Followers of the Trail

by Zoe Meyer

Dusk of the following day found him once more abroad. He descended the mountain and swiftly threaded the wilderness until he came to the rock upon which Gray Wolf had perished. Here he stationed himself and as darkness fell, he proudly raised his head, sending out over the wilderness a full, deep-throated rallying-call, the like of which the forest had never known. Lesser creatures of the wilderness shivered with fear, cowering in their burrows for some time before daring to venture forth.

One of the lynxes which had so severely wounded the old leader heard the challenge and, though it struck fear into even his savage heart, he stole soundlessly forward until he could see the beast upon the rock. But at sight of the snow-white wolf he shrank back in utter terror and attempted to steal away.

Unfortunately for him the eyes of the white wolf had pierced his hiding-place and in a moment he was hurled from his feet by the force of the attack. The lynx fought but feebly, seemingly benumbed by the strange apparition, and in a few minutes his limp form was stretched upon the ground. As for his mate, she too cowered before the sight of the white wolf and fled afar, never to return. So was Gray Wolf avenged and his avenger, once more mounting the rock, sent his cry of victory echoing over the wilderness.

Now the wolves began to arrive, settling themselves in a ring about the great rock where the new leader stood silent, staring out over the heads of the pack. When all had arrived, as if at some signal they fell hungrily upon the body of the lynx which in a very short time was devoured. Only the big white wolf stood aloof.

Without question the pack accepted the new leadership. That same night they started northward, led by the white wolf, traveling always with the tireless lope which enables their kind to cover great distances. Thus they came out upon the edge of the barrens, a vast, treeless country which few care to penetrate during the snows of winter. Nothing moved in all its white expanse and the silence of death hung over it. Yet without hesitation the white wolf trotted out upon it and the pack followed, only a few hanging back in the shelter of the pines.

Ten minutes later the faith of the pack in their leader was justified. Not far away a gray blur drifted across their path and vanished, hidden by the curtain of snow which had begun to fall. It was a caribou herd, that drifting band which in midwinter is at once the hope and the despair of the larger flesh-eating animals. Wandering as they do at will, none can foretell their movements; yet the white wolf had led his pack unerringly through mile after mile of snowy forest, straight to the path of the herd.

The sight brought fresh courage to the famished wolves and they did not stop to question the wisdom or the instinct which had led them. They soon overtook the herd, but instead of charging into it, a proceeding which would have caused the caribou to bolt at a pace that would have left the wolves hopelessly behind, they followed silently and with apparent indifference. Nevertheless they kept a close watch upon the deer, singling out one who had been wounded before, and was showing signs of weakening. This animal soon lagged and was cunningly separated from the herd, thus falling an easy prey to the wolves. Another was treated in the same manner before the savage appetites were satisfied and the wolves turned back to the woods.

For a time good fortune seemed to travel with the pack, but, as February dragged by and gave place to March, the most bitter month of all in the wilderness, the wolves once more grew gaunt and famished. This time the white wolf led them, not to the far north, but to the south in the direction of the settlements.

Late afternoon of a bitter March day found Dave Lansing, hunter and trapper, returning from a trip to the nearest town after supplies. He was plodding along the snowy trail, his eyes upon the ground and his thoughts far afield, when a distant, long-drawn howl caused him to raise his head. Dave knew that howl. It was the call of a wolf and, though armed, it filled him with uneasiness. He did not believe that the wolves would attack a man in daylight, but night was coming rapidly and he was some miles from his cabin. For a moment he considered turning back and spending the night with the Hermit, but his heart revolted at the thought. Dave was never one to show the white feather and he pushed resolutely on, though he quickened his steps.

For a time the woods were very still. With his cabin almost within sight, the trapper had begun to breathe more freely when suddenly the howl was repeated, this time so close that he stopped in dismay. A moment later he saw them coming, flitting silently along his trail or from tree to tree, like gray shadows of the coming night.