Runt fed when the others did, jumping up to bump a hunter's mouth to beg the food brought back in their bellies. He joined his littermates in games of tug of war with the bones and chunks of meat the hunters brought back, too. Once he even helped Sniffer locate the haunch of a deer King had cached near the clearing against a hungrier time. For their transgression, their father disciplined them equally with bites on the tops of their muzzles.
One day the pups discovered Skunk, their noses twitching at the compelling and disgusting smell that hung around the waddling black-and-white creature. Runt was the only one with enough sense to stay back, proving his encounter with Porcupine hadn't been entirely in vain. But it gave him little pleasure to avoid sharing his littermates' smelly fate. His good fortune seemed only to prove in another way how little he belonged.
As the summer moved on, the pups' eyes changed from blue to the deep yellow of a mature wolf's. Their down-soft puppy fur was replaced by sleeker adult coats. And, of course, they grew. Their already-long legs, their big paws and tall ears grew even faster than the rest until their body parts seemed awkwardly mismatched. Runt changed and grew with the other pups, but he remained the smallest. And he was still Runt.
"Why," he asked Helper one day, "did my mother give me such a cruel name?"
"Didn't you know?" he replied. "Our mother didn't name you. Father did."
Father! His father had named him Runt!
Raven, who had been listening in on the conversation, intruded with his own comment. "There is nothing wrong with being small. Why I've seen a pair of wrens—"
"Yes, yes, I know," Runt snapped. "They chased a crow across the sky." And he turned away.
Autumn approached. Sumacs blazed red, the topmost branches of the maple tree Runt often rested beneath burst with color. The leaves of the aspens shivered on their slender stems, giving out a rattle as dry as death.
Bears ate their languorous way through the forest. Small red squirrels showered the ground with pinecones, as many as a hundred in an hour, then scurried down to gather them up to store against the coming winter. The reddish brown coats of the deer dulled to bluish gray.
Some days the hunters were successful and the pack lay in the cooling sunshine, gorged and contented. Sometimes they returned home with bellies still empty.
It was after several unsuccessful hunts that Raven flew overhead. "Moose!" he called. "Moose!" He often flew in with reports of game nearby. When wolves eat, ravens eat, too.
The pups stopped their play. The adults woke from their napping or half napping states, suddenly alert.
King rose to his feet. "Where?" he asked.
"This way!" Raven croaked. "Very near." And he flew off across the stream into the forest. The wolves all stood, watching the bird's departure, their ears pricked and their noses working.
King tipped back his head and howled. Silver joined him, and the others gathered around, adding to the song. "Moose!" the song said. "There are moose waiting for us out there."
Their voices started low, then rose and rose, each on a different note, until the entire forest reverberated with their presence. Even the pups joined in ... except for Runt. He had not howled once since he had sung his way back through the forest from the human place.
Raven flew back. "Don't sing," he scolded. "It's time for action. Let's go!"
"Come!" King called. And to Runt's amazement, this time he looked directly at the pups.
Runt's heart raced. Could his father possibly be calling the pups to join the hunt? Even him?
"Come!" King said again, and his meaning was clear. The pups were to go on their first hunt!
Runt wagged his tail and looked at Helper, who wagged his tail, too. "Now," Helper whispered, "you can use what I've taught you."
Runt intended to do exactly that. He would prove himself to Helper. He would prove himself to his mother and to Bider, too.
Especially, though, he would prove himself to the one who had named him Runt.
14
King took the lead, and the rest of the pack followed in their usual order. The adults set a steady pace, but the pups' legs had grown long enough over the summer that they were able to keep up.
The pack moved silently, crossing the stream and angling off in the direction Raven had shown them, their noses testing the air.
King was the first to pick up the scent. He stopped abruptly. "There," he told the others. "Just there. Close!"
Sniffer got it next. "There!" she echoed in a high, excited voice.
And then the rest, including Runt, could smell it, too.
They circled around King, touching his nose, wagging their tails, savoring the rich, good smell of moose. There, the breeze told them. Just there!
"Come!" King said again, and they moved out in the same unerring line.
After a short distance, Bang called out, "At the edge of the woods, in the long grass. Lying down."
The message passed down the line. "At the edge of the woods. In the long grass. Lying down."
"If he refuses to run," King commanded, "drop back. The ones who hold their ground are young and strong. We don't want a fight."
Again King's words passed back along the line, this time accompanied by Bider's muttering.
"We're hungry," Bider complained. "Don't tell us to give up before we've even begun."
Runt heard it all, his father's words and Bider's complaints. He didn't know which one he should listen to. He, too, was hungry. He knew that.
The wolves ran full out until the scent they pursued was overwhelming. Then, suddenly, King slowed and the pack slowed behind him. They crouched lower, moving with more deliberate steps, their heads thrust forward.
Moose! Moose! The scent sang in Runt's brain as it sang for every other wolf in the pack.
"There!" King said, and that word passed along the line, too.
"There ... there ... there ... moose is there."
And then an enormous creature came crashing to his feet, rising out of the long grass where he had been lying. It was a bull moose, full grown, enormous. Would he stand? Would he fight? Would they return home with their bellies still empty and aching?
For a long moment the moose remained still, peering at the approaching pack with small, nearsighted eyes, and the wolves fanned out, forming a half circle, waiting their chance.
I know, the moose's eyes said. I know you have come to kill me. But I won't go without a fight.
Runt was stunned at the size of the beast. He hadn't realized anything could be so large. And glancing at his littermates, he was certain they were as overwhelmed as he with the fellow's size, with his smell, with being part of the hunt for the first time. Sniffer trembled, even as she savored the rich scent of the beast before them. Runner and Leader danced forward, then back again, forward and back.
Even King hesitated, sizing up the beast.
Bider stepped out ahead of the rest, moving closer to their quarry. "Come on," he prodded. "Don't lose this one."
And then their chance came. The moose's courage failed, and he turned and lumbered away. The pack dashed after.
"It's an old one," Silver said, passing the word to the pups. "We have a chance."
And watching the moose run, Runt could see what his mother meant. The huge animal carried himself with a towering dignity, but his gait was stiff. He seemed to be a bit lame on the left side, too. And though he picked up speed quickly, the wolves were easily able to match him.
King and Bider jumped at the moose's rump, slashing, drawing blood in streams. Hunter and Silver ran past them. They leapt and clung to the beast's shoulders, one on each side. Helper put on a burst of speed and got in front of the great animal's head. Then he turned back. With a lunge, he leapt to take hold of the beast's leathery nose, grabbing on, swinging free with all four feet off the ground.
The moose bellowed but didn't slow his pace.
Already Runt could taste the fresh meat. He longed to take hold, too ... anywhere. And though his heart was hamm
ering in his chest, he pushed and pushed until he had moved past the rest of the pups and was right on the great beast's heels. Then he plunged forward, grabbing for the back of one leg.
The next thing Runt knew he was flying through the air, flying and landing, too hard. He lifted his head, struggling to pull air into his lungs again, and from that position, flat on the ground, he observed the rest of the action. The bull moose brushed one shoulder against a slender aspen, strong and straight. Silver crashed to the ground, twisting as she fell. Then the great creature passed close to a tree on the other side. Hunter's hold was jerked free, and she, too, landed unceremoniously on the ground.
Now only Helper had a hold, swinging from the beast's nose. And as the moose continued to stagger forward, he swung his huge head, hurling the yearling wolf this way and that. Helper might have been a leafy branch buffeted by the wind. With the next sweep of the bull's enormous head, the yearling's body smacked into the trunk of an oak tree. Hard. Then the moose swung his head back and drove the young wolf into an elm on the other side.
Helper dropped to the ground like a rock.
In the sudden silence that followed, the bull moose disappeared into the forest. Only Bider still pursued him.
Silver and Hunter rose from where they had fallen. Silver limped, but she led the way toward the place where Helper lay. Runt rose, too, and the pups and Hunter followed close on their mother's heels. King joined them all.
Silver sniffed Helper's face, his eyes, his ears. Then the silver wolf whimpered and stepped back. The others approached, sniffed, whimpered, one after the other. Helper did not stir. Only Runt stayed back.
King licked his son's face, just once, then turned away. "Come," he said to his family. It was an entirely different call than the one with which they had begun the hunt.
Even Silver hesitated, looking down at her fallen son, but then she whined, sniffed Helper again, and followed her mate.
Runt stood alone beside Helper's still form, frozen into place. How could his family leave...?
"Come along," Hunter commanded, moving the pups forward with gentle bumps of her muzzle. "Come along."
"But ..." Runt dropped stubbornly to the ground, glancing over his shoulder at his parents, who were now some distance away, walking with their heads down. His mother's limp looked bad. "We can't leave Helper here. He needs us!"
"Helper will never need us again," Hunter replied softly. "Now come." And she and the other pups moved off after their parents.
But Runt did not come. He laid his chin across Helper's tan chest and watched his family go. He didn't understand. If there was truly nothing they could do for his brother, then why didn't his father follow Bider and continue the hunt? Bider had been right about one thing. They were hungry. They were all hungry.
Long after the rest of his family was gone, Runt lay next to his brother's still body. The light sifting through the trees grew dim, and the bright gold of Helper's steadfastly open eye grew even dimmer, but yet Runt did not move. Flies began to settle on the golden eye, on the dark lips. They crawled into Helper's ears. A turkey vulture had come to perch on a branch overhead, then another. How quickly news traveled in the forest.
But Runt took little notice of any of it until Raven dropped out of a tree, landing near him.
Runt raised his head slowly. "Not you, too," he said. "Are you waiting for me to leave so you can feast?"
"Of course not." Raven ruffled his feathers the way he always did when he was offended. "I have some loyalty, you know."
Runt snapped at one of the endless flies buzzing around his head, then settled his chin once more across his brother's still body. The warmth of Helper's life had slipped away.
"Did Bider bring down the moose?" Runt asked.
"Bider is still running," Raven replied. "Trying to bring down that old bull alone, even injured as he is now, is going to keep him running for a long time."
Alone. The pack should be with him. Why had his father given up so easily? Was it true that he was afraid? Runt wanted to ask Raven, but he didn't. He knew that Raven, for all of his constant quibbling with King, would only defend his father.
In the distance, voices rose. Runt lifted his head. His family had begun a howl, a song of Helper. His life. His death.
Runt pointed his nose at the fading sky, ready to join the song, but no sound came from his throat. He lowered his head, laying it across his brother's body again. After all, no one had asked him to join them.
"Aren't you going home?" Raven asked. "Or are you going on with Bider?"
Runt considered. Those were the choices. Go home, where he had no gift to give—not even his voice—or join Bider on an impossible quest.
Surely, no one missed him at home. And the flight he had taken off the old moose's leg had taught him how little use he would be in this hunt.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, Raven was gone. The light was gone from the forest, too. Helper's body was stiff. The vultures sat like stones in the tree just above them, waiting. No doubt other forest creatures waited, too. Not to mention the hordes of insects and the worms that had already begun silently to feast on the young wolf's body.
The gift of Helper's life was returning to the forest. Back to them all. As young as he was, Runt understood that. He understood, too, that there was nothing more he could do here.
He rose and began plodding deeper into the forest, following the trail left by the wounded moose. Whether he could be any help in the hunt or not, at least he would find Bider.
15
Despite the hours that had passed, the trail was easy to locate. The enormous moose had crushed bushes, wounded trees, dripped blood. And so Runt put his nose to the ground and followed. His shoulder was sore from the kick he had received and had stiffened during the time he had been lying with Helper, but he ignored the pain and concentrated only on the trail.
He would help Bider. He would help Bider bring down the moose. And when they arrived home to the pack, their faces bloody, their bellies full, dragging a chunk of meat between them for the rest to feast on, they would both be heroes. Even he, Runt, would be a hero.
As Runt loped along, he remembered the sensation of sailing through the air, thrust by the moose's kick. He was lucky, he knew, that the kick had only thrown him, not crushed his skull or broken other bones. But even remembering this, he stayed on the trail. He needed food. They all needed food. And with food would come a place in his family.
Runt finally found Bider lying in a patch of morning sunlight by a small stream. The moose Was nowhere in sight.
Runt approached slowly. "I came to help," he said.
"Help?" Bider snorted. "Some help you would be. It's your father I need. Your father and Hunter and Helper and—"
"Helper is dead," Runt interrupted.
"Silver," Bider finished, as though Runt hadn't spoken. "Silver is a fine hunter. I would be glad to have her at my side."
Runt sat down next to the white wolf, just sat there and watched the stream burble past.
"We could have taken that moose, you know," Bider said at last. "If we'd only stayed together, we could have run him to the ground and taken him. Our bellies would all be full by now."
"I know," Runt said.
"He's a coward," Bider added.
"Who?" Runt asked. But of course, he knew that, too.
"Whooo?" a voice repeated from a spruce tree near by. "Whooo?" Owl with his endless, foolish questions.
In any case, Bider didn't bother to answer either of them.
When Bider and Runt arrived back at their new site, the pack had scattered over the hillside. There was very little activity. Even the pups lay still, not pouncing on one another or wrestling or investigating whatever moved in the grass. King was in his usual spot. As Bider and Runt stepped into the clearing, King's gaze slid across Runt and settled on the white wolf. But what those amber eyes saw, Runt could not even guess. Did his father know that he had followed Bider, ready
to help him take the wounded moose for the family?
Silver lifted her head to acknowledge Runt's return, but she didn't rise to welcome him. Not even to give him another wash.
Runt told himself he didn't mind. He certainly didn't need bathing. Still, something inside him ached in a much deeper way than the sore muscles left by the moose's kick.
Bider stalked to the edge of the clearing and threw himself down. He lay there briefly, then rose to choose another spot. Then another. Finally, he marched over to King.
"You can't expect me to do it all alone," he said.
King lifted his head. "Do what alone, Bider?"
"Feed this family."
"No," King replied solemnly. "I can't expect you to do it all alone." And then he settled his chin on his paws and closed his eyes.
Bider, clearly angry, turned and strode into the forest.
16
That night Runt awoke to find Bider standing over him. "Come with me," Bider said. It was an order.
Runt rose. "Where are we going?" he asked, even as he fell into step behind the white wolf.
"You'll see," Bider replied in his usual brusque way. Then he added, mysteriously, "You want a chance to make your father proud, don't you?"
A thrill ran along Runt's spine. How will I do that? he wanted to ask. How will I ever do that? But he knew better than to ply Bider with questions.
Raven appeared before them, balancing on the low bush just ahead.
"Guess what, Raven," Runt called. "I'm going to make my father proud."
"Be careful" was Raven's only response. And he stretched his wings and flew upward.
Runt watched Raven disappear beyond the thinning treetops, then turned his attention back to the white wolf. He didn't need Raven's warning. He knew all about being careful. Porcupine had taught him that lesson very thoroughly. But what, exactly, should he be careful of?
He followed Bider's silent steps through the forest. The night was still except for a light breeze rattling in the trees, the gentle swish of the fallen leaves underfoot.
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