Followers of the Trail

by Zoe Meyer

There would not be time to reach his cabin. Muttering angrily, Dave kicked off his snowshoes and drew himself into the branches of the nearest tree. He was just in time, for he had scarcely drawn up his feet when the pack closed in. His snowshoes were quickly demolished while the man could only look on, angry but helpless. Then the wolves sat down in a circle in the snow and looked hungrily up at him.

"Yes, look at me!" Dave remarked, shaking his fist at the pack. "Think you've got me, don't you? Well, you just wait."

He brought his ever-ready rifle into position and looked about for the leader, thinking that if he could be killed, the pack would disband. For a time he hesitated, unable to determine which wolf it might be; then he stared, forgetting his discomfort in his astonishment. Among the pack had suddenly appeared a snow-white wolf, the like of which the trapper, in all his years in the wilderness, had never beheld, though it was said that a tribe of them was to be found in the far north. Here was the white wolf about whom so many stories had been told, stories to which he had listened unbelieving.

For a moment he could only stare in admiration at the powerful animal; then the hunter's instinct asserted itself and he fired. So quickly did the wolf swerve that the eye of the hunter could not perceive the movement. Dave only knew that he had missed, he, the best marksman in all the Little Vermilion country! Again he fired, but the bullet embedded itself harmlessly in a tree.

This was too much for the hunter. Here was no wolf. He felt sure that the bullets had reached their mark, yet the beast was unharmed. Dave was a mighty hunter but, like most ignorant people, he was superstitious. He had often heard tales of the loup-garou, or witch wolf, whom no bullet could kill. With a hand that trembled slightly he laid his gun across his knees, deciding not to waste his bullets.

He had settled himself for a long cold wait in his tree when, without a sound, the white wolf turned and trotted swiftly away into the forest, the whole pack following. The trapper stared after them, unable to believe his eyes. Fearing an ambush, he waited for some time; then as the wolves did not reappear, he lowered himself cautiously from the tree and set out once more for his cabin, minus his snowshoes and greatly perplexed at the mystery. Dave could not know that the keener nose of the white wolf had scented a deer at no great distance and so had led the pack to the safer game.

Now began a time of annoyance for the farmers at the borders of the wilderness. Sheep and pigs were killed and devoured, and now and then a cow. Many had seen the wolf pack and a few had glimpsed the big white leader, but, although scores of shots had been fired, apparently none had reached the mark. So the fame of the white wolf grew, and many, like Dave Lansing, were inclined to the belief that the leader at least was gifted with supernatural powers. Traps and poison, no matter how cleverly concealed, he uncovered or avoided with an uncanny wisdom, while he continued to take toll of the farmers' flocks and herds.

The Hermit in his lonely cabin heard the tales, which lost nothing in the telling, and though he knew them to be greatly exaggerated, he wished ardently for a sight of the big wolf. The beast's cunning and courage had aroused his admiration. Pal was kept strictly within bounds, and when his master went into the woods he carried a weapon which, however, would never be used save in self-defense.

One day the Hermit's wish was granted and he came face to face with the white wolf not far from the clearing. The beast suddenly appeared among the trees, not many paces distant, and the two stood staring curiously at each other. The Hermit made no move to draw his gun and the wolf, on his part, seemed to know that no harm was intended, for he showed no sign either of fear or antagonism. He stood for a long minute gravely regarding the man; then he turned and trotted away without a backward glance and with no sign of haste. The Hermit did not know that for days the wolf had secretly followed him and found him to be harmless.

Spring came at last, and when the snow had given place to the new, eager life of the forest, and food was once more abundant, the pack turned northward to the wilds. It was never seen again, but the fame of the big white wolf lived in the minds of the farmers, and stories of his prowess and cunning were handed down long after the wolf had passed to the Happy Hunting Grounds of his tribe.