98 
Northern Trails. Book I 
root, watching him steadily with the same horrible stare 
in his unblinking eyes. 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 un¬ 
common 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. 
As the squirrel whisked overhead the wolf leaped like a 
flash, caught him, and crushed him with a single grip. 
Then with the squirrel in his mouth he made his way 
