The hackles rose up
on the cub's neck and a growl rumbled in his deep chest, for he knew now
what it all meant. The smell of blood was in the air, and the old
he-wolf, that had so often shared his kill to save the cubs, was now
going crazy in his awful hunger. Another moment and there would have
been a terrible duel in the scrub; but as the wolves sprang to their
feet and faced each other some deep, unknown feeling stirred within them
and they turned aside. The old wolf threw himself down heavily, facing
away from the temptation, and the cub slipped aside to find another den,
out of sight and smell of the huge leader, lest the scent of blood
should overcome them again and cause them to fly at each other's throats
in uncontrollable fury.
Next morning a queer thing happened, but not uncommon under the
circumstances among wolves and huskies. The cub was lying motionless,
his head on his paws, his eyes wide open, when something stirred near
him. A red squirrel came scampering through the scrub branches just
under the thick coating of snow that filled all their tops. Slowly,
carefully the young wolf gathered his feet under him, tense as a
bowstring.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118