Then the shadow vanished from the big rock on
the mountain, the huskies fled away wildly from the shore, and only the
sob of the breakers broke the stillness.
That was my first (and Noel's last) shadowy glimpse of Wayeeses, the
huge white wolf which I had come a thousand miles over land and sea to
study. All over the Long Range of the northern peninsula I followed him,
guided sometimes by a rumor--a hunter's story or a postman's fright,
caught far inland in winter and huddling close by his fire with his dogs
through the long winter night--and again by a track on the shore of some
lonely, unnamed pond, or the sight of a herd of caribou flying wildly
from some unseen danger. Here is the white wolf's story, learned partly
from much watching and following his tracks alone, but more from Noel
the Indian hunter, in endless tramps over the hills and caribou marshes
and in long quiet talks in the firelight beside the salmon rivers.
_Where the Trail Begins_
From a cave in the rocks, on the unnamed mountains that tower over
Harbor Weal on the north and east, a huge mother wolf appeared,
stealthily, as all wolves come out of their dens.
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