 CHAPTER I. THE WOLF'S THE WOLF CHILD It was the old she-wolf Nidka that came running lightly along the dusk. Though she had a great and powerful body, with a weight heavy enough to bear down a grown man, her feet made no sound as they came padding through the trees. She had been a long way, traveling for a kill, because at home the wolf babies were very hungry, and gave her no peace. They were not well-behaved babies at all. Whatever mischief there was in the world seemed to be packed tight into their little furry bodies. They played and fought, and worried each other till they grew hungry again, and then fell upon their mother like the little ravening monsters that they were. But Nidka bore it all patiently, as a kind old mother should, and only gave them a smack occasionally, when their behavior was beyond everything for naughtiness. Now, as she came running through the trees, she drank in the air thirstily through her long nose. For it was her nose that brought her news of the forest, telling her what creatures were abroad, and whether there was a chance of a kill. This evening the air was full of smells, and heavy with the heat of the long summer day, but many of them were wood smells, tree smells, green smells, not the scent of the warm fur and the warm flesh and the good blood that ran in the warm bodies, and made them spill the secret of themselves along the air. And it was this warm, red, running smell for which Nidka was so thirsty, and of which there was so little spilled upon the creeping dusk. Yet now and then a delicate whiff off it would come, and Nidka would sniff harder, swinging her head into the wind. And sometimes it grew stronger and sometimes weaker, and sometimes would cease altogether, swallowed up in the scent of the things that were green. And then, all of a sudden, the smell came thick and strong, flowing like a stream along the drift of the air. In the wild your scent is yourself, what you smell like, what you are, and so accordingly as the wind blows, you spill yourself, either backwards or forwards on the currents of the air. Nidka increased her space, and as she run the smell grew sweeter and stronger, and made her mad for the kill. It was not long before her sharp eyes gave her sight of a deer feeding in an open glade. Nidka stooped her long body to the earth, and began to stalk her prey. All about her the forest seemed to hold back its breath. There was no noise which Nidka made which betrayed her presence. She herself came stooping near like a shadow on four feet. And it was upwind that she came. She spilled herself upon the air backwards, not forwards to the deer. Yet something there was which seemed to give it warning beyond sound, or sight, or smell. It stopped feeding, and lifted its head. For a moment or two it stood as still as an image carved in stone. Yet, as Nidka knew well, it was the stillness of warm flesh that paused before it fled. She gathered her legs under her for the deadly spring. The deer turned its head quickly, and saw a long gray shadow launch itself through the dusk. It was the last leaping shadow the deer would ever see. For the law of the forest is a stern and unpitying one, the law of hunger and the law of desire. When Nidka had finished her kill, and satisfied her hunger, she thought of the babies at home. They were too small yet for fresh food, so there was no use in carrying any back to them. Nevertheless they would be wanting their supper badly, and she must go and give it to them if she would have any quiet in her mind. So she trotted through the forest, having first buried some pieces of the deer where she would know where to find them. The cave in which her cubs were waiting was far away, for she traveled many miles. But her instinct told her how to find it easily again, and she made a straight line for it, loping along towards the hills. She was going down wind now, and did not catch a scent of the things in front. But as she had had her kill it did not matter. There was one thought in her old wise head, and that thought was home. But before she reached it she lit upon a strange thing. It lay right in her path. A small brown bundle that now and then set up within whale. Nitka observed it carefully, then ran round to the leeward of it to pick up its scent the better. With strange things she always did this. You never knew what a strange thing might do before your nose could give you warning. As she circled, she came upon another smell which she had smelled before, the scent of man, of which she was afraid. But it was a trail several hours old, and was growing a little stale. Nitka crept up to the peculiar bundle. She sniffed at it hard, then turned it over gently with her paw. As she did so it stirred a little and whimpered. The smell was the smell of man, but the whimper was that of a cub. Nitka distrusted the smell, but the whimper was good. She was not hungry now, but there were hungry babies at home. She must not delay any longer. She caught up the bundle by the loose skin that covered it and started off again. She had to go more slowly now because of the bundle, and when at last she reached the cave upon the mountainside the night had fallen. Dark though it was, the baby wolves were awake and ready for a famous meal. But in the odd bundle which the mother dropped inside the mouth of the den they were not interested enough to find out what it was. When they had had their supper they fell fast asleep, and when the rising moon cast a glimmer into the cave you might have seen an old mother wolf and a family of cubs all snuggled up together and very fast asleep. But in the morning when they woke up there was another cub, a cub whose clothes were not a fur, but of a strange covering which they would have called Indian Blanket if they had had any word for such a thing in their furry language. However they speedily took to worrying this odd blanket, and presently off it came and was found to be no skin at all, but only a loose cover that tore to pieces beautifully and made you cough when you tried to swallow it. Inside the baby had another skin that was of a reddish-brown and very soft. They began to worry that also, hoping it might come off too, but it stuck fast to what was beneath, as is the way with such skins, being specially prepared to stick, and the baby inside it began to squeal like mad. For some reason or other the baby did not bite back again. It just lay on its back and waved its fat arms and legs in the air. That hurt nobody, so the little wolves rolled it over and over, and tried to take pieces out of its arms and legs, and thought it was quite the biggest joke they had had in all their lives. Only the new baby did not have a sense of humor, and refused to enter into the fun. It only squealed louder and louder, and actually squeezed water out of its little eyes. Then all at once, without any warning whatever, nitka put a stop to the fun by cuffing her baby's right and left, and so the new baby did not have to cry alone, but was joined by all the little wolves, helping with fear and pain. So from that time onward they learned slowly that the new baby was not to be bitten just for fun, but was somehow or other a little-naked brother who had left his cult behind him in the outside world. If you had asked nitka why she had taken the baby's part, I don't believe she could have told you. All she knew was that there was a feeling inside her that this odd thing she had found in the forest was to be protected from harm. That was the early days of Little Shasta's life. He was so tiny that he soon grew used to the difference between living among the wolves and living among his own kind. And soon he forgot even the dim thing he had once remembered, and thought there was no life but the life of the cave, where always it was shadowy and cool, even in the hottest summer day. And he learned to play with the little wolves, his brothers, and wrestle and box with them, and go tumbling all over the cave floor with never a squeal. Only sometimes when the play seemed to grow too rough, and old nitka thought he was having a bad time of it, she would rescue him from his playmates and give everybody a general smacking all round. And then there would be peace for a little time. So that is how it came to pass that Shasta learnt the language of the wolves and of the other animals, and indeed for a time knew no other, and understood what they said and thought, and even felt, when there was no need of any words. And all this knowledge was of great use afterwards, and was the saving of his life, as you shall presently be told. THE COMING OF SHUMU Now the first great day in little Shasta's wolf life was the day when he left the cave for the first time, and came out into the open world. He didn't know why he was to go out, nor what going out really meant. All he knew was that suddenly there was a movement of all the cubs towards the place where the light came from, and that it seemed natural for him to follow the movement. When he crawled outside, the sunlit hit him smack in the face like a white-hot hand, and then, when he got over that, the world swam in upon his little brain in the way of a colored dream. It was a very splendid dream, in which everything was new and strange and beautiful beyond all words to describe. The baby wolf brother sat in a row and blinked out at the dream, sniffing at it with their puppy noses because of the instinct within them that even dreams must be smelled if you would find out what they are. And it seemed to them to be a very good dream, smelling of grass and flowers, and of hot rocks, and of the sharp scent which the pine trees loose on the summer air. And there, on a rising piece of ground, sat the old wolf mother, also smelling the good world. Only that, besides the smell of the trees and rocks, she could distinguish those other odors of living creatures which drift idly down the wind. Shasta, a little way behind his wolf brother's, sat down too. When a large, curious dream comes, it is better to sit and watch what it will do. Otherwise, if you begin to walk about in it, you may fall over something and come to a bad end. So Shasta sat and blinked at the thing, and waggled his fingers and his toes. He smelled at the thing also, and to him, as to the others, it seemed a good and pleasant smell, and he gurgled with delight. The sound he made was so funny that the cubs turned around to see what was happening. But when they saw that it was only the foster brother being odd as usual, they turned away again and went on smelling at the world. High up above his head, Shasta saw something very white and hot. It was so dazzling that he couldn't look up at it for more than a moment at a time, and because the thing hurt his eyes, and said queer, round plates dancing in front of them when he looked away, he gave up looking at it. Yet always he was conscious that it was there, the hot white center to this curious dream. And once he lifted a little hairy hand to give it a cuff for being so hot and silly, only somehow the hand didn't quite reach, and when he tried a little higher, he overbalanced and fell over on his back. This was a signal for the cubs to rush at him and have a game. So for a long time Shasta cuffed at them and wrestled with them, and sometimes got the better of them, and sometimes was badly beaten and worried like a rat. Of course, neither he nor they had any idea that this delightful scuffling and cuffing was really the beginning of their education, and that their muscles were being trained and their limbs strengthened for their battle with the world when they should be grown up and babies no longer. Suddenly, as if by magic, the play stopped dead, with Shasta and the cubs locked in a fierce embrace. Old Nitka never made a sound nor any outward sign, which ordered the play to cease. Yet in a tinkling the cubs were back into the den, while Nitka had risen from her point of observation, with her eyes set hard to the north. Shasta sat up and stared. The last wolf-brother was wobbling his fat body into the cave's mouth. Shasta felt, in some odd unexplained way, that he ought to follow, and that it was because Nitka had wielded that the cubs had gone in. Yet because he was a man-baby and not a wolf cub, he stayed where he was and stared at his foster mother with large and wondering eyes. But Nitka did not look at him. Her eyes were far away over the tops of the spruces and pines, far away to a certain spot where a level rock jutted out from the great barren that stretched like a roof along the windy top of the world. If Shasta had followed the direction of Nitka's eyes, he would have seen what looked like the form of a large timber-wolf line-crouched upon the rock, with his nose well into the wind. Only Shasta had no eyes for anything but Nitka. He had never seen her look so fierce before. All her great body was stiffened as if with steel springs. Just above her tail her hair was raised, as is the way when a wolf or dog is roused for fight, and in her gleaming eyes, burning like dull coals, there was a green, unpleasant light. Shasta could not tell what ailed his foster mother. Only in a dim way he felt that something was amiss. And the feeling made him uncomfortable, as when a grown-up person says nothing to you, but has a slap ready in the hands. Presently Nitka saw the other wolf slip off the rock and disappear in the spruce scrub at its base. And then, as before, she let herself down, and the bristles flattened above her tail. She seemed to rest in her body, and to give up all her bones to the warmth of the summer afternoon. Nearby the stream fell down the hillside with a sleepy murmur, and the grasshoppers cheer up in the grass. There was nothing to be seen except, high up in the air, a sweep of the slow wings that bore Kennebec, the great eagle, in his solemn circles above the canyon at the foot of the mountain. Kennebec was a mighty person in his own world, as many a wolf and mountain sheep knew to their cost. Many and many a lamb and wolf cub had gone to the feeding of Kennebec's children in their dizzy airy build among the steeples of the rocks. But as long as Kennebec kept to his own canyon, and did not cast a wicked eye upon her babies, Nitka did not worry about him, and had all her senses on the watch for danger nearer at hand. For in spite of all her look of outward laziness, every nerve that she had, every muscle of her strong body, was ready at a moment's notice to send her flying at any creature which dared to venture within striking distance of the den. For a long time nothing happened. Then Nitka growled softly, looking at Shasta as she did so. Now Shasta knew perfectly well that the growl was meant for him. Up to the present he had been disobedient, though he didn't quite know how. Nitka wished him to return to the cave with the cubs, and Shasta, though he felt some instinct telling him to go, could not understand what it meant, and so remained exactly where he was. And so far Nitka had been very patient. She had simply gone on wanting him to get back into safety, but she had not looked or spoken. The soft growl, rumbling down there in her deep throat, was not a pleasant thing to hear. It sent a thrill down Shasta's little spine. He began to feel dreadfully uncomfortable, and to wish that he was safe inside the cave. Yet she still did not move, because the man-cub inside his heart was not inclined to bow down before the wolves. Again Nitka growled, this time louder than before. And to make it more pointed, she looked at Shasta as she growled. He had never seen her look at him like that before. The light in her eyes was not at all agreeable. There was a threat in it, as to what she might do if Shasta did not obey. He began to edge away towards the cave. After he had gone two or three yards he stopped. This behavior of Nitka was so curious that he wanted to find out what it meant. Something was going to happen. Without in the least knowing what it might be, Shasta felt that something was in the air. But there was no resisting that look in Nitka's eyes. With a whimpering cry Shasta scrambled to the entrance of the cave. Once inside the den's mouth, however, his courage came to him again, and he turned to look back. As he peeped, he saw the form of a huge gray wolf glide into the open space. Nitka herself was large, but this other wolf was nearly half as big again and much more formidable. His great limbs and deep chest were wonderful to see. Between his shoulders was a dark patch of hair which was thicker than the rest of his coat, and when the winter came, would become a sort of mane. He stood nearly three feet high at the shoulders, a giant of his breed. As to Nitka herself, she was plainly in a rage. The hackles on her back were raised, her body was crouched low as if to leap, her limbs were bent under her like powerful springs to send the whole weight of her body hurling through the air. While, if her eyes had shown threateningly before when she looked at the disobedient Shasta, now they gleamed with the green light that seemed like living flame. So the two wolves stood facing each other, the huge stranger not seeming to like the look of things, with Nitka snarling defiance at him and prepared to give her very life in the defense of her cubs. Shasta, peeking timidly out from the mouth of the cave, felt certain that some terrible thing was about to happen. He was terrified by two things. First, by the mysterious coming of the stranger wolf, and then by the awful anger of Nitka, which, if once let loose, must surely tear the new world to pieces, hot white center and all. Behind him, in the cave, the cubs were motionless and made no sound. They huddled closely together as if they knew, though they could not see it, that out there in the sunlight a strange thing was happening with which it would be fatal to interfere. So there they huddled and pressed their fatty furry bodies against each other and tried to be comforted by each other's fat and fur. Then Shasta, looking out boldly, saw a very odd thing. He saw the he-wolf make a step towards Nitka with a sort of friendly whine in his throat, and Nitka, instead of springing at him, remained crouched where she was. And although she kept on growling, and saying the most dreadful things as before, somehow or other she seemed less vicious, and the green glare was softening in her eyes. Seeing this, the other wolf grew bolder and drew closer step by step. It was a very slow approach, as if the giant he-wolf was fully aware that any sudden action of his would bring Nitka on him like a fury, with those long fangs of hers bared to strike. And then at last the two wolves were so close together that their noses touched. And in this touch of their noses and the silent conversation which followed, everything was explained and understood and made clear for the future. So that was how Shasta saw the return of Shumu, the father of his foster brothers and Nitka's lawful mate. After that Shumu became a recognized person in the world who came and went mysteriously, never saying where he was going, nor telling you where when he had come back. Only that it did not matter in the least. The really big thing was that when father Shumu did come back he seldom returned empty-handed, or should I say empty-mouthed, since a wolf uses his mouth as a carry-all instead of his paws. End of CHAPTERS 1 & 2 CHAPTERS 3 & 4 OF SHASTA OF THE WOLVES by Olof Baker This Librivox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER 3 SHASTA COMES VERY NEAR BEING EATEN BY A BEAR The weeks and months went by. Only Shasta did not know anything about time, and if the months ticked themselves off into years he took no account of them. Each month he became more and more wolf-like, and less and less like a human child. And because he wore no clothes, hair began to grow over his necked body, so that soon there was a soft brown silky covering all over him, and the hair of his head fell upon his shoulders like a mane. And as he grew older, much knowledge came to him, which is hidden from human folk, or which perhaps they have forgotten in their building of the world. He learned not only to see things very far off and clearly, as if they were near, but he learned also to bring them close by smelling, to know what manner of meat they were. And if his nose or his eyes brought him no message, then his ears gave him warning, and he caught the footsteps that creeps stethily along the edge of the night. And he learned the difference between the three hunting-calls of the wolf, the howl that is long and deep, and which dies among the spruces, or is echoed dismally among the lonely crags, the high and ringing voice of the united pack on a burning scent, and that last terrible bark that is half a howl, when the killing is at hand. Yet it was not only of the wolves that Shasta learned the speech of the wild. He knew the things the bears rumbled to each other as they went pad-padding on enormous feet. Of the black bears he had no fear, but for the grizzlies he had a feeling that warned him it was wiser to keep out of their way. The feeling was not there in the beginning, but it grew after a thing had happened one never-to-be-forgotten day. He had been sleeping in the cave during the hot hours, and woke up as the light began to yellow in the waning of the afternoon. He stretched his little hairy arms and legs with a great feeling of rest and of happiness. He felt so well and strong in every part of him that the joyful life inside him seemed bubbling up and spilling over. He was alone in the cave, for his wolf brothers were now grown up and were gone out into the world. Sometimes, at sundown or dawn, he heard them sing the strange wolf-song, the song that is as old as the world itself, or a familiar scent would drift to him, as he sat in the entrance of the cave, and he would know it for the sweet good smell of some wolf-brother as he passed across the world. And sometimes Shasta would lift his child's voice into that wild, an earthly wolf-song that is so very old. This afternoon something seemed to call Shasta to go out into the sun. Nitka had made him understand that it was not safe for him to go far from the cave when she was away. Now she was out hunting, and Shumu was off on one of his mysterious journeys. Nobody knew where. So there was all the more need for Shasta to stay close at home. Shasta did not see why he should remain in the dull den all the time that his foster parents were away. Besides, were not his wolf-brothers all far out in the world. Perhaps he might fall in with one of them, and sniff noses together for the sake of old times. He determined to go out and try. As he passed out, he heard the Blue Jay scolding in the trees. Now there is a rule which all wise forest folk observe. It is this. When the Blue Jay scolds, look out! Sometimes, of course, the Blue Jay simply scold at each other, because somebody has taken somebody else's grub, or just because they have a falling out for fun. But the wise wild folk pay no attention to this, knowing it to be what it is. And when the Blue Jay's scold in a peculiar manner, then the wise ones know that there is danger afoot, and that you must keep a sharp look out. Now, although Shasta was so young, he was quite old enough to understand the difference in the sounds. Unfortunately, this afternoon he was in a mad mood, and he just didn't care. He saw the autumn sun bright on the rocks at the den's mouth. He saw the glimmer of the Blue over the tall tops of the pines. High above the canyon, a dark blob circled slowly against the sky. Far off though it was, Shasta saw that it was Kennebec, the great eagle, who was lord of all the eagles between the mountains and the sea. Shasta watched him for a little while, making wide circles on his mighty sweep of wing. Then he ran up the mountainside, and as he ran, the Blue Jay scalded more and more. If Shasta had not been in so bad a mood, he would have known by the chatter of the Jay's that the danger was coming uphill. Also, if he himself had not been running downwind, he would have smelt what the danger was creeping up behind. But something that seemed to call him in the cave was calling him now from the high rocks. So on he climbed, careless of what might be going on below. He climbed higher and higher. Close by one of the rocks a birch tree hung itself out into the air. When he reached it he stopped to look back. Down at the edge of the forest he saw a thing that made him shiver. From between the shadowy trunks of the pine trees, the shape of a huge grizzly swung out into the sun. It came unsteadily up the mountain. It snows well into the wind. Shasta knew that he himself was doing the fatal thing. He was spilling himself into the wind, and even now the grizzly was eating him through his nose. By this time Shasta was very frightened. He looked this way and that to see how to escape. He knew that he could not get back to the cave in time, for it lay close to the grizzly's upward path, and already the bear was half way there. The moving of his great limb sent all his fur robe into ripples that were silver in the sun. He was coming at a steady pace. And, if he wanted to quicken it, Shasta knew with what a terrible quickness those furry limbs could move. As for himself, his wolf training had taught him to run very swiftly, but he ran in a stooping way, using his hands as well as his feet. Only he doubted whether his swiftness could save him from the grizzly over the broken ground. And far away over the canyon Kenabek swept his vast circles, as calmly as though nothing was happening, because all went so very well in the blue lagoons of the air. Nothing was happening up there, but here upon the barglush everything was happening, and poor little Shasta felt that everything was happening wrong. In his terrible fear Shasta started to run up the mountain, and as he ran he looked back. To his horror he saw that the grizzly had seen him and had also started to run. Up the rocky slopes came the terrible pad-pad of those cruel paws, and Shasta knew well that the paws had teeth in them, many cruel teeth to each paw, and still Shasta went darting upward, running swiftly like a mountain fox. As he ran a thought came into his head. If he could circle down the mountain he might hide behind the rocks till the grizzly had passed, and so reached the cave in time. For he had the sense to know that although a grizzly is more than a match for wolves in the open it thinks many times before it will attack them in their den. Again Shasta looked back. He saw that the grizzly was gaining upon him. He turned swiftly among the boulders to the left, dodging as he went so as to be out of sight of his enemy. The longer he could keep up the flight the more chance there was that either Nitka or Shumu might return. He ran on wildly, the terror in him like the grizzly behind gaining ground. He saw the long mountain side stretching out far and far before him to the northwest. He looked eagerly to see if any gray shadows should be moving eastwards along it, the long, gliding shadows that would be his wolf-parents coming home. But nothing broke the lines of gray boulders that lay so still along the slopes. All the great mountains seemed dead or asleep. Nothing living moved. Shasta ran on and on, looking fearfully backwards now and then, and expecting every moment to see the form of the great grizzly combounding over the rocks. Far below him in the timber he heard the screaming of the jays. There was a fresh tone in the cry. Before it had been a scolding of the bear. Now it was a cry to Shasta. Run, little brother, run! It did not need the crying of the blue jays to make Shasta run. He was covering the ground almost with the speed of the wolves themselves. Now he began to slant down towards the timber, darting down the mountain, leaping from boulder to boulder in the manner of the mountain sheep. Yet behind him, faster and faster, as the rush of his great body gathered force, the grizzly launched himself downwards in an avalanche of fur. Shasta knew only too well that, unless something happened, the chase would not go on much longer. It might be a little sooner or a little later, but the grizzly must have him at the last unless he could reach the trees in time. The trees were his only hope. If he could reach them, he could escape. For among the great things he had learned of the ways of the forest folk he had learned this also. A grizzly does not climb. And it was in this one thing only that he could outdo his wolf brothers. He could climb into the trees. He looked back. The thing was hurliness self-nearer, the fearful avalanche of fur. Now he began to feel fear that he could not reach the timber in time. The grizzly was gaining at a terrible pace. And then a thing happened. Down a slant the mountainside there came leaping in tremendous bounce the form of a big she-wolf. On it came at a furious speed, every spring of the powerful haunches sending the long gray body forward like an arrow loosed from a bow. And as she came, there rose from the deep inner throat a long-drawn howl, the mustering cry of the wolves when the prey is too heavy for one to pull down alone. The grizzly saw her coming but could not stop. He was going too fast to turn as to avoid the first onslaught, with a snarl of fury nitka-sprang. Her long fang snatched horribly. There was a gash behind the bear's left ear. He snorted with rage and tried to pull up. Before he could do so, nitka had snapped at his flank and leapt away. Then at last, by a supreme effort, the grizzly pulled himself up and turned upon his unexpected foe. By this time Shasta was well within reach of the trees. But some instinct made him suddenly alter his course and turn towards the cave. The grizzly, seeing this, started again in pursuit of his prey. Once more nitka leaped and the long fangs did their deadly work, but this time the bear, turning with remarkable quickness, hurled her off, and did so with such force that nitka almost lost her balance. A wolf, however, is not easily thrown off its legs, and again nitka attacked. Each time she sprang, the bear stopped to meet her. Nitka knew full well what she would have to expect if she came within striking distance of those terrible paws, and not once did she allow the grizzly to get his chance to strike. And every time the bear turned, Shasta was making good his escape, farther and farther up the slope. Yet still the bear continued the chase, as if determined in spite of all nitka's fierce defense, to have his kill at last. But he did not reckon upon two enemies at once, and he did not know that a second one, even more to be dreaded than nitka, would have to be faced before he could seize his prey. Shasta had almost reached the cave now. He saw the shadowy mouth of it just beyond the clump of bushes where the great cliff broke down. Yet if the grizzly should follow him into the cave, at close quarters nitka would be no match for the grizzly. Those terrible paws would have the wolf within striking distance, and then, no matter how bravely nitka fought, she must sooner or later be killed. Yet, just at the moment, the instinct for home was the strongest thing in Shasta's little mind, and so he made blindly for the cave. As he darted into it, something shot past it in the opposite direction, something that leaped in the air with a noise that would have sounded more like the snarl of a mad dog, if Shasta had ever heard a mad dog, than any voice of wolf. Far away in the lonely places of the great baron, Shumu had caught the long-grown hunting cry of nitka, and had answered it on feet that swept the distance like the wind. With every hair on end, with eyes that shone like green fires, with his chops wrinkled to show the gleaming fangs, Shumu hurled himself downwards full in the path of the advancing bear. The grizzly saw his coming just in time, and raised himself suddenly to give the wolf the blow which would have been his certain death. Swift as a streak of light, Shumu swerved as if he actually turned himself in the air. The grizzly missed his stroke by a hair's breath. Before he could strike again, both wolves were upon him. They sprang as with one accord, slashing mercilessly, then in the wolf fashion, leaping away before the enemy could close. The fight now became a sort of game. As far as mere strength went, the grizzly was far more than a match for the wolves, but their marvelous quickness put him at a disadvantage. Directly he turned to meet the onset of one, the other sprang at him from the opposite direction. They kept circling round him in a ring. It was a ring that flew and snarled and gleamed and bristled, a ring of wild wolf bodies that seemed never to pause for a single second. Sometimes it widened, sometimes it narrowed, hemming the great bear in, but always it was alive, quivering, flying ring of shadowy bodies and gleaming teeth. More and more the bear felt that he was no match for his opponents. Hitherto he had no fear of wolves. He had held them almost in contempt. But these things that leaped and snapped and leaped again seemed scarcely wolves. They were wolfish furies to which you could not give a name. Slowly, step by step, he retreated down the slope. He had given up all thought of the strange wolf cub now. His one idea was to defend himself from these terrible foes, the like of which he had never encountered before. Deep in his grizzly heart he knew that he was being beaten. It was a new feeling, and he did not relish it. Till now he had been monarch of his range, and other animals had respected his undisputed right. Now the tables were being turned, and a couple of wolves larger than he had ever seen were driving him steadily back. Yet he would not turn and run. Something in his little pig-like eyes told the wolves that whatever happened he would never take safety in flight. That is one of the ideas belonging to a king. When his back is up against a wall, he must fight to the last. And that is exactly what the bear was looking for, something against which he could place his back. To the left, about fifty yards away, a great spur of rock broke from the mountainside. If he could reach that he knew that he could keep his foes at bay. He knew also that in order to reach it he would have to fight every yard of the way. And up above on the slope a little wild face peered out from the shoulder of the rocks and watched and watched with shining eyes. Chapter 4 The End of the Fight. It was a running fight that went on as the great grizzly retreated. The one object of the wolves was to keep him on the move. The bear made furious rushes this way and that, and every thought he had one of his enemies within striking distance. But as sure as ever he attacked one wolf, it leapt clear with marvellous agility while the other, like a flash of gray lightning, had snatched at his flank and was off before he could turn. Yet in spite of Shumu's greater bulk, it was the onset of Nittka which punished the bear most severely. For the time, Nittka was like a thing gone mad. Her eyes blazed like green jewels, her teeth flashed with a grin of rage. The long suppleness that was her body, bent, twisted, turned and doubled itself in a series of acrobatic leaps which bewildered her foe, and baffled even chastisised to see how it was done. She was not fighting for any mere purpose of hatred or evil. She was not fighting for any mere purpose of hatred or revenge. It was not that she, as Nittka, wanted to conquer the bear. The thing that was in her, the fierce unutterable thing that flamed in her eyes and stabbed nakedly in her teeth, was her wild, strange love for the man-cub. She had so curiously made her own. But she did not know why she loved him. How should she, since the great spirit of the wild had not told her? It was enough that the spirit had put the thing into her heart and made it to remain. Her own wolf-cubs would come and would certainly go out into the wolf world that is so wide beneath the stars. But the little man-cub stayed, winter and summer, autumn and spring, only growing larger very slowly, because it is the habit of men-cubs and other gods to grow slowly, and you cannot build them quickly with ever so much rabbit's flesh nor caribou meat, swallowed and predigested, and brought up again as food. So Nittka waged this desperate battle for the life of something she held very dear, and in her blind devotion would have sacrificed even her own life sooner than that one morsel of chastis-herry little body should suffer harm. With Shumu it was different. He had many reasons for fighting, and they were all good ones. First he fought for Nittka because he loved her, and had mated with her for life. It was that which, when her long-hunting cry for help had reached him, had sent him sweeping along the mountain slopes at such a headlong speed. Bound up with that, the man-cub was her own special property, and therefore partly his. He did not understand the man-cub. Shumu never pretended to understand. Left to his own instincts he would not have loved the man-cub. But since the thing belonged to Nittka and was what she loved, therefore it was for him to be good to it whether he would or no. His second reason for fighting was just as good, and was that, naturally, the grizzlies and wolves are enemies, and have nothing in common except the desire to kill when the blood thirst is on them. But there was even a third reason as good as either of the others, and this was the Shumu dearly loved to fight. It was not that he was a disagreeable person, always ready to pick a quarrel, for he was anything but that, and quite contented to go his own way peacefully, so long as no one disputed it with him. But when a vice was forced upon him, or there was anything to be gained by being fierce, then he wrinkled back his chops in a most threatening manner, and made ready for his deadly spring. So all these reasons combined made Shumu a very dangerous foe, and where the causes which forced the grizzly who might have coped with Nittka alone to retreat towards the rock. It took the bear some time to do this, but once he felt the rock against his back he reared himself up on his haunches, with his little pig-like eyes red with rage, and towered above the wolves like the giant that he was. Neither Nittka nor Shumu, savage though they might be, were so angry as to be fools. They knew perfectly well that to attack a grizzly in such a position would be the extreme of madness. One blow from one of those terrible steel-tipped paws, striking with the force of a sledgehammer, and the wolf that met it would be knocked clean out of the fight. So they contented themselves with crouching at a safe distance, and waiting to attack again the moment the bear should leave the rock. But if the bear ever had such an idea in his huge head he thought better of it, and stayed where he was. And so the time passed. The wolves not daring to attack the bear, the bear not daring to quit the protection of the rock. And it was not until the afternoon had waned into evening, and the sunset gold had melted behind the deep forests, that the wolves drew back towards the den, and the grizzly slipped away into the dusk. It was many weeks before Shasta recovered from the effects of his fright, and was ready to carry his explorations any distance from the cave. And though Nitka did not punish him, and Shumu said nothing, going about his business silently in the same old way, Shasta knew quite well that he was in disgrace, and that he had better behave accordingly. So he contented himself by sitting a good deal in the doorway of the den and watching the happenings of the world from that safe position. It was not what you would call a very tidy doorway, and there was no mad on which to wipe your paws if you got them muddy, with creeping after young geese along the boggy borders of the ponds on the barren. There was a fine litter of feathers, fur and bones, and the little odds and ends of what had once been game. Shasta, squatting humbly in the middle of the mess, looked out with large eyes to snap up the happenings in the world as they fell out through the hours. Not that very much happened that you could call important. Sometimes a lynx or a fox would steal softly by, sniffing the air suspiciously, and keeping at a safe distance, with side-long glances at the den. Or sometimes a shadow would appear and disappear between the stems of the pine trees, with bewildering swiftness, and a martin would vanish upon his bloodthirsty way. And then, if larger game kept out of sight and smell, there were always the grasshoppers and wood-mice chirruping and scurrying in the tall and feathery grass. But after a time Shasta grew tired of this do-nothing life at the door of the den, and began to take little walks here and there, though he kept a sharp look out and was always ready to go scampering back to the den at the first end of danger. And one thing he learned from his adventure with the grizzly was, always to attend to the warning of the Blue Jays. Whenever their harsh voices rose from the ordinary gossipy chatter to a warning scream, Shasta would make off at once without waiting to discover what it was that had caused them to sound the alarm. End of CHAPTERS III AND IV CHAPTERS V AND VI OF SHASTA OF THE WOLVES BY OLLIF BAKER THIS LIBERVOX RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN CHAPTER V GOMPOSH THE WISE ONE THE MOONS WENT BY AND THE MOONS WENT BY THE SLOW MOONS SLIPPED INTO EACH OTHER AND WERE TIGHTEN TO BUNDLES, A SUMMER AND A WINTER TO EACH BUNDLE, AND SO MADE UP THE YEARS. SHASTA DID NOT KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE MAJORING OF TIME, NOR THAT PEOPLE TALKED OF GROWING OLDER OUT THERE IN THE WORLD. All he knew was that there were day and night, and that the great lights came and went in the heavens, stepping very slowly upon gold and silver feet. But he knew when the loon, the great northern diver, cried forlornly in the night, that the long cold was at hand, and that he would have to stay in the cave to keep himself from freezing to death. And then it was that NITKA and SHUMU exerted all their arts to keep the man-cub alive, and when the small game grew scarce, and the caribou hunting began, many and many a chunk of venison the little Shasta devoured, and throwed marvelously upon the uncooked meat. The meat made him warm, and kept the rich blood at full beat in his veins, and that he might be warmer when he slept, he scooped out a hole in the side of the cave, filling it with dry grass and leaves and aligning of fur and feathers torn from the outside of his meat. He learnt this nest-making from the homes of the wild creatures he discovered in his ramblings, in the early spring and summer, for everything you learnt then seemed somehow to be in preparation for the grim time of the winter, when the blizzard howled from the north, and even the wolves and the caribou they hunted had to flee before the blast. It was after many summers and winters had been tied together in bundles that one bright September morning Shasta left the cave, and made for a tall rock, overlooking the gorge of the stream. When he reached it, he squatted down and watched what might happen below. No one saw him there, the little brown thing on the rock, and no one minded him, which was even more important, because he perched above the level of the runways, and of the creatures whose noses were always asking questions of the lower air. But some one whom Shasta did not know, and who was wiser than all the otherwise folk of the forest, was also out for a walk that wonderful autumn morning, and on soft and padded feet came softly down the mountain slopes above Shasta's airy perch. And this was Gomposh, the old black bear. Gomposh was very old, and of a wonderful blackness. When he walked out in the sun, the light upon his fur rippled in silver waves. As for his ears, not even Gupare, the white owl, could tell you how many they were, much less Gomposh himself. It was not any sound Gomposh made that told Shasta of his presence, but suddenly, without any warning to his eyes or ears or nose, Shasta knew. And this was owing to that unexplained sixth sense which the wild animals possess, and which Shasta, after his long dwelling among them, shared to a remarkable degree. He turned round all of a sudden, and there, not fifty feet away, stood Gomposh the old in all the wonder of his black black fur. For the first moment Shasta felt afraid. Here was another bear, smaller indeed than the grizzly, but nonetheless a bear. And now, if the black bear meant mischief, escape was impossible, because the rock was too steep for any foothold on the outer face of it, and between its inner side and the open mountain stood the bear. Then, in some odd way, which he did not understand, the fear passed, and he knew that this time he was in no danger at all, and that the newcomer with the black robe would do him no harm. Gomposh waited for a while, observing Shasta with his little wise eyes, and making notes of him inside his big, wise head. Then, very deliberately and slowly, he came down the slope toward Shasta, and sat down on his haunches before him on the rock. For a minute or two neither of them spoke, except in that secret language of eye and nose which makes unnecessary so much of the jabber that we humans call speech. But presently Shasta began to ask questions in wolf language, and Gomposh made answers in the same, and the sense of what they said was as follows, though the actual words were not our human words at all, but deeper and sweeter in the meaning of them, and much nearer to the truth. Shall we be brothers you and I? Shasta asked, a little timidly, for he was feeling shy. Gomposh looked at him kindly out of his little pig like eyes. We are brothers, he said. I am old Gomposh, brother to all the forest folk. I am brother to the wolves, Shasta replied. You will find yourself brother to many strange folk before you are much older, Gomposh said, and when he had finished he gave a slow wag with his head. Who are the folk? Shasta asked, wonderingly. Ah! Gomposh said, looking even wiser than before. He looked so tremendously full of knowledge that Shasta felt very small and ignorant indeed. There are the lynxes and the foxes to begin with, Gomposh said after a pause. But Shasta shook his head. No, he said. They are not brothers. We have no kinship with them, we of the wolves. Gomposh looked at him for a minute or two without speaking, and Shasta felt uncomfortable. It is not for you to say who are not your brothers, Gomposh said gravely. You are not a wolf. Shasta blinked his eyes at that. It was the first time anyone had told him that he was not a wolf. But I am, he said. Nitka and Shumu and the brothers. We are all of the wolf blood. I have many brothers, he added, as if to make the matter clearer. They are all out in the world. I am aware of that, Gomposh said, but many brothers do not make you different from what you are. Shasta could not think of an answer to that, so he was silent for a little time, while something which began to be a question grew within his head. If I am not a wolf, what am I? He asked at last. You will find that out later on, Gomposh said, with aggravating calmness. At present it is enough for you to know what you are not. But I don't know it, Shasta said bravely, because he was not going to give way weekly before a bear, if he were never so old and never so wise. How do you know that I am not a wolf? Gomposh blinked and did not answer for a moment or two. He was taken by surprise, and was just a little shocked. In all his long experience, reaching over many years, no one had ever questioned his wisdom before, nor asked him how he knew. The man-cub was very impudent. It would have been the easiest thing in the world, with one cuff of his big black paw, to teach the man-cub manners, and sent him spinning from the rock. But although Gomposh had a great idea of his own importance, he had also a kind heart, and there was something in him which went out tenderly towards the little-naked cub, impudent though he was. So he contented himself with being very stiff and standoffish when he spoke again. I have eyes, he said. I have also a nose. You are not wolf to my eyes, and you are only half-wolf to my nose. This was a knock-down blow to Shasta, and he didn't know what to say. I'm sorry if I don't smell nice, he said lamely after a while. I didn't remark that you didn't smell nice, Gomposh said. Smell is a thing for everybody to decide on for himself. What is the smell in me that isn't wolf, Shasta asked? That you will know later, Gomposh replied. But when, Shasta asked, to-day or to-morrow, or when the moon is full? That I do not tell you, Gomposh said, when the time comes you will know. And that was all Shasta could get out of him. Gomposh either couldn't or wouldn't say more, and when he had sat for a little while longer he got up and slowly walked away. Shasta watched him disappear into the chaparral thicket to the left, and heard him for some time afterwards as he knocked the rotten logs to pieces in a search for grubs. For a long, long while Shasta sat where he was and gazed down the gorge, a odd feeling that was almost unhappiness was in his head and his stomach, and the feeling went rolling over and over inside him and knocking itself against the corners of his brain. Not a wolf, not a wolf, the feeling kept crapping out. Then, if he was not a wolf, what was he, he asked himself. His memory, groping backwards into the dim beginnings of his life, worked hard to uncover the secret of what he really was. But try as he would, he could remember nothing but the den and the wolf-life that had its center there, and the happenings of the mountain and of the forest, and the ways of their folk. There was nothing else, no shapes of tall beings that carried bows in their forepaws and walked always on their hind legs, nothing that told him of his Indian birth. The morning slipped into the afternoon, and still Shasta sat motionless, humped upon the rock. His eyes were down the gorge, or on the opposite ridge where the tops of the spruces were jagged against the sky. Down below him, on the old runways that had threaded the thickets since the beginning of the world, the creatures came and went. Shasta knew them each by sight. He had known them all his life. Yet now, as their familiar forms came noiselessly, like shadows over the grass, he had a peculiar feeling of being separated from them by the new knowledge that, somehow, he was of another world. When the thin smell of the twilight came drifting through the trees, then and not till then, Shasta slipped down noiselessly from his rock and stole homewards to the den. But in the dark the odd feeling was still questioning. If I'm not a wolf, what am I? It was one night not long after his conversation with Gomposh that Nitka made plain to Shasta that he was to accompany her and Shumu for some unknown purpose. Shasta had grown used to the appearing and disappearing of foster brothers every year, and so the four half-grown wolves that trotted by his side on the eventful night were quite familiar to him, and did not perplex him in the least. It was a very clear night, with the stars shining down through all the tall tops of the pines and a faint glimmer low down in the northeast where presently the moon would lift her mighty bowl of silver and water the world with light. Now and then a little waft of wind would send a shiver through the trees, and when it died away the stillness of the forest was deeper than before. It was very dark under the trees, unless you had an indians or wolf size. You had not been able to see your hand in front of your face. But the eyes that were in Shasta's head were indian with the wolf's training, and were almost equal to the wolves. He saw many things which no child born of white people has ever seen since America was discovered, nor ever will as long as the world shall last, because the dwellers of the forest are very wise and wary, and are part of the great secret that is hidden amongst the trees. And many of them are never seen at all, except by the wild animals themselves. And you will not find their names in any work on zoology, which is the polite word for natural history, because zoology, after all, is only the science which divides things into classes according to their teeth. Yet although Shasta's eyesight was nearly as keen as the wolf's, his speed was not as fast as theirs, and so the going was slower than it would have been if the pack had been alone. For all that, Shasta's pace was only slow compared with the wolf's, and if you had seen him running on all fours, you would have thought that his speed was very quick indeed. The order of their going was in this manner. Shumu went first, as became the leader of the pack. After him, in single file, came two of the cubs. Shasta followed next with the wolf-brother on each side of him, but slightly behind, so as to guard him if any danger threatened. Last of all, with their keen eyes glowing like coals, came old Nitka, bringing up the rear. It would have been a fearless animal indeed which would have attacked such a pack traveling in this wary way. Even a grizzly, or a bull caribou, would have thought twice before encountering the combined force, and would have wisely turned aside without disrupting right of way. When they were going, what it all meant, Shasta could not guess, he had never traveled at night like this before. The most he had done after dark was to go short distances from the cave and back again, and that never alone, but always with either Nitka or Shumu, somewhere close at hand. But this long journey was unlike anything he had ever done before. It was strangely exciting. It made the blood dance in his veins. He felt that something big was going to happen, and that now at last he would learn the secret of the wolves. For although he had lived the life of a wolf all these years, there was a feeling in his heart that there was something else, something he had yet to learn, before he should be one with the wolves, as of their very blood. And the feeling, reaching upward from his heart, tugged at his brain with tiny fingers that groped always in the dark. After some time they left the trees behind them and came out upon the open mountain. Then it was a long climb upwards, going as slant the mountainside towards the east. There was more like now, for the time of moonrise was close at hand. Shasta could see the vast shoulder of the mountain hump itself up against the stars. That was ahead. Behind, into the right, the canyon plunged down into a hollow of darkness that seemed bottomless. His ears caught the sound of a dull roar. He knew it would be a stream beating against the boulders and complaining huskily as it went. The going was faster now, for the land was open, and Shasta increased his pace. Soon they reached a bench, or terrace, along the side of a gorge. Running lightly along this, Shasta heard another sound. It was long and mournful, sliding up and down a minor scale of unutterable grief. It came drifting over the mountains as if the wind carried it, dropping it at times, and then taking hold of it again. Though it was so faint it was not like the voice of a single wolf, but of many wolves singing chorus together by the silver edges of the moon. He expected his companions to stop and answer it. He had often heard them sing that same song at moonrise or just before dawn, but to his surprise the pack swept on as if they had never heard that sorrowful voice sobbing along the air. The terrace came to an end abruptly in a spur of rock, but Shumu, with a great bound, leaped to a higher ledge and the pack followed. Shasta could not leap in the wolf manner. He climbed instead, using his feet and hands with wonderful agility. The upper ledge brought them to the summit of the mountain. Here a wide caribou barren stretched away in an unbroken extent to the north and east. There was good hunting here, as the wolves knew. Many and many a fat caribou cow might be cut out of the herd and pulled down when the right season came, but they were not for hunting now. Something quite as strong as the hunting cry was calling to them, and they would obey it in spite of everything else. On the summit of the mountain the cry Shasta had heard before came again. Only this time it was loud and clear, filling all the spaces of the night with echoes that sounded hollowly from far away. And now Shasta was aware that the wolves were not alone. Other dusky forms were flitting silently on ahead, and to the right and left. As they went on the number of these shadowy forms increased. They were all going in the same direction, and evidently with the same purpose, whatever that might be. Soon Shasta saw the great rocks rise up ahead. They had passed over the summit of the mountain now, and were descending the brow. The rocks, jagged and torn into all sorts of peculiar shapes, formed a fringe to the downward slope. Beyond, the country fell away sheer to the prairies below. As Shasta approached the rocks he saw that they were alive. On all their ledges and pinnacles wolves were crowded. There were many hundreds of them. He could not have believed that there were so many wolves in all the world. And they were all howling together in a wild, uncanny chorus that to Shasta's ears was like a swinging song, very beautiful to hear. Only it was terrible also, and sent shivers down his back, and his heart beat wildly, and he felt as if he had not eaten food for many days. He could not tell how or why, but suddenly he found himself sitting upon a rock surrounded by the wolves. And then, as he watched them with their heads thrown back, and their long noses pointed to the stars, he felt something which he could not understand taking hold of him. He could see the wolves plainly now, for the moon was rising. She was behind the mountain yet, but the light of her coming was abroad in the sky. Shasta looked round to see if Nitko or Shumu was close to him. At first he could not distinguish them among the number of the other wolves. Then he caught sight of the great bulk of Shumu at the summit of a rock, cut out blackly, like granite against the rising of the moon. There were many other big wolves there, for it was a gathering of all the packs, but none was as mighty as Shumu, towering there like a king upon his rock. Once he had found Shumu he did not search for Nitko or the Foster Brothers. He was simply content to know that they were there. It was upon Shumu that his eyes were fixed, for he felt dimly as if, somehow or other, he was the center of the mystery and the wild heart of the song. And then, immediately behind Shumu's giant form, a disc of silver showed suddenly, and the first gleam of the moon rising shone down upon the wolves. The singing had been wild before, but now in the moonlight it grew wilder still. It was enough to make even an Indian's flesh creep to hear this uncanny chorus from hundreds of wolfish throats, rising and falling in the stillness of the night. For miles and miles, through the endless spruce forests, down the black-throated canyons, along the dreary barons of the caribou, the wild song went sobbing in a passion of despair. Not an animal, winged or forefooted, in all that savage region but was awake and shivering to the sobbing of the wolves. Canabec, the mighty eagle, caught it, dreaming far away upon his midnight crags. Gomposh, the old wise one, heard it, sitting in the mouth of his cave on the Blue Pine Hill, and as he listened he rumbled a reply, a low, deep growl that seemed to roll about inside him, and never got farther than his chest. And far away over the prairies, on the lonely ridges where the Indians bury their dead, the coyotes caught the chorus, and howling dismally, flung it back. Now and then, on the outskirts of the wolf ring, a fox would appear from nowhere, sit down on his tail, and lift his snout and sing. For though in the usual course of things the wolves and foxes are sworn enemies, on the nights when the great chorus is sung the foxes are allowed to give themselves to music and have no cause to fear. But it was not alone the creatures of the wild who responded to the cry. Far down at the foot of the mountain where the country of the plains began, Shasta heard an answering chorus in the pauses when the wolves seemed to listen for the echoes of their song. And the chorus too was wolfish and utterly despairing, as if the prairie wolves were gathering down below. Yet, though Shasta did not know it, the answer was not a wolf one, but belonged to the Indian Huskies, those gaunt-starved creatures, part wolf, part dog, which the Indians have bred for long years, and of which the camps are full. In every pause between the challenge of the wolves, the answer of the Huskies was still wilder and fuller of despair. As the moon rose and the light became stronger, Shasta could see more and more plainly what was going on down there at the mountain's foot. He saw peculiar, pointed things different from anything he had ever seen before. They were arranged in a circle round something which was very red and bright. He did not know, because there was nobody to tell him, that this bright red thing was an Indian campfire, and that the pointed things about it were the wigwams of the braves. Beyond the wigwams he could see a row of dark objects. These were the Huskies sitting on their tails, and sobbing out their sorrow to the wolves. Sometimes the row would break and the Huskies would rush wildly about, yelping and snapping at each other, as if they had suddenly gone mad. And then they would gather together again, and sit in a long row and lift their sorrow to the moon. Presently Shasta saw something else. He saw forms leave the wigwams and come out into the circle between them and the fire. They were like wolves, but seemed to be clothed with loose skins that covered their bodies and forelegs. The thing which he noticed most particularly was that they did not go on all fours in the true wolf fashion, but walked upon their hind legs only, with their bodies straight in the air. As far as he could tell they had come out of the wigwams to listen to the wolves. Yet they made no sound and continued to listen silently, not letting any voice which might be in them wail forth into the night. The sight of these dumb creatures on their hind legs made Shasta strangely restless. He wanted to lift his arms and lose his heart out in a cry. And as he watched the figures the feeling grew. He could not tell, poor little wild soul that he was, that these odd and silent forms were those of his own people, that he belonged to them in his blood and in his brain, and that here, in the wolf world, he was an outcast from his kin. And the Indians, gazing up at those black wolf shapes cut out against the stars, little guessed that, among that dusky throng, crouched one of their own tribe, kidnapped long ago by an enemy, and left in the forest to die of starvation, or be torn to pieces by the beasts. There was a long pause, broken by neither wolves or huskies. The silence was so deep that you could almost hear the shadows as they shortened under the moon. All at once Shasta threw back his head and howled. It was the true wolf howl, long, vibrating, desolate. The desire to do so came on him suddenly, unexpectedly. A thing wholly strange and not to be explained. The note sang out sharply into the air. It seemed to rip like a wolf's fangs, the silver throat of the moon. The wolves cocked their ears and listened intently. Here was a new voice which they had never heard before. A wolf voice truly, yet with some fine difference which set it apart from all others and made it impossible to forget. When Shasta had ended, and the last dim echo of his howl had faded from the rocks, he sat silent, shivering with fear. For now he had done what only a leader of a pack had the right to do. He had broken in upon the silence of the wolves. What would they do? Would they punish him for his impertinence? Suppose some leader gave the signal for the entire pack to sweep down upon him and tear him limb from limb. Nitka and the foster brothers would not be strong enough to save him. Even Shumu's great bulk would be of no avail against the fury of the united pack. Always before when he had known fear he had taken to his legs, and either he had escaped to the cave in time or else Nitka or Shumu had been at hand to save him, but he knew that his legs would be useless now. The great fear seemed to take from them the power of running and to freeze him to the rock. He did not move a muscle. He did not even dare to turn his eyes. Yet he saw everything with astonishing clearness down to the smallest detail. There was Shumu, motionless on his pinnacle, his ears erect, his hair bristling, the moonlight falling silverly on his dark coat and casting his shadow blackly down below. And there were the countless numbers of that vast pack equally motionless, equally alert. All their heads turned in one direction. All their gleaming eyes turned one way. And Shasta, seeing all those terrible eyes fixed upon him, not only saw them, but felt them, felt the fierce wolfish thought behind that united all the pack into one wolf mind. The silence was terrible. No arrow-headed flight of wild geese came honking from the north to break it. Not even the solitary song of the white-throated sparrow on his fur-branch slipped softly out to show that he was awake and that there was a sweetness in the night. And if nothing sounded, so also nothing stirred. Nothing except the wolfish shadows that shortened visibly under the moon. CHAPTER 7 Shasta joins the wolf pack. In that terrible silence when Shasta trembled with the fear that was in him, he did not dare to move. The great thing happened. The stillness of the wolves, which in itself so horrible a thing, as if the whole pack was only waiting for some signal to hurl itself upon him, began to show signs of breaking up. Here and there a head would wag, and a lulling tongue show between white fangs. A she-wolf would snap at her neighbor. A half-grown cub would lick his chops, growling softly in his throat. A stirrer, a restless movement, set the pack heaving. Teeth were bared and hackles rose. A thousand eyes glimmered in the shadows of the moon. The restlessness increased, growing moment by moment. The pack swayed, bristled, became one wolf-throat with a growl like the rumble of an avalanche. There came a supreme moment before the pack began its dreadful work. If nothing happened before the moment passed, then Shasta would be doomed. It was then that the thing happened that Shasta breathed again. Like an arrow from the bow, like the avalanche itself, with a roar like a mountain lion, the giant Shumu loosed himself from his rock. Down he came over the heads of the startled wolves, with a leap that made the eyes blink. He brought himself up suddenly, right over Shasta's body. The boy made no attempt at resistance and was knocked down by the blow. Even in that instant, while his head struck the rock, he felt a stab of pain. He knew that Shumu would not hurt him, that underneath Shumu's protection he would be safe. He lay flat on his back with the big wolf's body above him, blotting out the night. A sweet feeling and warmth and tenderness ran in his blood. Some sure thing whispered at his heart that Shumu would tear the pack to pieces, or be himself torn, before he would allow it to touch a hair of the little body that lay so confidently there. The astonished wolves gazed at this extraordinary thing. At first it looked as if Shumu had given the signal to attack, and to the younger wolves, as seemed as if the moment of the kill had arrived. These half-grown wolves surged forward, leaping over the backs of the older wolves, who, with more wisdom, hesitated, gazeling warily at Shumu. But these rash younger ones, in the face of Shumu's bared fangs, realized their mistake before it was too late and drew back. One, however, paid the penalty of his rashness. He was a trifle duller-witted than the others. He failed to catch, as they did, that swift message from mind to mind which among the forest creatures is like an electric current, warning them in the tenth part of a second, what to seek and what to shun. Even as they rushed forward the other wolves had caught the message, and had held themselves back just in the nick of time. The duller cub had blundered, and he had blundered to his fate. Snarling with rage, Shumu met him in his leap, and with one slash of his fangs ripped his throat. Then, breaking his neck, he flung him clean over his shoulders down the precipice behind. After that, not a single wolf dared to approach. The renown of Shumu's powers as a fighter had spread through the wolf world far and wide. It was by reason of this that he was not known merely as one of the great pack leaders, but held a position which made him a sort of king over the combined packs. And now it was plain, even to the dullest, that Shumu had taken the man-cub under his special care. If Shumu befriended the man-cub, any wolf who dared to dispute his right must run the risk of death. Moreover, what was even more important, Shumu's claiming Shasta as his, proved beyond any argument that henceforward Shasta would have to be regarded as a member of the pack. The wolves, young and old, wise and foolish, looked on this astonishing thing, said nothing, and licked their chops. When Shumu had satisfied himself that the pack had learned its lesson and that Shasta's life was in danger no longer, he moved aside, lifting his large paws delicately so that he should not touch the child. And then Shasta sat up, a little dazed because of the blow he had received, and rubbed the sore place on his head, and smiled at the wolves. And when Shumu, walking very deliberately and stiff-legged, his tail arched with pride, moved toward his rock. Shasta went with him and took up his position at his foster-father's side. When they were seated together on the rock, Shumu threw up his long snout and sent a deep howl shuddering to the moon. Shasta took it up and sent his own voice spinning after it. Then, as with one voice, the whole pack replied. And then again that wild-wolf chorus rose and fell, chanting, sobbing, wailing its unearthly dirge out into the silent hollows of the night. And down below, the tall shapes of the Indians went back to their tepees, where sleep came to them in spite of the medicine of the wolves, because sleep is the greater medicine. When the last wailing sob had died away, and the last lonely echo came shivering from the peaks, the wolves began to go. There was no sign for a general move. They went singly or in little companies. Shasta, looking down from his rock, saw the pack thinning by slow degrees. As a single wolf or several departed they seemed to detach themselves from the edges of the pack softly, as vapours do from the blown edges of a cloud. And these vapour-like forms drifted across the open ground without any sound till they were lost along the barren, or in the shadow of the trees. Soon, out of all that vast pack not fifty wolves were left. Then there were only twenty-five. At last there remained but Shumu, Shasta, the foster-brothers, and Shasta himself. The moon was still high overhead, intensely bright, and the shadows of the rocks had a marvellous blackness. The vast and solemn woods hung like folded nightmares, along the mountain-sides. The silence seemed like a solid thing which you could strike with a stone and set humming. Shasta, breathing deeply after his howling song, looked down curiously on the Indian village far below. The bright redness in the middle of it still glowed, but less brightly than before because the fire was dying. All round it the tepee stood in a motionless ring. Shasta did not know they were tepees, nor even that they were not alive. They seemed to be waiting there and listening. Now that the wolf chorus was over he half expected them to move. No sound came up from the huskies, which, like the wolves, had disappeared. They had slunk back to the tepees and were now fast asleep. No sound, no movement. Shasta wondered what it all could mean, and where those strange wolves were hidden that could go upright on their hind feet. It was a mystery which his little brain could not solve. He wanted to ask Shumu, but something seemed to tell him that it would be useless, and that Shumu would not be able to explain. Presently Shumu stretched himself, laid back his ears and yawned. Then he leaped down from the rock and trotted off. Shasta followed it once, because he knew that the moment Shumu went the rest of the family would move, and he had no wish to be left alone in that unearthly place which seemed to lie somewhere between the gorges and the moon. They went back in the same order as they had come, Shumu leading, Shasta in the middle, Nitka bringing up the rear. Down the mountain slopes along the ravines, through the endless leagues of forest they passed in silence like a procession of gray ghosts. It was the same trail also. Never for a yard's space did they quit that long-back trail. And they were the same wolves, not altered in the least degree from what they were before. Yet to Shasta all was different in an odd way which he did not understand. He seemed to be closer to his wolf kindred than ever before, to have a finer sense for all they did and were. Up to the present he had lived with them, played with them, eaten and slept with them, but now he seemed to be one with them, as he had never been before. And this, though he did not know it, was because of the singing of the wolf Chorus, because he had sung himself, as it were, into the very heart of the wild. CHAPTER VIII. THE VOICE THAT WAS GAHOOPRAY. Two days after the chorus night Shasta was out for a prowl by himself. The prowling instinct was strong within him now. He loved to creep into the forest alone and climb a tree above some runway to see who was abroad. The deer drifted past like dreams, lifting their feet delicately and wrinkling their noses upwind, or a fox would sneak along, ears, eyes, and nose on the alert, but never seeing Shasta above him on his perch. And sometimes the wolves would come, two or three in single file, and Shasta would make cub noises at them, and take a huge delight in watching their astonishment as they looked up into the trees. On this particular night he had not perched long in his chosen tree, when he heard the dreary wail of GahooPray come sobbing down the dusk. Shasta only knew GahooPray as a voice, a dark unhappy voice, that wailed along the twilight and climbed up and down the night. GahooPray's body lived in a hollow hemlock, and slept there all the day. It was a brown body and downy with all, and beautiful with fat sleep. But when the sun had set behind the bar-glush, and the gloaming was beginning to gloam, then GahooPray squeezed his body out of the hemlock, and the fun began. It began by his sitting just outside his front door and ruffling his feathers, and stretching his great wings. That was to get the sleep out of him and think what a nice bird he was and set his wits to work. And when everything was in proper working order he opened his hooded head and loosed out his voice. And then it was that, near and far away, the forest people gave heed to the whooping cry and answered in their hearts. Those who had been asleep in the thickets during the drowsy afternoon stretched themselves and yawned. The cries seemed to say, good hunting, and that now they must be stir themselves and get abroad. To some it bloated well, and would mean a fat kill. But to others ill, and bean killed themselves, for GahooPray himself was a killer, and very far from bean a vegetarian. But that is the way with owls. It is not a pleasant way or a sugary way. If you are an owl, you do owlishly, and GahooPray was very much an owl. When he had sent his voice far along the dusky trails GahooPray would spread his wings and go sailing after his voice. As he glided through the tops of the spruces, or when swooping down the gorge, he did not make the faintest sound to tell you he was there. Only a great wing shape would come, slanting through the tree, and swoop! Some rat or leveret would wish it hadn't been there. It was some time before Shasta learnt that GahooPray had a body as well as a voice. Often and often when that melancholy sound went drearily past, Shasta would shiver with something that was almost fear, and would wait for it to come again. And sometimes other voices would answer GahooPray's, and the echoes would be mocking in the hollow gorges, but always there was something peculiar about his, which set it apart from the others, so that you could recognize it again. GahooPray was feeling particularly cheerful this evening, and whenever he felt like that he always put an extra miserable wobble into his voice. It was very misleading of him, though he didn't mean to deceive. As a matter of fact, he was a most contented soul, and had never had an unhappy night in his life. As for the hump or the dump or anything silly like that, GahooPray would have sobbed with amusement if you had suggested anything of the sort. But he loved pretending to be sad, to sit on a dead limb and hoot and hoot, till his heart seemed to be breaking, gave him an exquisite delight. When Shasta heard the long, haunting cry which he had heard so often before, he had a sudden desire to find out if there was a body which sat behind the voice. So, without any hesitation, he slid down from his tree and traveled towards the sound. Twice before he reached the hemlock, GahooPray wailed his melancholy pleasure note, and unwittingly guided Shasta to the spot. At first Shasta could not see plainly what manner of person GahooPray might be, for the shade of the hemlock was very black, and GahooPray's front door was well within it. But when Shasta stole up to the very foot of the tree, and gazed up into the enormous eyes above him, he realized that the voice had indeed a body behind it. For a long time the bird and the boy observed each other in silence. GahooPray felt that it wasn't his place to begin a conversation, and Shasta didn't like to. But at last he plucked up courage and began. But the beginning, the middle, and the end of his conversation were only odd little wolf noises that he gurgled in his throat. They were not in the least like words, but that didn't matter. For behind each gurgle there was a thought which, by some secret means which human folks couldn't understand, spilled itself out of Shasta's head into GahooPray's, and made the meaning plain. It would be impossible to tell exactly what they said to each other in the shadow of the hemlock, for owl language is not translatable like Arabic or Greek. If it were, there would be a brown owl grammar and a brown owl spelling book, and some other pieces of monstrous literature which we are mercifully spared. For the brown owl's library is not bound in calf, though you can sometimes catch the flutter of its leaves in the flowing of the air, and the litter-press of the twilight is too dim for human eyes. Suddenly GooPray's great yellow eyes stopped gazing at Shasta, and glanced outwards into the dusk. There was such an intense and solemn look in them that Shasta looked too. Just beyond the shade of the tree he thought he saw something that went slowly past, but he couldn't be sure. It had no shape. It was as if a piece of the twilight had broken a drift from the rest. A little waft of air accompanied it with a whispering sound. Then, whatever it was, it had gone by, and everything was as before. Shasta was startled. He turned quickly to GooPray and asked him what it was. But GooPray only swelled out his feathers hugely and was dumb. He hooted his long cry, listened intently to catch the effect, and, spreading his wings, floated away. And that was how Shasta learned that GooPray was a body as well as a voice, and how he saw, for the first time in his life, the passing of the spirit of the wild. For indeed, that spirit is little spoken of in these our times, and I think seldom seen, for our eyes are not accustomed to the old beautiful shadows that are for ever going by. It is only the animals who see them, or those who walk continually in the great spaces or have their dwelling within sound of the trees. End of chapter 7 and 8