“‘Then, just as the first wolf was about to seize the hindermost fawn, he and his little band swerved to one side and burst into the big tent.’”
“Oh, a herder’s tent!” cried White Sox.
“No, indeed!” said Mother Reindeer. “There were no herders in those days, my son. It was the tent of a hunter. White Feet didn’t know which was the more to be feared, a wolf or a hunter. Both were the enemies of the caribou. And the little band of fawns were depending on him to lead them to safety.”
“I understand,” said White Sox. “A leader must decide things for himself, and do it quickly. He can’t ask his mother every time he faces a duty.”
“Yes,” said Mother Reindeer, “and the three gray wolves forced White Feet to decide quickly this time. They were coming down the slope behind the fawns. White Feet knew that the wolves were gaining on them, but as he looked ahead, he saw that the tent flap was open. He felt quite sure that his little band could not reach the bay, and he had been told that wolves would avoid a hunter’s tent in daylight. But these beasts thought they were surely going to have a big feed of fawn meat.
“White Feet shouted to his followers to turn and dash into the tent. Then, just as the first wolf was about to seize the hindermost fawn, he and his little band swerved to one side and burst into the big tent.
“Whiz! whiz! whiz!
“The native hunter, all unknown to the fawns and wolves, had been watching the race from behind the tent. Three gray wolves now lay on the ground outside, pinned fast by the hunter’s terrible arrows.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” cried White Sox, who was trembling with excitement. “Did the hunter kill White Feet and his six fawns?”