When they arrived at a clearing Runt had never seen before, Bider squeezed through a wire fence and stopped abruptly. Runt crawled on his belly under the bottom wire and joined Bider.
"See," Bider said, and Runt did, indeed, see. The only problem was that he had no idea what he was seeing. The light from a half moon glinted off the splotchy hides of a herd of large black-and-white creatures. Larger than deer, not as big as moose. Succulent, even soft looking. They grazed the way moose and deer did, but Runt had never seen anything like them. Their smell was vaguely familiar, though.
"I've told King about them, but he won't listen," Bider said. "He refuses even to come with me to see."
"What are they?" Runt whispered. It was hard to believe they were real. Despite the fact that he and Bider were standing right out in the open, in full view, the creatures continued to crop grass as though they had never heard of wolves.
Even as Runt asked, he caught another scent. Not just the smell of living meat, but something more. The odor of the humans the creatures belonged to.
"They're called cows," Bider replied. "I thought you'd know all about them. Their owners are such good friends of yours."
"Friends?" Runt's legs had begun to tremble the moment he had distinguished the human scent, and he tried to steady himself. In the brief time he had been with the humans, he hadn't grown accustomed to the stink they left on everything. Now he had to struggle to keep from turning and running blindly back into the forest.
"I thought if you saw them, if you went back and told him, King would listen to you."
Runt was too astonished even to reply. Why would Bider think his father would listen to him?
One of the spotted black-and-white creatures was grazing close by, and she looked up, seeing them apparently for the first time. Now, Runt thought. Now. She will understand her danger!
But she didn't. She simply stood there and gazed in their direction, her dark eyes placid and incurious. Runt had never had such an odd encounter. When a wolf sees a moose or a deer, a kind of contract passes between them. The creature says, Yes, you may take me or No, this isn't my time, but always the prey understands. These cattle had no comprehension at all. Why, even foolish Rabbit knew better than to stand and stare into the eyes of a wolf!
If he had remained with the humans, let them care for him day after day, would he, too, have grown so stupid? The thought made Runt shudder.
"Let's get a talisman to take back to your father," Bider said. "Maybe that will convince him." As he spoke, he loped lightly into the open grassy field, passing the cow who had been watching them and coming up behind another. This one went on grazing—didn't even take a few steps to move away—and when Bider got close, he jumped up and grabbed her dangling tail in his fierce jaws.
The cow's attention was caught, finally, with her tail. She bellowed, kicked, began to run. Already, though, Bider had fallen away. But he hadn't released his grip. He dropped to the ground with the cow's long, fringed tail sliced off neatly and clamped between his teeth.
The cow kept running, bellowing. Several others in the herd galloped a few clumsy steps to move out of the way of the running one's clamor. Then they went back to their grazing, as though a large white wolf in their midst, holding the severed tail of one of their own, was nothing to be particularly concerned about.
The wounded cow came up against another fence and stopped finally. She mooed pitifully, dripping blood from the stump where her tail used to be. Most of the rest of her kind still ignored her.
Bider turned and trotted across the pasture toward Runt, grinning, still holding the creature's tail in his teeth.
"Here," Bider said, dropping the tail at Runt's feet. "Take that home to your daddy. Let him see how sweet it is."
Runt sniffed the tail. It smelled rich and warm. It smelled, in fact, exactly like the meat he had been offered when he'd been with the humans, though he hadn't been ready to eat then. But there was no question it would be tasty. And a whole herd of these creatures—not one of which had the wits or strength to fight off a single wolf, let alone the pack—stood here before them.
His family was through being hungry. That was certain.
And Bider was going to let him present the gift of this easy food to his father!
Runt picked up the sweet-smelling tail in his teeth.
What will friend Raven have to say about this? he wondered. What silly warning will he give now? When the time comes, won't he be glad enough to share a good meal?
Provider, Runt decided as he trotted beside Bider, the tail clamped tightly in his teeth. That would be a good name. It had a much better ring than Runt.
17
"No!" King didn't even bother to look at the gift Runt had dropped at his feet. He said it again. "No."
Runt was too stunned to speak, but he didn't need to. Bider spoke for him.
"Just take a taste," he whined. "These creatures aren't far away. And they're so stupid, they don't even know enough to run ... or to fight, either. They just stand there waiting to be eaten. You've never seen anything like it."
With a nudge of his nose, Runt pushed the richly scented tail closer to his father.
King ignored Bider and spoke directly to Runt. "Haven't you learned yet? This meat isn't for us. It's been touched by them." And with that he walked away.
Touched by them. The phrase sent a chill through Runt's heart. If being touched by humans could ruin perfectly good meat, what had it done to him?
Runt turned helplessly back to Bider. Surely, he would explain that the meat was good, tell King again how easy the beasts were to kill. But the white wolf, clearly disgusted, had walked away, too.
Runt picked up the tail again and stood holding it. He shook his head to swing it back and forth. He could see the other pups watching him, but no one took his invitation to play.
Runt carried his prize off to his private place beneath the maple and gnawed it down to a collection of small bright bones.
18
When the sun settled below the tips of the trees, King rose and stretched. "It's time," he called to his pack. "Come."
"Past time, if you ask me," Bider muttered, but, as usual, King chose to ignore him.
Runt lifted his head, watching.
"Come," King said again, and this time his sweeping gaze took in all four pups. Apparently, they were to be a regular part of the hunters now.
Once more Runt remained silent through the howl, but he took up his accustomed place in the rear when the pack set off in their usual single file.
The wolves trotted at a steady pace for a couple of miles before they flushed a doe and her fawn. The two crashed away through the underbrush, outrunning the wolves almost before the pack could begin the chase.
The pack would have had a better chance if they could have gotten the pair out into the open. Or onto a frozen lake if the weather had been colder. Runt had heard his father talk about chasing prey onto the lakes in the winter, because the ice put animals with hard hooves at a disadvantage. This day, though, with the ice not yet formed, with the fawns grown strong and confident in their stride and everyone well fed at the end of a lush summer, the wolves could gain no advantage.
Farther on, King sniffed out a fresh trail and turned to follow it, but when they arrived at the small clearing where a moose was grazing, the huge animal, a cow in her prime, stared back at them with stubborn unconcern. Even Bider didn't argue that they should hurl themselves at an animal who refused to run, so they moved on.
They came upon a raspberry patch and paused to sample and then to feast, but a black bear arrived, an enormous, cross male intent on the same berries, and they moved on.
"Some confrontations," King said quietly, "aren't worth the cost."
Again, not even Bider disagreed.
They moved through the night this way, sometimes testing an animal into a brief dash, then, when their prospective prey proved strong, dropping back to preserve their own strength. Occasionally, they chose to mo
ve on because the animal they found was large and could hold them at bay. Sometimes they simply encountered no game. When they came upon the territorial marking left by the leader of a neighboring pack, King marked the edge of their own territory. Then they began to circle back.
Finally, as the rising sun filtered through the trees, King led them again toward their own clearing, their bellies still empty. Silver's limp had grown worse. Hunter, with her sore chest, was moving slowly, too. And the pups were so tired that they had begun to waver on their feet. But no one uttered any complaint, either about pain or fatigue or lack of food. This was the life of a wolf. Sometimes food was plentiful. Sometimes it was not. They all knew that.
When they reached their own clearing, each dropped to the ground and tumbled into nearly instant sleep.
It was later that Runt woke to see Bider standing at the far edge of the clearing, staring in the direction of the sleeping King. After a long moment, the white wolf turned and slipped away, disappearing among the trees. Runt didn't call after him to ask where he was going.
He didn't have to ask. He knew. His stomach rumbled at the thought.
19
The next time Runt awakened, Bider was emerging from the forest, his belly distended, his face bloodied by the feast he had just finished. He swaggered up to King, who was just waking, too, and stood in front of him. With King's eyes full on him, he regurgitated a steaming pile of meat, dropping it before his leader as though he were feeding a pup.
"For you," Bider said. "I thought you might be hungry."
Runt held his breath. Such deep insult was mixed with the gift that he could not even guess at his father's response.
King said nothing. He looked neither at Bider nor at the meat the white wolf had brought back in his belly. He merely rose, stretched, gave out an enormous yawn, and walked away.
The newly awakened pups rose, too, and began to edge toward the feast.
"Leave it!" their father growled.
Even before his nose had confirmed what he knew, Runt understood why King had refused the gift. This meat came from one of the cows that belonged to the humans.
Bider remained standing there, next to his gift. His yellow eyes studied each of them in turn, daring them to come for the food, despite King's command. No one did. However hungry they might be, no one was ready to disobey their leader.
Runt didn't dare disobey, either, but he stood several feet from the steaming offering and watched both Bider and his father closely.
What was wrong with King? Was he so afraid of humans that he was afraid even of the placid, stupid beasts who supplied this marvelous food?
Runt shivered. What was wrong with him? He was questioning his own father.
And yet the question remained.
When no one moved toward the meat, the white wolf gulped it again. Runt watched him eat, his own mouth watering.
Then, just as everyone was turning away, relieved that the near confrontation had passed, King turned back to give Bider a stern stare. But this time, instead of lowering his head and tucking his tail as he had always done before, the white wolf lifted his chin, pricked his ears, raised his hackles. A direct challenge such as that could not be ignored.
The fight that followed was silent and terrible. For months the pack had been accustomed to Bider's constant encroachments on King's rule. A rude word, eyes too direct, ears cocked at the wrong angle, tail too high. But King had always handled the threat to the pack's order easily, with a growl, a stare, a loud chomping of the teeth. And Bider would return to his place again, submissive, properly respectful.
But this time the white wolf came at King with his tail high, his hackles raised, his gaze unwavering. He said nothing, just came straight on, clearly having made up his mind to bide his time no longer.
The rest of the pack barely breathed. Runt edged closer, but he knew better—as everyone did—than to interfere in any way with the fight.
Bider threw himself at King, his mouth open, his teeth gleaming. After a too-brief struggle, King was down and Bider was on top, snapping and snarling, snatching at King's shoulder with vicious teeth.
Stop! Runt wanted to cry, but he didn't. No one else cried out, either.
Then, with a mighty effort, King twisted, threw Bider off, scrambled to his feet again. The two wolves circled once more. Blood dripped from the jagged tear in King's shoulder.
"Father!" Sniffer cried, but a look from Silver warned her, and she said no more.
Bider feinted, withdrew. King lunged, snapped, came away with white fur clinging to his lips. The two threw themselves at each other, gnashing their teeth, rolling on the ground, locked together until the black fur and the white fur seemed like separate parts of the same being.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the fight was over. King stood over Bider, his teeth clamped on the white wolf's throat. The black wolf panted and bled, but he was victorious.
Bider lay on the ground, limp, waiting.
The others waited, too.
Now, Runt thought. Now. My father will kill him. And though he wanted to cry out, Don't! Runt held his breath, held his entire self in silent suspension.
If Bider had been the winner, King might never have risen again. Compassion was not in the white wolf's nature. But King was the one on top, and he had always ruled with a gentle authority. He stood for a long time, staring down at his would-be usurper, then took a quiet step back, allowing Bider to find his feet once more. Both wolves bled profusely.
"Go!" King said.
And Bider did. Slinking off across the clearing, across the stream, his head low, his tail tight against his belly, he disappeared into the deep woods without once looking back.
The pack would feel Bider's absence. Food would be harder to come by without the white wolf's prowess. Their days would be quieter, too, less filled with tension. They all settled to the ground slowly, one at a time, and sighed.
Only Runt continued to watch the dark place between the trees into which Bider had disappeared.
Bider knew how to get food. Easily and in quantity. Food that his father refused. Bider had shown him where and how.
Should a pup named Runt follow?
20
The night was long beyond imagining. King made himself a bed at one edge of the clearing, and all the pack circled him, licking his wounds, murmuring reassurance and respect. All except Bider, of course, whose absence no one mentioned.
Runt tried once to approach his father, to reach him to nudge his chin in the way a young son should. But Leader pushed past him, and the black pup withdrew, returning to his accustomed place beneath the maple. He lay there, his chin resting on his paws, watching.
Lying in the dark, though, he could not rid himself of the memory of Bider, bloody and defeated, slinking away into the forest. The white wolf was being tended by no one.
Would he, Runt, be a bider one day, too? Would there ever be a true place for him in this or any pack?
Morning had come before King's bleeding finally stopped. When the sky had gone from pewter to a pale rose, the black wolf gathered strength to rise stiffly and move off to the stream for a drink of water. The pack let out a collective sigh. Their leader would survive. If King survived, they would continue to be who they were meant to be, a family, each single wolf grown stronger for its connection with the others.
With King wounded and Bider gone, with Silver and Hunter both still injured and the pups too young yet to be much help on a hunt, the pack faced certain hunger. They had survived hunger before, of course. Wolves are often required to survive hunger. But this time winter was coming on, and the pack was badly depleted. This hunger was going to be serious.
Runt lay at the edge of the clearing, gazing at his family, loving them all. His gentle mother, Hunter, Leader, Runner, Sniffer. King, so proud, usually so strong. But even looking at them, one after the other, he couldn't stop thinking of Bider and of the meat that waited so close at hand. Meat that would bring back his father's streng
th. The pack's strength.
Except that King would never accept it.
That great beast Bider had brought down was feeding the white wolf, restoring him, perhaps even encouraging him to return to battle. The meat would feed other creatures of the forest, too. Even Raven. But not King or his family.
Runt knew his father was wrong. It was possible for his father to be wrong! Humans were good, kind. Runt knew this for a fact. The meat of their beasts was good, too. And easy to get. Very easy.
But if his father wouldn't listen to him—and what father, after all, would listen to a pup he had named Runt?—then there was no way to save him. Or anyone else in his family.
All that was left for Runt to do was to save himself.
21
Runt paused once, just at the edge of the close-growing trees, listening to see if someone from the pack might call him back. No one did.
He moved out, taking the direction Bider had earlier.
He found the place again easily, following his nose, following his memory of humps of rock and fallen trees, even of patches of flowers. In the open pasture beyond the easily penetrated fence, the beasts owned by humans grazed. They moved slowly as through a dream of thin morning light. At the edge of the pasture lay the carcass of the one Bider had killed. The smell of meat filled the air, rich and compelling.
And as Runt had guessed, Bider was there before him, feasting again. When Runt approached, the white wolf growled, deep in his throat. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see if you were all right," Runt replied.
"Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?" Bider tore off a hunk of meat from the carcass and swallowed it in a great gulp.
Drool dripped from Runt's tongue at the sight, but he kept a respectful distance. He had seen what Bider's teeth could do. Looking at Bider, he could see what King's teeth had done, too. The white wolf was bleeding from a wound on his back, and one leg was deeply slashed.
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