"They are wolves, brother," said Tawannears briefly.
"And they appear to know that we are eatable," I retorted.
"They will do us no hurt," he answered with a trace of impatience. "There is abundant game for them to pull down on every side."
"Then why follow us?" I insisted.
"They come our way, brother. Why not! Who knows what end of the Great Spirit they serve?"
"But—" I did not know what to say; occasionally Tawannears became so Indian that I lost touch with him—"they are wolves. They have nothing to do with the Great Spirit. They are hungry."
He looked at me somberly.
"I have that here they will respect—" he tapped his chest, where I knew he carried the wolf's-head sign manual of his clan—"they are my brothers."
"Brothers!" I gasped.
I was myself by adoption a member of the Wolf Clan, yet I had never thought of wolves as brothers.