Whereupon the old wolf would trot quietly along
the path, paying no more heed to the interruption; while the young bull
would stand wondering, his body hidden in the scrub and his head thrust
into the narrow path to look after his strange adversary.
Another time, as the old wolf ranged along the edges of the barrens
where the caribou herds were gathering, he would hear the challenge of a
huge stag and the warning crack of twigs and the thunder of hoofs as the
brute charged. Still the wolf trotted quietly along, watching from the
corners of his eyes till the stag was upon him, when he sprang lightly
aside and let the rush go harmlessly by. Sitting on his tail he would
watch the caribou closely--and who could tell what was passing behind
those cunning eyes that glowed steadily like coals, unruffled as yet by
the passing winds, but ready at a rough breath to break out in flames of
fire? Again and again the stag would charge, growing more furious at
every failure; and every time the wolf leaped aside he left a terrible
gash in his enemy's neck or side, punishing him cruelly for his bullying
attack, yet strangely refusing to kill, as he might have done, or to
close on the hamstring with one swift snap that would have put the big
brute out of the fight forever.
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