Shasta Of The Wolves — Chapters 10 & 11
HOW SHASTA HID IN TIME
That fierce approach of Kennebec, sweeping up as from the remote ends of the hollow world, was a terrible thing to see.
Also, when the sound of it reached Shasta's ears, it was terrible to hear.
He knew that there was only one thing to do, and that he must do it without an instant's delay--to find some hiding-place where he would be safe from those awful claws and beak; for Kennebec's anger would have no bounds when he discovered that the eaglets had been destroyed.
To descend the cliff as he had come up would be impossible for Shasta, as he was fully aware.
Once exposed upon that naked face of rock, Kennebec would attack him with fury, and, ripping him from his foothold, dash him down below.
He took in his surroundings with a swift glance.
The place was composed entirely of rocks.
They were jagged and splintered by the frosts and tempests of a million years.
They wore a fierce and hungry look, like Kennehec himself.
It was the raw edge of the world.
Shasta lost not a moment.
He fled along the tumbled rocks, as the mountain sheep flee when they are pursued by wolves.
He could not tell where he was going nor where the rocks would end.
The instinct in him was to seek refuge among the trees.
Surely upon the other side of the precipice he would find that the forest climbed!
The forest was his friend, if he could reach it in time.
Under the shelter of the spruces he would be safe.
The great eagle could not reach him there.
But as he fled he heard the whistling rush of those fearful wings.
They were close behind him now--closer and closer!
He did not dare to look.
He heard; he felt: that was enough.
Now the storming wings were over him.
Beating the air Kennebec hovered, waiting for the swift downward rush, which, if it reached Shasta, would be the end.
For the moment the air seemed darkened with the shadow of those wings!
Then Kennebec swooped.
But even as he did so Shasta darted suddenly to the left.
He had seen an opening between the rocks, and, with the quickness which only wild animals possess, had bolted in.
By the tenth part of a second and the tenth part of an inch Kennebec missed his aim.
Instead of the soft body of Shasta, those terrible claws of his met the hard rock.
For an hour or more he hovered, raging over the spot where Shasta had disappeared.
But if he hoped that the boy would come out, he was disappointed.
Shasta might be half-wolf in his mind, but that did not make him a fool.
On the contrary, his wolf-like instincts taught him to stay where he was, and to lie low as long as that winged fury raged overhead.
The place into which he had crept was little more than a crevice between two enormous rocks, and could certainly not be called a cave.
But, narrow as it was, there was ample room for Shasta's little body;
and settling himself into as comfortable a position as possible, he was presently asleep.
That was part of his wolf-wisdom, learnt he didn't know how: "When there's nothing else to be done, sleep!"
After a time Kennebec grew tired of hovering over the crevice, so he settled down on a near pinnacle to watch.
Noon came and went.
A
burning heat scorched the rocks.
It would have been far cooler up in the high levels of the air.
Nevertheless Kennebec chose to sit stewing on his rock, with the glare of his great eyes fixed on the spot where Shasta had disappeared.
And the glare had a fierce intensity which seemed as if it were fiercer than even the sun's. For the hard and cruel light in it meant death to whatever should come within Kennebec's power to kill.
Late in the afternoon Shasta woke, and peeped out to see if there were any signs of Kennebec.
But the pinnacle upon which the eagle had taken up his watch was just out of sight, and Shasta could not see him.
In spite of the shade it was very stuffy in the crevice, and the thirst began to dry Shasta's tongue.
He thought of the cool green trails of the forest, and water sliding under the moss with a hollow trickle.
Now that Kennebec seemed to have gone, it was a great temptation to slip out and make a bolt for the nearest trees.
Although they were not in sight, he was sure they must be there, just over the other side of the rocks.
Yet, in spite of the temptation, something told him that it was not safe to go.
He could not see Kennebec, it is true, yet a feeling--the sense that seldom fails to warn the wild creatures when danger is at hand--told him to remain where he was.
And this obedience to his instinct saved his life.
For though Kennebec was out of sight, he was not gone.
There he sat, on the burning rock, sultry with heat, but even sultrier with anger, watching and watching with the patience that is born of hate.
It was not until the dusk fell, and the tawny light of sunset faded from the peaks, that he rose from his perch and flapped heavily away.
When it was quite dark Shasta crept out from his hiding-place and made his way softly over the rocks.
He went slowly, setting his feet with the utmost care, for he knew that the least sound might betray his presence, and bring Kennebec's terrible talons upon him, even in the dark.
At last, to his joy, he saw the summits of the spruces glowing against the stars, and in a few minutes more he was safe beneath the trees.
CHAPTER XI SHASTA'S RESTLESSNESS AND WHAT CAME OF IT
After Shasta's exploit against Kennebec, he became doubly marked as a person among the forest folk.
Along the Wild news flies quickly.
It is carried not only by swift feet and keen noses: it seems to travel as well by mysterious carriers, who spread it through the length and breadth of the land.
What these carriers are, and what is the manner and meaning of their coming and going, only the wild creatures know.
_They_ see them with their large eyes which deepen with the dusk!
_They_ hear the soft whisper of their going on the wind-trails of the air!
We should not see them, you or I, because our eyes are too accustomed to the artificial lights, and because around our minds are built the brick walls of the world.
But the wild creatures, whose eyes have never been dulled by electricity, nor their ears stunned by the roar of the motors, see and hear the spirit faces and the flowing shapes which go by under the trees.
So not many hours had passed before the great news of Shasta's coming had spread through the wilderness.
And particularly the wolves took hold of it, and regarded Shasta as a sort of little god.
No one had ever dared to dispute Kennebec's mastery before.
Kennebec was so high and mighty that whatever he did must be suffered, even though you raged against it in your heart.
But now the strange cub had done the unthinkable deed.
He had done it and escaped.
All those who had lost their young through Kennebec's evil claws rejoiced that now at last the tyrant was punished, and felt their wrongs avenged.
Never more would Kennebec feel safe upon his precipice that climbed up to the stars.
Feet and hands that had scaled it before might do so again.
The fear of it would haunt him through the burning days and the breathless nights.
Yet, in spite of Shasta's growing importance among his wild kindred, a strange restlessness began to stir within him, and to move along his blood.
And when the mood was strongest, his thoughts turned continually towards the place of the rocks where he had joined the wolf chorus and sung himself into the heart of the pack.
It was the memory of the music which haunted him most, and when, from afar off, he would hear some wild wolf-note come sobbing through the night, the sound would set him thrilling till every hair on his body seemed to be alive.
Yet always, following hard upon the remembrance of the chorus, would come that other memory of tall wolfish shapes, that moved on their hind legs, and of that red glow in the circle of things that did not move: all of it down there, at the foot of the precipice, as if one looked down through the canyon of sleep to the low lair of a dream.
One day when the thing was strong upon him, he met Gomposh, and asked him what it was.
Gomposh said little, but thought much.
He knew that at certain seasons all things follow a craving within them, and that it made them follow far trails, leading to distant ranges from which they did not always return.
The geese went north, honking their mysterious cry.
The caribou made long journeys, and deepened the ancient trails.
The mountain sheep left their high pastures, guided by an instinct, which never failed, to the salt-lick in the lowlands to the south.
And now it was plain to Gomposh that the strange cub had a craving within him also.
It was not to find a lair in the north, nor a salt-lick in the south.
It was not to change pasture for pasture, in the way of the caribou.
Gomposh knew certainly that it was none of those things; but that it was the call of the blood that was in him, the secret Indian call, that penetrated even through the deep forests, far into the inmost heart of the wilderness where he lay outcast from his kind.
But though Gomposh thought the thing clearly enough in his deep mind, he did not worry it into actual words.
"It is a good restlessness," he said.
"It is of the other part of you that is not wolf.
Follow the restlessness of your blood."
That, in the sense of it, was what Gomposh gave Shasta to understand, though he said it in his own peculiar way.
After that Shasta's mind was very busy with the new thing that had come to him, and before long he let it have its way, and started on his journey by himself.
The wolves watched him go, but did not attempt to stop him.
The growing unrest that had been in him had not escaped them.
For, apart from the feeling which it produced, Shasta's outward behaviour was different from before.
He came and went continually, restless and ill at ease.
The very air about the cave seemed to breathe unrest, and the wolves themselves became restless, though they could not tell the reason why.
Yet, although they did nothing to hinder him in his final departing, Nitka's eyes watched him regretfully as his little body disappeared among the trees.
He travelled on without stopping until he reached the spot where the great chorus had taken place.
As he approached the neighbourhood, he grew more and more excited.
The memories of that wonderful singing night came crowding back upon him.
It was broad daylight now, for it was at the middle of the afternoon; and when he reached the high rocks, he could see far and wide over the foothills and the prairies beyond.
He marvelled at the bigness of the world, and at the vast sunny spaces, shadowless in the heat.
Out there in the immense sunlight there were no forests to break the glare.
The heat glimmered and swam.
It was as if the sunlight were a beating pulse.
From where he crouched first the Indian camp was hidden; but his curiosity was too strong to allow him to remain where he was; so, very cautiously, he crept to the extreme edge of the rocks and looked over.
There it was, the same strange circle of things which he could not understand.
Also the upright wolves were there, walking about singly, or standing in little groups.
Shasta watched them intently with shining eyes.
And as he looked, the confused murmur of an Indian camp rose to his ears--voices of men and women, the barking of dogs, and the crying of children; also a slow and measured sound, which seemed to the boy to be even more disquieting than the other unaccustomed noises--the beating of an Indian tom-tom for a sacred dance.
He was so intent upon watching the camp below that it was only a slight noise behind which made him aware that danger was approaching.
He turned his head quickly and then remained spellbound.
Not a dozen paces away stood a tall form, motionless as a rock.
Its hair was long, falling to its shoulders.
A single eagle's feather stood up straight behind the head.
It was dressed in tanned buckskin, and carried a bow of sarvis-berry wood.
The quiver, from which the ends of the long feathered arrows appeared, was of the yellow skin of a buffalo calf.
Shasta gazed at this strange apparition with awe.
Somehow or other, he felt that it had to do with the camp down below.
He was afraid of it.
He wanted to run.
Yet an overmastering desire to look his fill at the thing left him where he was.
For a minute or two the Indian and the boy looked at each other without making a sound.
Then the Indian made a step forward, and Shasta growled low in his throat.
If Shasta was astonished at the Indian, the Indian was equally astonished at Shasta.
The boy's appearance was extraordinarily wild.
His matted hair fell straggling over his face.
In order to see clearly, he had to shake it out of his eyes continually.
It was more like an animal's mane than human hair, and gave him a ferocious look.
His constant exposure to the sun and air, unprotected by any clothes, had thickened the short hair upon his body till it was covered completely with a fine downy growth.
When the Indian heard the wolfish snarl he paused.
Through the thick mane of Shasta's head he saw the gleam of intensely black eyes.
Then he advanced again.
Shasta looked sharply to left and right, measuring distances.
Then he leapt to his feet and began to run.
But he ran in wolf fashion, on all fours.
Fast though he went, the Indian was faster.
He heard the quiet pad of moccasined feet behind him.
Terror seized him.
His one thought was to gain the shelter of the friendly trees.
Before he could reach them, however, the Indian was upon him.
Shasta felt something seize his hair behind.
His first instinct was that of a wild animal trapped, and he turned in fury upon his assailant.
But before he could do any damage, the Indian threw him down, and fastened his arms with a throng.
It was in vain that Shasta struggled with all his strength to free himself.
The Indian was too powerful and the deerskin throng held fast.
When he was finally secured, his captor lifted him under his arm and carried him down towards the camp.
After struggling fiercely for some time, Shasta became still.
It was not only that he felt that further resistance would be useless.
Something seemed to tell him that, as long as he remained quiet, the Indian would do him no harm.
For the first time since he was a tiny papoose, the smell that clings about all things Indian came to his nose.
It was an unfamiliar smell, yet, somehow, it was not new.
His eyes and his ears had brought with him no memories of his forgotten infancy: his nose was faithful to the past.
What faint, glimmering memories of the Indian lodges it brought; of the camp fire, and the cooking; of the buckskin clothes and untanned hides; all the clinging odours of that old Indian life--who shall say?
Now, as he was carried captive to his own people, quite unconscious though he was that he belonged to them, the Indian scent was a pleasant thing, so that he was soothed by it, and even, for the moment, subdued.
It took some time to gain the camp, for the downward way was steep, and there was no trail.
Moreover Shasta, lying limp as he did, was a dead weight, and not easy to carry.
At last the descent was made, and the camp reached.
The Indian put his burden down.
