"I never saw ears like yours on a Wolf, Newcomer," said one of the youngsters; "they are short and round like those of the Huskie Dog we ate. Is not that so?" he asked, turning to the Leader.
"Yes, indeed; we ate him, I'm ashamed to say—for Dog meat is horrible—but what is one to do when there's naught else in the Boundaries?"
A'tim shuddered; their merciless eyes gleamed with the ferocity of famine. Neither his strength nor his speed, which had so often stood him in good stead, would avail him this time; nothing but his half-breed duplicity—Wolf cunning and Dog wisdom.
"But I am a Wolf," he reiterated; "else why should I seek your company at my Kill?"
"We were easily found," sneered the Wolf; "we did not take much calling, did we? Knowing your desire for our fellowship, we kept you not waiting—E-a-ah, Lone Dog? But where hunts the Pack that carry their tails curled over their backs like Train Dogs?"
"It's because of my nervousness—you startled me," pleaded A'tim; "also my seat is narrow."
"And the big, round feet, Lone Dog? They leave not a Wolf track. And you're broad in the loin, and heavy in the jowl, and short in the leg—a Dog, a Hermit Dog, by the knowledge that has come to me of age."
"I'm a Wolf from the Southland," maintained A'tim. "We shape different there. Our meat is the flesh of Buffalo, and our Kill is because of strength, and not speed—therefore we are of a strong build. You are of the Northland; swift as the wind, and long running, Great Wolf—you and your beautiful Sons—yet was I eager for your company at this Kill, which has taken me days to arrange."
"Buh-h, buh-ha! his great Kill! and here is the killer slaying fierce, white Wood Grubs—but never mind; what of the Kill, Lone Dog?"
"What say you to a Buffalo—a fat, young Bull?" asked A'tim, heaving a sigh of relief; "would not that be a dinner fit for a great Pack Leader, like yourself?"