ii8 Northern Trails. Book I 
capered after his own brush, whirling round and round 
like a little whirlwind, and the shrill ki-yi of a cub wolf 
playing came faintly across the barren. 
It was a strange scene, yet one often witnessed on 
the lonely plains of the far North: the caribou halting, 
running away, and halting again to look back and 
watch the queer antics of their big enemies, which 
seemed now so playful and harmless; the cunning 
wolves playing on the game’s curiosity at every turn, 
knowing well that if once frightened the deer would 
break away at a pace which would make pursuit 
hopeless. So they followed rather than drove the 
foolish deer across the barren, holding them with 
monkey tricks and kitten’s capers, and restraining with 
an iron grip their own fearful hunger and the blind 
impulse to rush in headlong and have it all quickly over. 
Kneeling behind a big spruce, Noel was trying nerv¬ 
ously the spring and temper of his long bow, divided 
in desire between the caribou, which they needed sadly 
at home, and one of the great wolves whose death would 
give him a place among the mighty hunters, when 
Mooka clutched his arm, her eyes snapping with excite¬ 
ment, her finger pointing silently back on their own 
trail. A vague shadow glided swiftly among the trees. 
An enormous white wolf appeared, vanished came near 
them again, and crouched down under a low spruce 
branch waiting. 
