For all that, however, he was as full of the spirit of the wilderness as the mountain world could breed him.
The Wolf’s indifference maddened Annette. But suddenly she smiled in a manner that should have warned him. Her whole attitude changed with her sly smile, and her tone was full of guile.
“You know why they howl—those curs?” she asked quietly.
“Wolves.”
Annette shook her head.
“No. Luana. She’s dyin’. Anyone knows curs howl when folks are dyin’. Pideau says so.”
The reality of the Wolf’s smile fell from him. But Nature had designed something like a perpetual smile in the fashioning of his eyes. He was staring at his playmate with trouble grievously shadowing his happy face.
“I tell you it’s wolves,” he cried, with sudden vehemence. “They’re yonder. They’re in the woods. I know. Luana ain’t dyin’. She’s—she’s getting better, sure. She said so. You’re talkin’ foolish. Guess maybe you want her to die.”
Annette wanted to hurt, and knew she had succeeded. She loved to hurt the Wolf at any time. It was her way to plague the boy. She was as ready to torment as to fight him with hands and teeth.
Usually the Wolf was satisfied and only laughed at her. Annette was Annette, the whole joy of his budding manhood. He worshipped the little whirlwind fury. But now, under the girl’s lash, he was only a boy, and one who loved the woman who had raised him with a boundless affection.