That was a short slide, hardly more than a second; but it was crammed full of surprises and wild emotions. Before it fairly started I had a startling glimpse of something big and gray popping above the laurels, like a jack-in-a-box. Another and another gray thing flew up and down. As each topped the cover I had instantaneous picture of a convulsed body with dangling legs, above which gleaming white fangs and fierce eyes were turned in my direction. Every wolf in the pack must have leaped straight up from his sleep, so as to look clear of the bushes and see what was coming. When I struck the drift with the rumble of a small avalanche, the landscape was full of wolves, some jumping up wildly to see, others streaking away through the woods like scared cats.
Out of the corner of an eye I saw these vanishing shapes, my whole heart and attention being fastened on one enormous wolf that jumped from under me and went whisking down the slope in astonishing-high bounds, as if he rode a witch’s broomstick. It was the loup-garou, the terrible, the enchanted beast! I could have laughed or yelled at his flight had I not wanted to bemoan my own blunder. After throwing me off his trail he had gone to sleep in the laurels under the ridge, where he was sure no enemy could approach unnoticed; and after trailing him uncounted miles with endless caution, I had tumbled down like a sack almost on top of him. It was such an ending as makes one a believer in luck, especially bad luck.
And speaking of luck, it was, after all, fairly distributed, with such waggish humor that no reasonable creature had any cause to grumble. The lucky thing for me was the panic that gets into a wild beast’s legs whenever a startling thing happens. I knew the power of a timber wolf, that he can throw a buck by a twist of the head, and paralyze him or open his throat by a snap of the terrible fangs; and I had roused a dozen such brutes, every one within springing distance. Had they whirled on me in the drift, my sky would have been no bigger than my hat; I would have had no more fighting chance than a rabbit. Yet they lost nerve and scattered like flushed quail when a snowball came blundering down into their day bed.
In the other scale of fortune’s balance, it was lucky for the wolves that I was as much surprised and generally stood-on-my-head as they were. After an all-day chase, here was one rewardful moment when a man needed just three things: solid footing, clear eyes, a steady hand. In that moment I was sprawling like an upset turtle, one hand brushing snow out of my face, the other tugging at a revolver, which took that particular occasion to jam in the holster. Somehow, with loss of the only precious second, I was on my feet to send one hasty shot at the loup-garou, flying off on his broomstick with trees flitting past him in dizzy procession, and another at a big dog wolf that, confused by the roaring echo, turned and came streaking past me up the ridge.
It was all over before there was time to pick a target or even to think. The dog wolf jumped high at the shot, showing he had no magic; but as I gazed ruefully after the loup-garou I had a last glimpse of his plume waving au revoir as he sailed over a windfall. Whatever loup-garouishness that fellow ever had is still with him.
FROM A BEAVER LODGE
TO look into a house is one thing; to look out of it is another. The difference between the two views is the difference between strangeness and familiarity, between guessing and knowing. This is an attempt to look forth from a beaver’s house and see the world as a beaver sees it.
When you stand for the first time beside a beaver lodge you front a disappointment, then a doubt, finally a battery of questions. You are gliding down a wilderness stream, your senses joyously alert, in your heart a curious feeling that you are an intruder, when your eye catches a thing which is neither alive nor quite natural. It is a mass of sticks, gray, like all jetsam of the shore; but it stands in a circle of cut glass overlooking a bend where the stream broadens into a little pond. Quietly the canoe turns in, touching the bank as noiselessly as a floating leaf. As you step ashore, an odor of musk tells you that you are at last in beaver land.