Marooned in the Forest: The Story of a Primitive Fight for Life

by A. Hyatt Verrill

He was pitifully weak from loss of blood and was emaciated from lack of food, and I doubted if anything could be done for him, but he seemed to read my thoughts and, instead of snapping or growling, licked my hand in dog-like fashion as I tenderly examined the gaping wound in his throat.

It was such a strange, friendly act that my heart was won, and I vowed that if the creature did survive his hurts I would strive to make him my companion. I felt that at some time he must have been partially tamed. I soon found that none of his wounds were really serious in themselves, for no vital organ had been injured and only loss of blood and his hunger-weakened state had brought him so near to death. As I bathed his wounds and poured water from a near-by spring into his parched mouth I wondered what woodland tragedy had resulted in the wolf’s condition, and came to the conclusion that he had attacked a deer and, being weak with hunger, had been beaten off, gored, and trampled upon by the victorious buck.

The water seemed to revive him greatly. To stop the flow of blood from his wounds I bound them up as best I could with strips of bark and salt. Although I knew this must smart and burn the raw flesh terribly, yet the wolf scarcely uttered a sound of complaint, but bore the torture stoically while watching my every motion with his tawny eyes. As I worked I smiled to myself to think what a strange sight we presented—a wild man of the woods, clad in rude, uncouth garments, with unkempt hair and beard, ministering to a shaggy, wounded wolf in the heart of the wilderness.

And when at last the creature’s wounds were dressed and his moans had ceased, I realized that he must have food, and, speaking to him as I would to a child, and cautioning him to lie still and to be patient, I left him and went into the woods in search of game with which to feed him.

Birds were abundant and the saucy Canada jays, or whisky-jacks, were very tame, and while I had always left these feathered creatures unmolested, I felt no hesitation in killing one or two of the jays for the sake of my wolf-patient.

Returning with these, I cut them up and fed them to the wolf, who devoured them ravenously and heaved an almost human sigh of satisfaction as he licked his chops over the last bit of raw flesh.

The question now arose as to what I was to do with the poor beast. He was too weak to walk, and to carry him to my hut was out of the question, for to lift or move him would again open his wounds and start the blood flowing afresh. On the other hand, if left here unprotected in the woods he might succumb to the chill night air or else some prowling creature might kill and devour him. Perhaps I was sentimentally foolish to waste time and thought over a wounded wolf, but to my lonesome mind he was a fellow-being in distress, and already I had found great pleasure in attending to his wants and talking to him, and I was as anxious for his safety and comfort as if he had been a faithful dog.

There seemed to be but one thing to do, which was to build a shelter over him, provide him with food and water, and leave him alone until the following day, and I at once set about to erect a lean-to above him. When the rude protection was at last completed I filled a birch-bark dish with water and placed it within reach of his head, cut up another jay and laid this close by, and then, covering him with soft fir boughs and carefully placing others between his body and the damp earth, I left him gazing gratefully after me.

The next morning I hurried to the wolf as soon as I had eaten breakfast, carrying a quantity of meat with me, and to my joy found the creature much stronger than on the previous afternoon. He was now able partly to raise his body, and ate the venison and drank water eagerly, and apparently recognized me as his friend, for when I approached he thumped his brushy tail upon the leaves in welcome—an act which pleased me immensely and which also surprised me, for I had never heard that wolves expressed their feelings in this dog-like manner.

I had brought materials with me with which to dress his wounds properly, and while I was in some dread that he might snap at me or might resent my acts while doing this, I soon found I had no cause for fear. Throughout the tedious and, no doubt, painful process of washing the cuts, smearing them with bear’s grease and arnica and bandaging them, he lay almost motionless, only now and then uttering a low moan or a subdued growl to indicate an unusually severe twinge of pain. He was still very weak and lame, but despite this he made a brave effort to rise and follow me when I finally left him, but, finding it impossible, he sank back upon his bed of fir boughs and howled dismally as he saw me depart.