Old Wolf

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  FOR RICHARD JACKSON

  —Avi & Brian

  1

  IT WAS THE STARVING TIME.

  Not the end of winter. Not the start of spring. Not cold. Not hot. Daylight and nightdark were almost equal. Mud lay here and snow lay there. It was as if Earth herself could not decide between life and death.

  2

  In the high country, on a late afternoon in the month of March, the eight gray wolves of the Iron Mountain pack—Tonagan, Garby, Nikito, Pildown, Debalt, the two pups—Conall and Onai—and the pack leader, the old wolf called Nashoba—lay before their den, a cold, shallow hollow in an outcropping of dull red rock.

  Nashoba was allowing his two five-week-old blue-eyed pups to tumble about him, yapping and squealing. Nonetheless, he was worried. The wolves in the pack had not eaten for two weeks—not so much as a chipmunk or a vole. They were hungry and increasingly tense.

  The pups most concerned Nashoba. Originally, the litter had been three in number. One had died. Needing something more than Tonagan’s milk to survive, Conall and Onai were already mouthing Nashoba’s muzzle, their way of begging for meat. Where, he fretted, was he going to get it?

  While Nashoba lay deep in thought, Garby—three years old, and the largest, strongest wolf in the pack—suddenly called out, “Nashoba! It’s time I was pack leader.”

  Taken by surprise, but choosing to act as if he had not heard the challenge, Nashoba did not move.

  The other wolves did. The adults got up swiftly and backed away. Even the pups, sensing something amiss, scrambled to their mother, who nosed them behind her for safety.

  “You are our pack leader, Nashoba,” snarled Garby. “But you just sit here playing with your pups. You should be leading us in a hunt.”

  Uncertain what the outcome might be if he fought the much younger wolf, Nashoba remained absolutely still.

  Garby, taking the old wolf’s response to be weakness, leaped to his feet. “We’re hungry, Nashoba!” he barked. “We need food. If you can’t lead us to it, I will!”

  Nashoba spread his toes a little and gazed steadily at Garby with his deep golden eyes. “Are you challenging me?” he asked, in a soft, rumbly voice. He knew the answer to the question perfectly well but was hoping Garby would back down.

  All Garby did was snarl, “We know the truth, Nashoba. You’re too old to lead.”

  The words stung Nashoba. How dare the young wolf speak so!

  With a deep-chested growl, the old wolf came slowly to his feet and stood with legs stiff, neck hairs raised, and tail high. He wanted to give Garby time to retreat.

  Garby, however, held his place and continued to stare directly into the pack leader’s eyes, which, among wolves, is a blatant challenge. “Admit it, Nashoba,” he said. “You’ve become useless!”

  Nashoba drew back his lips to show his teeth, and took a step toward the strong young wolf.

  The other wolves moved farther away.

  “You don’t frighten me, Nashoba!” Garby spat out.

  Knowing he must act quickly or lose all respect, Nashoba lunged at the young wolf’s neck.

  With the deftness of youth, Garby slipped to one side, causing Nashoba to miss. At the same moment, he dove, gripped Nashoba’s right front paw in his mouth, and bit down, hard.

  Nashoba, ignoring the piercing pain, twisted about, reached up, and grasped Garby’s neck in his jaws. He began to squeeze, tighter and tighter.

  With a gasp, Garby released Nashoba’s paw and dropped to the ground.

  Panting, Nashoba let go of the young wolf but stood over him, undecided what to do. Choosing to be generous, as befit a pack leader, he lifted his bloody paw and placed it on the back of Garby’s neck.

  The young wolf whined in pleading submission.

  That was enough for Nashoba. Pleased with himself, he stepped away but glanced pointedly at the other wolves. One by one, they lowered their heads and tails in wordless acknowledgment of the old wolf’s leadership.

  Nashoba, not wishing to reveal how much pain his paw was giving him, how shaken he was, how rapidly his heart was pounding, turned his back on the pack and walked into the woods—slowly.

  When he was some forty yards from the den—beyond the pack’s view—the old wolf flopped to the ground, stretched his feet before him, and allowed himself a deep, deep breath.

  3

  When Nashoba regained his composure, he examined his paw closely. Garby’s bite had been not just painful but deep, far worse than the old wolf had realized. First, he licked the oozing blood, cleaning and soothing the hurt. Then he rested his chin on the earth between his front legs. Eyes closed, he sought to ignore the ache—the ache in his paw and the ache in his heart. How dare young Garby challenge me!

  In the wild, wolves can live for as long as nine years, sometimes more. Nashoba was eight. He weighed some eighty pounds (down from a hundred and ten) and was thirty-five inches tall at his shoulder and just less than four feet long, not including his tail.

  The gray fur on his back—it had become much grayer as of late—and along the top of his tapered nose was soft and thick, except for the stiff, gray muzzle hairs. His chest and belly fur was white but tinged delicately with brown; his ears were dark and rounded, and his golden eyes, encircled by black markings, had ebony pupils.

  Nashoba was well aware that he had come close to being overthrown as pack leader. The next time Garby challenged him—as he surely would—the young wolf might be successful. But the life of the Iron Mountain pack depends on me, Nashoba told himself. I am not too old to hunt. Or kill.

  But Nashoba knew that now he must prove it—and soon.

  4

  Next morning, when the first glow of dawn touched the summit of Iron Mountain, Nashoba stood on a high ridge looking down into the still shadowy Bend Valley.

  Over the past two weeks, the old wolf had hunted for food in many places, but without success. The animals the wolves fed on—deer, elk, and moose—were more than likely in the lower valley, where they had gone to wait out winter. That area, however, was where humans lived.

  Though wolves never attacked humans, Nashoba was well aware that humans attacked wolves. Not only were these humans crafty, they were able to kill from great distances. All wolves knew to fear them.

  Moreover, the last time Nashoba had ventured into the lower valley—two weeks ago—he had come upon an old human with white hair. At first Nashoba had thought that the human had been heading toward the pack’s den. He had been just about to race home to give warning when the human had veered away.

  No, the deep valley was too dangerous for Nashoba. He needed to find another place to hunt.

  But where?

  He looked up. Branches of lodgepole pine, spruce, and still-leafless aspen crisscrossed over his head like a spider’s web. Higher still, the sky was as gray as his fur. To either side of Bend Valley, mountain peaks glistened with melting snow. To the west, the last of the three-quarter moon—pale white and growing fainter—was sinking into the horizon.

  Nashoba looked left and right. He listened. He sniffed. Yet he did not hear, smell, or see anything to tell him where any large animals might be.

  Undecided, the old wolf was standing perfectly still on a quilt of dirty snow and mud, an area spotted with pools of cold water that lay as mute as dark mirrors, when he heard: “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

  It was t
he call of a raven.

  Nashoba tilted his ears forward and listened intently.

  The call repeated itself. “Caw! Caw! Caw!”

  As the wolf was aware, ravens had a well-deserved reputation for two things: playing tricks, and warning of death. Some wolves believed the birds were enchanted. Whatever the truth, Nashoba was also aware that ravens often knew the location of moose, elk, and deer. For their own reasons, ravens were interested in what wolves hunted.

  Perhaps, thought Nashoba, this raven is sending a message.

  Unfortunately, the bird’s call came from deep in the valley, precisely where the wolf did not want to go. Besides, the thought of depending on anyone—another wolf or some bird—was not to his liking.

  Nashoba was not sure what to do. As pack leader, he was obliged to defend the pack, to keep all in health, to avoid danger, and to maintain good order. Those duties fulfilled, his dignity as leader would be respected, and every wolf in the pack would know his or her place. But this would not happen unless his pack was fed.

  Nashoba looked about again. The sky promised change. He sensed dampness and a northern wind. Though late for snow, spring storms were always a possibility in the high country. That prospect added even more urgency to his need. Snow—or rain—would make his hunting that much more difficult.

  The old wolf lifted his right front paw and studied it. The wound was now covered by dried blood. It still gave pain, but not, he decided, so much. He was sure he could still run, still hunt.

  Garby’s taunt You are useless! seeped into his thoughts. Simultaneously, the raven’s call—“Caw! Caw!”—rang out again like the tolling of a bell. Its message—its possible message—that food was to be found was too tempting.

  Very well: Nashoba would find the raven and see why it had called.

  Decision made, the old wolf began to trot down into the valley.

  5

  That same morning, Casey Seton opened his eyes to his thirteenth birthday. Warm and snug beneath his thick down quilt, he enjoyed the moment. I’m so much older! he told himself. No longer just a kid! A teenager! An adult . . . almost.

  Images of the next few months spooled out in his mind like a movie trailer: a sweet spring and glorious summer, liberty to wander through the forest, fishing, hunting, and swimming. Doing whatever he liked. Then he would start high school in Lockport, where he would have a new life with new friends.

  “It’ll be your last free summer,” his dad had told him.

  Startled, Casey had said, “What happens after that?”

  His father had laughed. “An old guy like you might want to find a summer job. Earn your keep.”

  Casey had taken that as a joke.

  Rolling over, he gazed at the posters on his wall: a great bull elk with twelve-point antlers; a keen-eyed Ute warrior, his bow drawn; a fully bearded old-time trapper, hair braided, dressed in a buckskin jacket, a muzzle-loading musket cradled in his arms.

  Casey’s greatest desire—beyond all else—was to be a hunter.

  He glanced at his bedside clock. Seven a.m. Schooltime. The boy sighed. His old life was still with him. In fact, the next moment, his mother poked her head into his room.

  Bess Seton was a small woman with a curly mop of strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes, and a quick smile.

  “Morning, love!” she called. “Do teenagers go to school?” Her laughter tumbled forth the way Casey loved it, full of mischief and challenge. “Presents are waiting!” she added before retreating.

  “I’m coming!” Casey shouted, and jumped out of bed.

  First, as always, he reeled up the window blind and checked the weather. The view was mostly of Lodgepole National Forest, crowned by Iron Mountain. That lonely peak—eight miles beyond Casey’s home and more than eleven thousand feet high with bare rock at the summit—was capped with snow.

  “The biggest backyard in the world,” Casey’s dad had called the forest. He and Casey had often hunted and fished there. The whole family hiked, camped, and had climbed Iron Mountain multiple times. Casey knew the land as well as his home, at least the first few miles of it.

  Their modern log house stood at Bend Valley Pass, on a quarter-mile dirt road off County Highway Sixty-One. The Setons’ nearest neighbors were down-valley, half a mile away. Sixty-One went on for only another quarter-mile, and then ended at the Rock Ridge Trailhead. The trailhead led hikers and hunters into the national forest and real high country.

  Casey studied the gray sky. Weather coming, he thought.

  “Getting late, Case!” he heard his mother call.

  A barefooted race to the bathroom: teeth brushing, a pass of cold water over his rosy face, a comb swipe through reddish hair, the slinging on of clothes—he hated scratchy new clothing—and Casey was done.

  He ran to the kitchen and the smell of bacon and coffee. Troy Seton, Casey’s dad—big shouldered, broad faced, and brown bearded—was already in his Carhartt work clothes, cap on his head. He leaned back against the fridge, a mug of coffee in one large hand, a muffin in the other.

  Casey’s dad worked 24/7 for the Valley Power Company, repairing whatever was broken in Rickles County, an area of some 2,300 square miles. Repairs might be in a townhouse or a downed line in the middle of the wilderness. Wilderness took up half the county.

  Casey’s mom was postmaster in Clarksville, a small town twelve miles down-valley where his school was located. Now she was at the stove making a cheddar cheese omelet with Marco’s Red Hot Sauce—Casey’s favorite.

  “Happy birthday, Casey!” his parents cried in ragged unison when he walked in.

  Casey grinned. A plate on the breakfast counter was set with two blueberry muffins and bacon alongside glasses of orange juice and milk. A gift-wrapped something sat next to it.

  For a moment Casey’s spirits sagged. The gift looked like a book. A book! He truly liked to read, but he had been hoping—expecting—something else.

  His father gestured toward the present. “That’s just for starters. Come on. Don’t want to be late for school.”

  Casey snatched up the package and tore away the red-white-and-blue-striped wrapping paper. He found two books: Archery: Steps to Success and Archery Fundamentals.

  The instant he read the titles, his mood soared and his head filled with one thought: All right! I’m going to be a hunter!

  His dad, eyes full of merriment, said, “They should help you with your video game.”

  6

  Following a narrow animal trail that led into the valley, Nashoba trotted steadily on his long thin legs. With each step, his five-inch-wide paw pads marked the soft earth as if to brand the land as his own.

  Though he kept alert for the raven, he saw no sign. How far should he go? He kept reminding himself that if the raven did know something, that knowledge would solve his pack’s food problem. And his own.

  The raven’s cry came again: “Caw! Caw!”

  The bird was still lower in the valley.

  Nashoba went on.

  7

  Casey finished his breakfast and ran back to his room, clutching his new books tightly. He knew he had to hurry, but he could not resist sitting at his desk and clicking on his computer. His favorite video game, Bowhunter, popped up, the screen filling with a jungle scene: green vines, immense multicolored flowers, tall green grasses, and dangling black snakes. There were animals, too—lions, wolves, and tigers to shoot at, as well as hawks, ravens, and buzzards. At the bottom of the screen, an arrow tip pointed toward the jungle, and at the animals and birds when they suddenly appeared as targets.

  Left hand: the button W to move forward, A to move left, D right, S back. Right hand: the mouse to point the arrow now in one direction, then another. Ready to run, jump, crouch, if necessary.

  When he clicked the W button, the jungle began to move toward him, creating the illusion that he was walking forward. Casey watched for creatures, ready to shoot the moment he spotted one.

  A zebra bounced by.

  Casey aime
d, clicked his mouse, and the arrow shot forward, trailing a bloodred line. The zebra fell, feet straight up, looking like an upside-down table.

  Great shot! said an automated voice, while the words KILL SCORE: 1 came up on the screen.

  Casey kept watching.

  A large raven appeared hunched on the branch of tree.

  Just as Casey aimed and was about to click the mouse, the bird spread its wings and flew away.

  You must be quicker, said the computer voice. Kill score—one.

  Casey waited. As always, the bird reappeared, this time in the upper-right corner of his screen. Casey shifted the arrow, aimed, and clicked the mouse. The arrow leaped across the screen. The bird tumbled.

  Great shot! said the automated voice, and the words KILL SCORE: 2 came up.

  I’m good at this! thought Casey. I can kill anything.

  8

  A tiny rustling sound off the trail brought Nashoba to a halt. He cocked his ears and sniffed, his black nose all but vibrating. A mouse! The thought of food made his mouth water. Though his sore leg trembled, he held motionless, front paws together, eyes intent on the ground. Then he reared and pounced.

  His paws came down on . . . nothing.

  All he had gained was misery in his foot. With a whine of frustration and a shake of his head, Nashoba continued along the trail.

  How far, he wondered, should I go?

  Remembering how the pups mouthed him, begging for meat, Nashoba knew the answer: until I find food.

  9

  “We’re going to be late!” Casey’s mother called.

  Casey grabbed his backpack and one of the archery books, then hurried out of his room. He wished he did not have school and instead could stay home with his jungle game and hunt. The next moment he reminded himself: Tomorrow I’ll be able to play all morning.