wondered about the wolves.
Surely they must come now. Surely this winter
would bring them. But where were they? What had
happened to them? What were they waiting for?
The caribou grew dangerously tense. They would
not stay in one place, and Awklet had constantly to
lead them to new bedding grounds. Fortunately his
own calm confidence was contagious. And for this
there was great physical evidence. The appearance of the massive young bull moose in the full strength
of his fourth winter would have inspired courage in
a pine mouse. Fully 1,300 pounds in weight, he
stood five inches over six feet at the shoulder. His
coat, a dull shaggy red-brown in earlier calfhood,
was now sleek and deep and very dark, almost black
in color, with the belly and lower legs a bright,
creamy, fawn-yellow, after the striking pattern of his
Alaska-bred sire. His antlers, while not yet of the
magnificent rack and spread that later years would
bring, were still sharp-tined, clearly dangerous
weapons. For all his tremendous size, his movements were lithe and quick as those of a lynx, his
every attitude suggestive of alert, fearless, highly
dangerous fighting power.
The ugly scar that Loki had left upon him, and
that ran like a streak of angry red lightning across
his great hump-muscled neck from crest to jaw base,
served only to increase his look of savage fitness.
Small wonder that the caribou, looking at him, grew
quiet and, for the time at least, unafraid.
The third month passed and still the wolves did
not come. The cracking cold of deep winter was
upon the woodland now, the normal time for the
appearance of the Arctic killers, long past. The waiting became intolerable.
At last, early on a frosty morning in the fourth
month, a lone caribou sentinel far out on the barrenground tundra sighted the main pack of white
wolves traveling south. By the use of good snow
craft and the fine caribou art of moving unseen in
vast fields of white, the crusty old stag was able to
outrace the pack and come ahead of it to the borders
of the forest, thus bringing the warning to Awklet.
The latter at once departed for a well-hidden look out post above Blizzard Pass, from which he could
observe the approaching pack. Loki was in the lead
and the pack was at full strength, guaranteeing that
the wolves did not intend splitting up to attack from
more than one direction. They were entering the
woodland openly, boldly, and confidently. They
were not even moving fast, just coming on at a
steady jog trot.
Awklet's fierce little eyes snapped with excitement. Returning to the herd, he swiftly led it deeper
into the forest, guiding it carefully along the broad
open trail that ran from the base of Blizzard Pass to
the heart of the Hemlock Wood. Now he could make
his own defenses, secure in the knowledge of the exact direction from which the wolves would attack.
For his battleground he selected the very meadow
where, three years before, Loki had made the mistake of sparing a wobbly-kneed moose calf's life.
Driving the last year's fawns and young does into
the center of the clearing, he herded the older does
and the stags of all ages into a solid ring of protection around them. That done, he took his own position on the northern edge of the circle. He was
ready. On the basis of what he knew of Loki's movements, it was an excellent disposition of forces.
From the standpoint of what he did not know, it was a
possible deathtrap.
Loki had spent the preceding summer scouring
the Arctic for new recruits and had succeeded beyond his hopes. To the east of his own domain was a
polar waste of rock-girt ice floes ruled over by a
mangy outcast called Boron. This crafty old scavenger had a following of perhaps thirty wolves, the
outlaws and unspeakables of every decent wolf pack
in the Northland. Loki, accidentally crossing trails with Boron, saw in him the perfect ally for his
vengeful return to the Hemlock Wood. The skulking
Surely they must come now. Surely this winter
would bring them. But where were they? What had
happened to them? What were they waiting for?
The caribou grew dangerously tense. They would
not stay in one place, and Awklet had constantly to
lead them to new bedding grounds. Fortunately his
own calm confidence was contagious. And for this
there was great physical evidence. The appearance of the massive young bull moose in the full strength
of his fourth winter would have inspired courage in
a pine mouse. Fully 1,300 pounds in weight, he
stood five inches over six feet at the shoulder. His
coat, a dull shaggy red-brown in earlier calfhood,
was now sleek and deep and very dark, almost black
in color, with the belly and lower legs a bright,
creamy, fawn-yellow, after the striking pattern of his
Alaska-bred sire. His antlers, while not yet of the
magnificent rack and spread that later years would
bring, were still sharp-tined, clearly dangerous
weapons. For all his tremendous size, his movements were lithe and quick as those of a lynx, his
every attitude suggestive of alert, fearless, highly
dangerous fighting power.
The ugly scar that Loki had left upon him, and
that ran like a streak of angry red lightning across
his great hump-muscled neck from crest to jaw base,
served only to increase his look of savage fitness.
Small wonder that the caribou, looking at him, grew
quiet and, for the time at least, unafraid.
The third month passed and still the wolves did
not come. The cracking cold of deep winter was
upon the woodland now, the normal time for the
appearance of the Arctic killers, long past. The waiting became intolerable.
At last, early on a frosty morning in the fourth
month, a lone caribou sentinel far out on the barrenground tundra sighted the main pack of white
wolves traveling south. By the use of good snow
craft and the fine caribou art of moving unseen in
vast fields of white, the crusty old stag was able to
outrace the pack and come ahead of it to the borders
of the forest, thus bringing the warning to Awklet.
The latter at once departed for a well-hidden look out post above Blizzard Pass, from which he could
observe the approaching pack. Loki was in the lead
and the pack was at full strength, guaranteeing that
the wolves did not intend splitting up to attack from
more than one direction. They were entering the
woodland openly, boldly, and confidently. They
were not even moving fast, just coming on at a
steady jog trot.
Awklet's fierce little eyes snapped with excitement. Returning to the herd, he swiftly led it deeper
into the forest, guiding it carefully along the broad
open trail that ran from the base of Blizzard Pass to
the heart of the Hemlock Wood. Now he could make
his own defenses, secure in the knowledge of the exact direction from which the wolves would attack.
For his battleground he selected the very meadow
where, three years before, Loki had made the mistake of sparing a wobbly-kneed moose calf's life.
Driving the last year's fawns and young does into
the center of the clearing, he herded the older does
and the stags of all ages into a solid ring of protection around them. That done, he took his own position on the northern edge of the circle. He was
ready. On the basis of what he knew of Loki's movements, it was an excellent disposition of forces.
From the standpoint of what he did not know, it was a
possible deathtrap.
Loki had spent the preceding summer scouring
the Arctic for new recruits and had succeeded beyond his hopes. To the east of his own domain was a
polar waste of rock-girt ice floes ruled over by a
mangy outcast called Boron. This crafty old scavenger had a following of perhaps thirty wolves, the
outlaws and unspeakables of every decent wolf pack
in the Northland. Loki, accidentally crossing trails with Boron, saw in him the perfect ally for his
vengeful return to the Hemlock Wood. The skulking
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