Old Wolf

  Hidden by trees and bushes, he stole a look.

  He saw no humans, but he did see an elk cow standing like a sentry to one side of the small clearing. She was heavy and muscular, four feet tall at the tail, perhaps five hundred pounds in weight. Her reddish brown fur was shaggy, scruffy in spring molt. Her head and neck were held up and out, while warm, white breath puffed from her big nose. Pointed ears were pricked forward as she turned her head this way and that, alert for danger.

  In the middle of the clearing stood five other cows, just as large as the sentry. They were pawing at the thin snow with their sharp, hard hooves, working to uncover new grass, then bending down to eat. Nashoba saw one calf, then four more. As the raven had told him, they were young, still spotted.

  To Nashoba’s eyes, it appeared as if the sentry cow had chosen her place because the clearing was small and surrounded by a circle of aspen. Though there were some gaps among the trees, the area was closed in, offering natural protection. All the same, Nashoba quickly perceived that if he and the wolves could block those gaps, the elk would be trapped, as if in a cage. How easy then to kill a calf or two. Even better, if the wolves moved fast enough and the elk panicked, the pack might bring down a cow.

  One of the calves moved toward a cow—its mother, Nashoba supposed. The calf looked to weigh forty, maybe fifty pounds. As it moved, it limped. Something was wrong with its rear left leg. That meant the calf would not be able to move as fast as the others, making it an even easier target.

  The young elk began to nurse.

  Nashoba’s decision was instantaneous: he would go after the hobbled calf. The thought of eating made his stomach growl.

  Turning, he stole back to the pack, moving as quickly as he dared.

  26

  Casey’s mom looked into his room. “Guess your dad has had some road trouble. Dinner will be late, love.”

  “I’m good,” said Casey, not even turning her way. Instead he sat in front of his computer, the Bowhunter game bright on the screen. As before, it showed a jungle scene whose lush colors reminded Casey of an animated movie about summer. Thinking of the snow outside, he had to smile. No jungle here.

  At the bottom of the screen, the arrow shaft and arrowhead pointed toward the jungle. Casey shifted his mouse so that the arrow aimed now this way, then that.

  He clicked the W button on his keyboard. The jungle began to move, as if he, Casey, were walking deeper and deeper into it. He kept his hand hovering over the mouse, waiting for an animal to appear.

  A wolf sprang into view.

  Casey clicked his mouse. The arrow shot forward, unspooling its red course like a bloody ribbon. The wolf made a sudden turn, avoiding the arrow, and bounded off.

  Bad shot! said the automated voice. Try again. Be alert! Aim better!

  Determined to improve, Casey stared at the screen, flexing the fingers of his right hand over the mouse. The jungle rolled toward him.

  The way the game worked, an animal who escaped being killed always came back. During every half hour of play all the animals he killed returned. He was waiting for the wolf to come back.

  In the Bowhunter game there was no death, just kills.

  27

  “Six cows, four calves,” Nashoba whispered to the four waiting wolves. “In a small clearing surrounded by trees. One of the cows is standing sentry on the left side. There are a few gaps among the trees—bolt-holes. There’s no wind.

  “Garby, you go to the left, behind that sentry. Block her. Tonagan, you go to the right. Nikito, you need to get around to the far side and go forward. Pildown, you’ll stay behind me and back me up. If we can do that, we should have them trapped.”

  “And you?” asked Garby.

  “There’s a lame calf,” Nashoba continued in a low voice. “I’ll get that one. Does everyone understand? I’ll make the first move. The rest of you will wait for me, then do what you can. We should do well.

  “Now, get into place. Nikito, you have the farthest to go. I’ll hold back until I’m sure you’re there. Remember,” he said, “only when I break from the tree cover to attack will you attack. Not before.”

  “Don’t worry,” Garby said. “I’ll bring down that sentry cow.”

  Nashoba glared at him. “Just let me get to that calf first,” he snapped. “If we bring down more, fine. Is that understood?”

  Garby gave a tiny nod.

  Wanting to ease the tension, Nashoba said, “Of course, the more we get, the better for all. Are we ready?”

  There were grunts of agreement.

  “Food, my friends,” said Nashoba. “Food is close.”

  28

  Casey’s dad did not get home until seven thirty. The boy was still at the computer. His kill score had reached forty-nine. Only the wolf had eluded him.

  “I’m home!” Casey heard, along with the stomping of boots in the mudroom.

  Within moments his dad poked his head into Casey’s room. “Sorry,” he said. “The road’s really slick. Can’t believe it will come down for long. Your mom says dinner’s ready.”

  Casey jumped up.

  To his surprise, the dining room, which the family seldom used, had sprouted colored streamers, even dangling letters that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

  A conical birthday hat sat near each plate.

  “Hats?” said a laughing Casey. “You kidding? I’m too old.”

  “You only become a teenager once,” Bess replied with a laugh of her own.

  “Happy birthday, Son!”

  Casey’s eyes were on the big long white box that lay across his chair.

  “Can I open it?” asked Casey.

  “Might be fun,” said his dad.

  In a matter of seconds Casey had ripped the box open.

  Inside was a simple but elegant wooden bow, as graceful as a sculpture. Almost four feet long, its upper and lower limbs were equal in length and curvature, the bowstring designed to reach from matching notches at the tips of the recurve. The bow’s central riser was laminated wood.

  “Oh my God!” Casey exclaimed. “Fantastic.”

  “There are many different kinds of bows,” his dad explained. “But yours is called a longbow. Twenty-pound draw.”

  “Awesome!” said Casey, sliding a hand along the bow’s smooth length.

  “When you’re not using it, you’re supposed to keep it unstrung,” his mom said. “Like a trigger lock on a gun. Safety first.”

  “There’s a bowstringer in the box,” his dad pointed out. “String, arrows, arm guard, plus some paper targets. Everything you need.”

  “Thanks!” Casey cried, holding the bow now this way, then that way. “I love it! Thanks. Thanks so much!”

  His parents grinned at his pleasure.

  “We’ll work with you to set it up,” said his dad.

  “But it is a weapon,” his mother added. “So we found someone to give you skill and safety lessons. You need to learn both. Tim Fowler from town. Starting next weekend.”

  “Great,” Casey said, and reached into the box to pull out six white arrows.

  “Called composite arrows,” said his dad. “A mix of aluminum and carbon. Considered the best. Being white, they should be easy to find in the forest.”

  Casey touched the tips and looked up. “Sharp,” he said.

  “That’s the whole point,” said his mom.

  Though it was a bad pun, they all laughed.

  “Can I hunt with it?” Casey asked.

  “It’s what the lessons are for,” his mom said. “Hey, archery hunting season begins September first. You’ll be ready.”

  “But we can start fiddling around in the morning,” said his dad.

  Casey turned to his mother. “Did you tell Dad what that Mr. Souza said?”

  “Who?”

  “Kim Souza. That old guy. The birder. Said he saw wolf tracks back behind our place.”

  “Not likely,” said Casey’s dad. “Wolves up in Wyoming. Sure. But not here. Though I suppose they could have drifte
d down.”

  Casey said, “They’re killers, right?”

  “Unless they’re sick with something like rabies, wolves don’t attack people. Elk, deer, sheep, and cattle: that’s a completely different story. But no, not humans. They avoid people. Still, I wouldn’t mess with a wolf.”

  29

  Nashoba waited as three of the wolves moved toward their positions. Pildown remained. Nashoba touched his nose to his muzzle by way of encouragement, then turned back into the aspen grove. He moved forward noiselessly, placing his feet with great care. All the while, he kept his eyes straight ahead, watching, ears cocked forward, listening.

  Pildown followed, stiff-tailed.

  Nashoba knew that Nikito, with the farthest to go, would take the longest time to get into place. That placement was the most crucial, because it would be exactly opposite his own position of attack. The moment Nashoba showed himself, the elk would bolt straight away from him. When they saw Nikito blocking their way, they would panic. That panic would give the other wolves their best opportunity. First, however, it was up to him, as pack leader, to commence the attack with a successful kill of that limping calf.

  Nashoba reached the clearing edge. With no moon or starlight, it was only ground snow that provided a pale glimmering. All else was shadowy. The grazing cows were pawing the ground, their breathing hardly more than little popping puffs.

  Nashoba looked for his target calf. The young elk was on the ground, legs folded under, near a cow. He might even be asleep. Better yet, Nashoba thought. Every second helped.

  Fleetingly he glanced up among the surrounding trees and saw the glint of raven eyes. The eight birds were deep among the dark branches, still as stone, watching, waiting.

  Nashoba checked the sentry elk. She was where she had been, but her movements had become agitated, suggesting she had become suspicious.

  The old wolf looked across the clearing, hoping to catch some glimmer of Nikito. He saw none.

  He turned back to the sentry. The cow gave a sharp snort. The other cows paused in their feeding, looked up and around. They are nervous. Nashoba looked for the cause.

  He caught the gleam of Garby’s eyes. The young wolf had slipped among the trees, behind the sentry cow. But instead of waiting, he was creeping forward, preparing to strike first.

  Don’t! barked Nashoba in his head. Don’t!

  The sentry cow jerked her head around and snorted. She appeared to look straight at Garby.

  Don’t show yourself! Nashoba cried out in his thoughts. Don’t show yourself!

  He turned back to his target calf. Even as he spotted her, the calf awoke and jumped up.

  The next moment the sentry cow gave a sharp bark!—the elks’ alarm signal. She must have seen Garby. Her call brought an explosion of sounds from the elk—squealing, barking. Simultaneously they rushed toward the trees.

  Knowing he must attack, Nashoba—front legs pumping in unison—sprang into the clearing, hurling himself at the calf, which stood frozen in terror. But the wolf’s right front paw—the hurt one—buckled slightly, breaking his charge.

  Though he knew he was not close enough—more than five feet from the calf—Nashoba leaped, jaws wide, teeth exposed, aiming for the calf’s haunches. Even as he committed himself, the calf’s mother whirled about, shoved her calf to one side, and kicked out with a rear leg. The kick smashed into Nashoba’s right shoulder, powerful enough to break his leap. He fell short, crashing to the earth. The cow and her calf burst toward the trees.

  On the ground, Nashoba heard sounds of hoofbeats, frantic elk barking, snarls and grunts from the wolves. All the old wolf could feel was the shock of terrible pain. He tried to move. He could not. The pain engulfed him. The next moment his mind went dark, darker than the night.

  30

  Casey lay on his bed reading Archery Fundamentals, his new bow on the floor by his side. He and his dad had strung and restrung it a number of times, so Casey could now do it himself.

  His book was open to the section titled “Finding Your Dominant Eye.” After much testing, Casey decided his right eye was it. That eye, according to the book, should be the one closest to the bowstring when he shot an arrow.

  Then Casey went over the nine steps for a perfect shot.

  Take your stance

  Nock the arrow

  Set your grip

  Predraw your bow

  Draw your bow

  Anchor

  Aim

  Release

  Follow-through

  His dad promised that in the morning they would set up a target for practice and work on all those steps.

  His mother looked into the room. “Hey, love: Toby Manhock’s mother just called. Said the weather is bad enough that he can’t come tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” said Casey, fully absorbed in his book.

  “I’m thinking,” his mother said, “maybe we should postpone the party for a week. Snow will absolutely be gone by then. What do you say?”

  Casey looked up. A delayed party would mean a whole day to practice with the bow. He said, “Fine with me.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll make the calls,” his mom said, and retreated.

  Casey looked down at the bow, its smooth wooden surface, and its graceful curves. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Tomorrow he would use it.

  31

  Nashoba could not tell where the pain in his body began nor where it ended. He kept trying to move but could not. He worked to open his eyes but failed. He was not sure where he was or how much time was passing. All that he felt was pain, a universe of hurt, and he was the center of it.

  Then someone was licking his muzzle. Sensing another lick, he struggled to open his eyes, and managed a squint. Tonagan was standing over him, bending so close, he could feel her breath on his eyes. She licked him again.

  Nashoba lifted his head a few inches off the ground and realized that the other wolves were standing around him, watching.

  “How . . . how did we do?” he managed to ask.

  Tonagan said, “They all got away.”

  “All . . . ?”

  “All.”

  “Nothing taken?”

  No reply. It was answer enough.

  The effort to speak drained Nashoba of energy. He closed his eyes and lowered his head to the earth. He breathed deeply.

  “It was a bad plan,” said a voice. Nashoba knew it was Garby. The old wolf wanted to curl his lips in disgust and show his teeth. The gesture was beyond him.

  “You’re too old, Nashoba,” called Garby. “Useless. You let a stupid cow knock you down.”

  Nashoba waited a few moments, gathered some strength, and replied, “I ordered you . . . to wait for me before attacking.”

  “The pack should attack with strength, not weakness,” Garby returned.

  Nashoba let the words settle. Then he said, “What happened?”

  “When you failed,” said Garby, “it threw everything into confusion. They were able to get away.”

  “So you, too, got nothing,” said Nashoba.

  “Because you failed,” snapped Garby.

  Pain prevented Nashoba from responding.

  “But from now on,” Garby continued, “we’ll have strength to lead us. I am the pack leader now.”

  Nashoba peeked up into Tonagan’s face. He saw his hurt reflected in her eyes. Full of anger, the old wolf pushed down with his front legs so he could stand and confront Garby. The effort brought agony. Collapsing, he lay on the ground, panting.

  “Give up, Nashoba,” said Garby. “You can’t do anything.”

  As the wolves lingered, Nashoba had a thought: Are they waiting for me to die?

  He lifted his head again. “Is that what you all want?” he whispered. “You want Garby to lead?”

  Pildown spoke gently. “Nashoba, we must find food.”

  “I can still hunt,” the old wolf said.

  “No, you can’t,” said Garby.

/>   “I have one more kill in me,” Nashoba said, managing with great effort to look right at Garby.

  “Try,” said the young wolf, and he drew close.

  Nashoba attempted to clear his mind of the hatred he felt toward Garby. He could not. All he said was, “Go away. All of you.”

  None of the wolves moved.

  Nashoba lifted his head a few inches. “Go!” he barked in a burst of breath. “Leave me alone!” He rested his snout on the snow-covered ground between his two large front paws, and breathed deeply.

  Nashoba heard the wolves move away. He sensed that only Tonagan remained. She pressed her nose into his ear while making a small whining sound. “I’ll come back,” she said.

  “Go,” whispered Nashoba, not even looking at her.

  “Tonagan!” barked Garby. “Hurry. We need to go after those elk.”

  Nashoba made no effort to watch them leave. Instead he stared at the snow right before him. It was pink, stained with his own blood.

  Blowing snow tickled his eyes, causing him to blink. He gave a deep sigh. The pain in his leg pulsed with the beating of his heart. All he wanted was sleep.

  32

  In the middle of the night Casey woke to the ringing of the house phone. He assumed, because it happened with some regularity, that his father was being called for a power problem. He eyed his digital clock: 3:20 in bloodred numbers.

  Half awake, half asleep, Casey listened to his dad’s voice but couldn’t make out his words. He did hear his mother calling, “Be safe!”

  Casey listened to his father’s truck rumble and then, within moments, heard the diminishing sound of it crunching down the dirt road.

  The silence returned.

  Casey rolled from bed, raised the blinds, and looked out the window. Only a few flakes of snow were falling. High in the sky hung a crescent moon. Streaks of dark clouds moved slowly across its pale yellow face. The moonglow was bright enough to cast long purple shadows—like reaching fingers—across the silvery snow.

  Thinking It’s going to be a good day for hunting, Casey went back to bed—forgetting to pull the blinds down—and quickly fell asleep.