But when I tried to pick it up, it was heavy. Then it came away, and there was father's hand sticking up. It was dead.
Of course I know I'd ought to have dug down through the snow, but I didn't. I ran for all I was worth. Then I got out of breath and come back shamed.
It wasn't for love of father. No. I hated to touch that hand, and when I did I was sick. Still that was better than being scared to touch. It's not so bad when you dare.
I dug, with a snow-shoe for a shovel. There was the buckskin shirt smelling good, and the long fringes I'd used to tickle his nose with—then I found his face. I just couldn't bear that, but turned my back and dug until I came to the great, big, number-four trap he used for wolf and beaver. He must have stepped without seeing it under the snow, and it broke his leg. Then he'd tried to drag himself back home.
It was when I stood up to get breath and cool off that I first seen the wolf, setting peaceful, waggin' his tail. First I thought he was one of our own huskies, but when he didn't know his name I saw for sure he must be the wolf who lived up Two Mile Crick. Wolves know they're scarce, with expensive pelts, so neither father nor me had seen more'n this person's tracks. He'd got poor inspecting father's business instead of minding his own. That's why he was called the Inspector. It was March, too, the moon of famine. Of course I threw my ax and missed. His hungry smile's still thar behind a bush, and me wondering whether his business is with me or father. That's why I stepped on the snow-shoes, and went right past where he was, not daring to get my ax. Yes, it was me he wanted to see—first, but of course I wasn't going to encourage any animal into thinking he'd scared a man. Why, he'd scarce have let father even see his tracks for fear they'd be trapped or shot. So I walked slow and proud, leadin' him off from father—at least I played that, wishing all the time that mother's lil' boy was to home. After a while I grabbed down a lopped stick where father'd blazed, not as fierce as an ax, but enough to make me more or less respected.
Sometimes the Inspector was down wind 'specting my smell, times he was up wind for a bird's-eye view, or again on my tracks to see how small they looked—and oh, they did feel small!
From what I've learned among these people, wolves is kind to man cubs, gentle and friendly even when pinched with hunger, just loving to watch a child and its queer ways. They're shy of man because his will is strong compelling them, and his weapons magic. So they respects his traps, his kids, an' all belonging to him. Only dying of hunger, they'll snatch his dogs and cats, and little pigs, but they ain't known to hurt man or his young.
The Inspector was bigger than me, stronger'n any man, swifter'n any horse. I tell yer the maned white wolf is wiser'n most people, and but for eating his cubs, he's nature's gentleman.
The trouble was not him hunting, but me scared. Why, if he'd wanted me, one flash, one bite, and I'm breakfast. It was just curiosity made him so close behind like a stealthy ghost. When I'd turn to show fight, he'd seem to apologize, and then I'd go on whistling a hymn.
Thar he was cached right ahead in the deadfall, for a front view, if I'd known. But I thrashed with my stick in a panic, hitting his snout, so he yelped. Then he lost his temper. He'd a "sorry, but-business-is-business" expression on him. I ran at him, tripped on a stump, let out a yell, and he lep' straight at my throat.