had blown into
both the tepee and the bark-house; however, after they had cleared out
the snow, built a fire in the tepee and saw the smoke come curling out
of the top, the camp looked like home again.
There was only one thing that disturbed the boys, and Ganawa did not
seem to like it, either. On the trip from the hunting camp they had not
seen a track or sign of a living thing except a few woodpeckers; but
near their home camp they saw many fresh wolf tracks, and one of the
beasts had boldly walked up to the bark-house.
“The mahungeens are hungry and they smelled our meat in the
bark-house,” Ganawa told the boys. “If we had much powder and lead we
should kill some of them, so they do not get too bold.”
The three hunters were now snowed in for the winter. “We have denned up
like the bears,” Bruce told Ray, “and now is your chance to make up
rest and sleep.”
However, the campers were not idle. Wood had to be cut and carried in,
two meals had to be cooked and eaten, and moccasins, clothing, and
blankets needed attention. There was very little dishwashing, because
the hunters had no dishes outside of a kettle, a frying-pan, and three
tin cups. The lads tried fishing, but they had no luck.
All the campers made three snowshoe trips after the moose meat. On
these occasions they always spent a night at the storm camp, which made
a pleasant break in the monotony of their winter life, and robbed the
trip of all hardship.
On these trips they saw grouse, rabbits, and squirrels, but no big
game. The moose had left the country. On the last trip, several wolves
followed them almost to the home camp. “We ought to shoot them,” Ganawa
said again, “if we had more powder and lead. Hunger is making them
bold.”
“How often does a wolf eat?” asked Ray.
“My son, a wolf does not eat often in winter, when game is scarce,
because on many days he cannot catch game. If he can make ten good
meals or twelve all winter, he will not starve, but he will be thin.
The wolves are hungry. We have seen no tracks of moose or caribou.
There are not very many rabbits in the country, and wahboos and his
tribe are wise. They know enough to live in the thick brush of swamps,
where it is difficult for mahungeen to catch them.”
A few days later Bruce had an experience with a wolf which made him
sorely regret that he had not heeded Ganawa’s warning never to go away
by himself without taking his gun along.
Near the spruce swamp, which they passed on their way to the hunting
camp, Bruce had seen a number of grouse. The three hunters had really
lost all count of the days, but after they had moved into their winter
camp they decided to keep one day a week as Sunday. So one Saturday
afternoon Bruce started with a bow and some blunt arrows to get a few
grouse for their Sunday dinner, for all felt that they would be a
welcome treat.
About a mile from camp he saw a lone wolf come out on the trail. The
beast had heard and smelled Bruce and now he came slowly forward, his
teeth flashing and his shaggy hair bristling on his back and shoulder.
The brute looked lean and hungry, and Bruce felt his own hair rise on
his head. He had never seen a wolf act so bold as this one, and he
reached instinctively for his hunting-knife, and found to his horror
that he had forgotten to put it back in the sheath after he had cut
some birch brush for a new broom.
To shoot blunt wooden arrows at the wolf would have been useless, to
turn and run for home would mean sure death if the hungry beast
followed and attacked him. There was only one thing to do. Fight for
his life barehanded. Bruce had done considerable boxing with the boys
in Vermont, and now he squared himself for the attack.
The wolf made a high leap for the man’s throat, but with the skill of a
trained fighter, the man thrust the open jaw upward with his left arm
and delivered a heavy blow on the chest of the beast with his right.
The blow threw the wolf back but his heavy fur and loose skin protected
him from being knocked out. A second time the grim, hungry beast sprang
to the attack and again the man parried the open jaw and drove home a
blow with his right. This time with so much force that the ugly gray
beast reeled and fell on his back. But he was not stunned, and before
the man realized that he might have fallen upon the prostrate brute,
the wolf was up again and was coming to repeat his attack.
However, there had been just enough of a pause to enable the man to
form a plan, and when the wolf sprang at him for the third time, he did
not merely ward off the gaping jaw, and he did not try to deliver
another blow. His mind had hit upon a plan of closing with the fierce
hairy monster. He shot out his right hand, seized a firm hold on the
skin just behind the wolf’s left jaw, and brought his full weight down
on the beast as he fell on top of him in the snow. The man let out a
wild yell as for a second he felt the wolf limp under his weight. But
he had rejoiced too soon. A wild animal, when cornered, never stops
fighting until he is dead or completely overpowered and made helpless.
The wolf was fighting again. True, his formidable vise-like jaws he
could not use and the man had clenched his powerful hands around the
wolf’s throat. It was a battle to the death, with neither wolf nor man
as yet the victor. The claws of the wolf are dull tools as compared
with the sharp steel-like claws of the panther, but driven by hard,
powerful muscles they are no mean weapons. Had not the man been
protected by tough buckskin clothing, his skin would have been
lacerated and he might have bled to death, holding his savage victim.
The man was winning now. The struggles of the gray beast grew less and
less violent, then they became like cramps and spasms, and then the
long gray body lay still.
The man was sweating and bleeding; he still clenched the throat of the
wolf as if unconscious of the fact that the animal no longer moved. And
then he heard a long-drawn-out howl, the hunting call of the wolf pack.
That brought him to. He sprang to his feet. He snatched off a young
poplar, brittle with frost, and with it he crushed the skull of the
beast, for he was still mad with the fear and rage of the battle.
Then he seized the dead beast by the forelegs, flung it over his
shoulder and ran for camp. The joy of victory seemed to give him
unlimited strength. Half-way down to camp, he heard again the call of
the pack. They were nearer now. He turned back and shouted, “Stay back,
you dirty brutes!” and ran on.
He reached the camp when it was almost dark. “Father, I killed a wolf,
I killed him,” he called as he staggered into the tepee. “He is right
out there! I killed him, but he pretty near got me.” And then he fell
into a dead faint like a runner who has used up his last bit of energy
in winning a race.