24 ON THE EDGE OF THE WILDERNESS 
Fang, however, turned down the mountain 
again, evidently intending to keep the dogs a long 
way from the den. Suddenly a shot rang out. 
It hurt Swiftfoot’s ears, even from this distance. 
There was a cry such as the two-legged creatures 
make, a sudden yelping and snarling of dogs— 
and then silence. Somehow Swiftfoot knew that 
Fang was dead. He hunted no more that night, 
but on padded feet sneaked up to the very top of 
the mountain and lay under a rock in the dry 
moss. 
It was evident that Fang had gone once too 
often down the mountain after fresh calf meat. 
Now the two-legged creatures and their dogs 
would be making life miserable. Swiftfoot felt 
like moving on at once, but Softfur and the two 
cubs held him back. Not that he any longer had 
a curious feeling when he looked at Softfur—that 
feeling had passed with the spring. But she was 
of his pack, and the two cubs, which would be 
growing fast now, were of his pack, and one 
hangs with the pack. Sooner or later, Softfur 
and her cubs, big enough to hunt for themselves, 
would come to him, and the four of them would 
