by Tor Seidler
The only thing he was sure of was that if he’d stumbled on any pup other than the runt, he wouldn’t have been able to carry it all the way back to the river. He’d just made it as it was.
I don’t think this counted for much with Lupa. As the days went by, it became clear that she couldn’t forgive him for not saving one of theirs. And though she tended to his wounds, I noticed she would keep her eyes averted. He was a sorry sight. The fur on his face and shoulders eventually came back as good as new, but his backside was permanently furless. And as the burns scabbed over, they looked worse than the raw wounds. All that was left of his once-proud tail was a stub. What’s more, his hind legs had lost their spring. None of the medicinal herbs he was so skilled at finding did any good. There was no way he could hunt. So while the rest of us went after prey he was relegated to babysitting the runt.
With no bigger siblings to compete with for food, the runt gained weight and looked as if she would actually survive. Alberta named her: Hope. Hope was a modest little thing who didn’t yap much. On mornings when my help wasn’t needed to find prey, I stayed behind with her and Frick. I tried to draw Frick out, and Hope would sit listening to him with a rapt expression on her face, her smoky-blue eyes wide. I think she dispelled some of his gloom over his condition.
But the coming of another winter was really hard on him. What fur he had thickened up, but his rear end had no protection against the cold. Even worse, Hope no longer kept him company while the others hunted. The forest fire had ravaged a vast territory, making game scarcer than usual, and though Hope was delicate by wolf standards, she joined the hunt. I know she didn’t like deserting Frick, but although Blue Boy never spoke of it, losing his firstborn son had hit him hard. I think Hope was trying to fill Prince’s place.
When the hunters managed to make a kill, Blue Boy always brought a portion back for Frick, but Frick only picked at it. Not even needed to pup-sit, he fell into a deep depression. He perked up a bit in late February—the beginning of the wolves’ mating season—but Lupa ignored his meaningful looks, and the light in his eyes soon guttered out.
Blue Boy and Alberta, on the other hand, were inseparable. But every ounce of their energy was devoted to keeping the small pack from perishing, and when spring came, they didn’t produce a litter either. There were still blizzards in May. Even in June north-facing slopes were blanketed in snow.
One morning in mid-June I spied an antelope on the next mountain over. As soon as I gave Blue Boy the news, he bellowed out the call of the chase. Alberta, Lupa, and Hope answered with excited barks.
They felled the antelope in a clearing. While we were feasting, another wolf appeared, peering out of the shadows of the firs. Blue Boy narrowed his eyes and let out a menacing snarl. The stranger bowed his head and lowered his tail. He was only average-size, and his ribs were showing, but he had a sleek, charcoal coat. He had no collar, which made me wonder if it had gotten shot off like Blue Boy’s or if he’d never been in the compound.
“You must be starving,” Alberta said.
The wolf lowered his head farther and put his tail between his legs. Blue Boy sniffed and went back to his meal. The stranger crept up to the other end of the carcass and gingerly worked off a bit of meat. Blue Boy let it go.
After gorging himself, Blue Boy tore off a shank and dragged it away for Frick. The rest of us followed, leaving the stranger to pick the bones. Frick was lying listlessly under a rocky overhang on the next mountain over, but not even he could resist fresh antelope.
Their bellies full for the first time in months, the wolves were dozing off when the stranger reappeared just beyond the overhang, his dark coat agleam in the sun. Though clearly surprised at his audacity, Blue Boy must have decided the pack could use another hunter, for instead of attacking he rose to his feet and struck a lordly pose. The stranger came forward and did obeisance, touching his snout to the bottom of Blue Boy’s chin.
“What’s your name?” Lupa said as the new wolf sat down.
“Raze,” he said, giving her an appraising look.
“Where are you from?” Alberta said.
“The Lamar Valley.”
“Where’s that?”
“The northeast corner of Yellowstone.”
“You’re young,” Lupa said.
“Not that young,” Raze said. “I’ll be two in the spring.”
“But you were born down here,” Alberta said. “Don’t you have a pack?”
“I dispersed last fall.”
“Why?” Hope asked.
“I figured I’d find a mate and start a pack of my own,” Raze said, giving Hope a dismissive look. “But I haven’t had much luck. It was a rough winter.”
“What’s this Lamar Valley like?” Lupa asked.
“Like no place you’ve ever seen. Full of elk and pronghorn and mule deer.”
“If it’s such a paradise, why’d you leave?” Frick asked.
“Like I said, it was time for me to disperse.”
“Elk, you say?” Blue Boy said.
“Huge herds,” Raze said. “Bison, too. You could take down a bison, I bet. There’s hundreds of them—huge things, and not that fast.”
“How do they taste?”
“Delicious.”
It was strange. I didn’t know this Raze, and I’d never laid eyes on a bison, yet something made me doubt he’d ever tasted one.
“Maybe we should move there,” Lupa suggested.
“Frick’s not ready for a journey,” said Hope.
“Go, please,” Frick said. “I’d love a little peace and quiet.”
“We couldn’t leave you!” Hope cried.
Over the summer we moved base camp a few times but stayed in the general vicinity. Raze kept dropping hints about the game-filled paradise, however, and by September, Frick had gotten a bit stronger. One day Blue Boy took me aside and asked if I would mind checking out this Lamar Valley and reporting back.
I flew east the next morning. Blue Boy hadn’t said anything about rushing, so I stopped whenever I felt like it to rest and chat with other birds. I passed over some rugged, snow-capped peaks and a big, turbulent river and an interstate highway. By midday I’d crossed into my third state: Wyoming. Soon after this I learned from a bunch of goldfinches that I’d also crossed something called the Continental Divide. I wished I hadn’t asked what it was. They told me that on one side of the divide the rivers all flowed toward one ocean and on the other side toward another—which, of course, made me think of Trilby.
But once I was in the heart of Yellowstone the wonders there pushed even Trilby out of my thoughts. A great spout of steamy water shot out of the earth and nearly hit me in midflight. Not far away were bubbling hot springs, and mud pots, and what looked like giant anthills puffing smoke. There was a forest full of trees made of stone, and rivers working their way through canyons so deep that from the top even ospreys couldn’t have made out fish in the water. There were pools that were orange or green instead of blue. Sampling one, I scorched my bill and shot off to a nearby lake to douse it. It was the largest lake I’d ever seen. Fishing in it were strange-looking birds with big yellow bills that stretched even bigger for storing their catch.
Most of Yellowstone was wilderness, but there were clusters of humans gawking at the wonders, and a few structures made of logs with peaked roofs. But what particularly interested me was a small compound in a clearing. Frick had told me about the place they’d been brought after they were captured in Canada, and this fit the description. There was an A-frame, three trailers, and a series of outdoor pens with chain-link fences. The A-frame had a garage attached with a dusty four-wheeler parked outside. A couple of humans were studying a sickly-looking wolf in one of the pens. The bigger human was a male with a furry face, the other a female with long hair the color of the wheat fields in Montana. When they went off into the A-frame, I spoke to the wolf, but he was ailing and wasn’t in a chatty mood.
“Do you know which way the Lamar Valley is?” I
asked.
Perking up a bit at this, he pointed his snout to the northeast. I headed in that direction, but by then it was almost nightfall, so I settled down for the night in a pine—a “lodgepole pine,” according to a resident woodpecker. His hammering woke me earlier than I would have liked, but this turned out to be a good thing, for shortly thereafter I glided over a ridge in time to catch the sunrise over the Lamar Valley. A more beautiful sight I’d never seen. Trees lining a meandering river blazed gold in that first touch of sunlight, making a gilt frame for the deep-blue water. Stretching to the hills on either side of the river were lush grasslands where herds of amazing beasts were grazing.
I landed on the bank of a pond and struck up a conversation with a duck.
“Actually, I’m a lesser scaup,” she told me. “Though the ‘lesser’ is misleading.”
She knew the names of all the valley dwellers. I recognized the pronghorns, but I learned from her that the deer with the big ears were mule deer, and the even bigger ones with the huge antlers were elk, and that the biggest, shaggiest creatures of all were the bison Raze had mentioned.
“I knew Raze hadn’t tasted one,” I said.
“Who’s Raze?” said the scaup.
“A wolf from hereabouts.”
“Oh, we love wolves,” said a warbler from one of the gold-leafed trees.
“They’re excellent providers,” I agreed.
The warbler didn’t know about that, but he claimed that conditions had improved for birds since the wolves’ return.
“The deer and elk used to eat all the grasses we use for our nests, but the wolves keep them in check. This aspen I’m in right now would have been trampled by the buffalo if the wolves weren’t here to chase them back.”
“Buffalo?” I said.
“Another word for bison.”
“This pond is thanks to the wolves,” the scaup commented, pointing out the dam that had formed it.
“Wolves made that?” I said, surprised.
“No, beavers,” she said.
She explained that when the trees made a comeback, so did the tree-loving beavers.
“I wonder if Raze is the young wolf who liked to look at himself,” she said. “Is he black as a raven?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Probably him. Summer before last, he’d hang out right over there.” She pointed her squashed-looking bill at a place where the bank overhung the water. “He liked to look at his reflection.”
“It must have impressed him,” said the warbler, “because one day he went back to his pack and challenged his father. His father gave him a good smackdown and sent him packing. Haven’t seen him since.”
So this was what Raze meant by “dispersing.”
“Have the wolves divvied up the whole valley?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I saw a battle between two of the packs,” said the warbler. “The leaders had a vicious fight, and afterward the winning pack slaughtered the other one down to the last wolf.”
“But they don’t bother us,” said the scaup. “My name’s Sabrina, by the way.”
“I’m Audubon,” said the warbler.
Sabrina and Audubon! How could I tell them my drab name? But if my pack moved here, which seemed quite possible, lying would get me in trouble, so I divulged my name and lit out before they could make any snide comments.
The flight back to Idaho was nearly a hundred miles. There was a headwind most of the way, and late in the afternoon, when I arrived back at the rendezvous site, I was worn out. The wolves must have feasted on a kill that morning, for they were all napping—except Frick.
“So what did you think of it?” Frick said quietly, trying to whisk some flies off his scarred hindquarters with his nubby tail.
“Raze wasn’t lying,” I said. “About the valley, at least. It’s full of game. Have you ever seen an elk?”
I was speaking in an undertone, but at the word “elk” the other wolves instantly woke up. And the very next morning the pack was on the move—to Yellowstone.
8
IT TOOK THE POOR EARTHBOUND creatures two full days just to reach the first big river. And then they had to trek well upstream to find a place to ford it without getting swept away. It was another day before we reached the interstate. The wolves waited till the dead of night, when fewer of the wheeled behemoths were rolling by, and dashed across.
The journey was hard on Frick, but he dragged himself along. On the afternoon of the fifth day we finally reached the ridge overlooking the Lamar Valley. It looked even grander than a week ago, the sun at our backs showing up the majestic peaks to the east.
“Did I exaggerate?” Raze said smugly.
Hope was agog. “I never dreamed such a place could exist.”
“Blue Boy, look at the elk,” Alberta said.
Blue Boy was salivating, but he insisted that we find a home base before thinking about hunting. Since Raze knew the area, Blue Boy let him lead us into the valley. However, Blue Boy wasn’t cut out to be a follower, and when we came to a tributary of the main river, he barked for us to stop. Wolves prefer to settle near a water source, and he liked the look of the stream.
“This is Soda Butte Creek,” Raze said. “But I know a better one.”
Lodgepole pines seemed to be very common in Yellowstone, and as Raze led us north, I spotted the warbler, Audubon, in one of them.
“Maggie the magpie,” he said when I landed on his branch. “Sorry, couldn’t resist.”
“I’m used to it,” I said.
We chatted a bit, mostly about my recent travels. When I flew on, I found four of the wolves—Alberta, Frick, Lupa, and Hope—by another tributary off the main river.
“This one’s called Slough Creek,” Hope said. “Raze says it never dries up.”
“He and Blue Boy went ahead to scout things out,” Alberta said. “There’s a scent post on this willow.”
I’d landed in the droopy tree, but I didn’t know what a “scent post” was.
“It’s how we wolves mark our territory,” Alberta explained. “But Raze says it’s an old one.”
“Smells fresh to me,” Frick muttered.
I flew on upstream, gliding over a tree that had fallen across the current and landing on a big boulder by the side of the creek. Blue Boy and Raze were talking in the boulder’s shade.
“Choice, huh?” Raze said, looking up a slope.
“Surprised it hasn’t been claimed,” Blue Boy said.
“It was. See, somebody dug a den. But now it’s here for the taking.”
Most of this side of the creek was wooded, but a grassy swath stretched from the boulder to the hilltop. Partway up the slope was a solitary aspen, and above that a hole that must have served as a den, and standing like sentinels near the top of the hill were a pair of lodgepole pines. It really was an inviting location, open and sunny yet close to the shelter of the woods, convenient to the game-filled valley yet a bit secluded, too. But Blue Boy didn’t seem quite sold on it. He kept sniffing the air, his whiskers quivering. Then a howl made his ears shoot up. It was the sort of satisfied howl he sometimes gave himself on the way home from a successful hunt.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Raze didn’t budge. A moment later a pack of wolves came trotting out of the woods: five adults and four pups. The pups yapped excitedly, racing toward the den.
“Let’s go,” Blue Boy hissed.
“Scared?” Raze said.
This stunned me—and Blue Boy, too, I think. Before Blue Boy could react, Raze stepped out of the boulder’s shadow. The ears on the adult wolves up the slope shot forward. The biggest of them, a black-furred alpha male, stepped to the fore, fixing Raze with a fierce squint.
“Back for more?” he said.
Raze took a step up the hill and snarled. The pups huddled together, whimpering, but the adults snarled back. The alpha started down the hill, a ruff standing out around his neck. Raze held his ground. I tried to will Blue Boy to ge
t out of there.
He didn’t. He stepped out of the shadow and gave the alpha up the hill the same level gaze he’d given Frick on their first encounter. But Blue Boy wasn’t wounded now. The alpha froze. So did the rest of his pack. My mind raced. How could I have been so dense? In a flash I saw what Raze had been up to all along, since first coming across us last winter. It wasn’t the fresh antelope that had kept him from turning tail and running when he saw Blue Boy—it was Blue Boy himself. He must have thought: now there’s a wolf to get me revenge on my father! He must have been plotting to bring about this very moment ever since. The last card he’d played, accusing Blue Boy of being scared, had been risky, but clever.
Unnerving as it was to think of Blue Boy facing this pack, I couldn’t help sympathizing with Raze’s father. What a rude shock it must have been to see a wolf like Blue Boy emerge from the shadows! As my eyes flitted between the two alphas, a leaf blew off the aspen. It seesawed down through the air. When it hit the ground, Raze’s father snarled:
“Off my territory.”
I knew Blue Boy would never take an order like that. As he snarled back, all the wolves tensed up. But it was clear things would be settled between the two alphas.
When they attacked each other, the snarls and growls were so chilling I flinched and looked away. That was how I happened to catch the look of satisfaction that flashed across Raze’s face.
9
WHEN I COULD BRING MYSELF to look up the slope again, Raze’s father lay on his side with blood gushing from his torn throat. Blue Boy lifted his bloody snout and let out what must have been an instinctive howl of triumph. The slain wolf’s companions gaped in dumb horror. I could only imagine their feelings at seeing their leader dispatched so swiftly. When Blue Boy lowered his snout, his eyes settled on them. They easily outnumbered him, even with Raze, but not one of them made a move.
Hearing something behind me, I turned to see Alberta rushing up along the creek with Lupa, Frick, and Hope in her wake. Even before they rounded the boulder, the other pack gathered their pups and fled. Remembering what Audubon had said about the winning pack slaughtering the losers, I figured that after what must have happened up in Canada, Blue Boy would be merciless. But he didn’t give chase.