72 
Northern Trails. Book I 
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. 
At last, knowing perhaps from past experience the use¬ 
lessness of punishing or of disputing with this madman 
that felt no wounds in his rage, the wolf would lope away 
to cover, followed by a victorious bugle-cry that rang 
over the wide barren and echoed back from the moun¬ 
tain side. Then the wolf would circle back stealthily 
