Medicine Road (10 page)

Meanwhile Awklet stood alone in the blackness
that hovers so deeply just before daylight, his tired
brain struggling to stave off sleep. He had not shut
his eyes or stopped moving for twenty-four hours.
His whole aching body cried out for rest. But there
would be no rest, and he knew he must stay awake
or die. He must somehow, for a last time, fight back
the wolves.

Summoning his great strength, Awklet lurched
forward toward the panting, slowly pacing ring of
wolves that again began to bedevil him and the old
stags at the canon's mouth. The old stags charged
bravely after him, their assault bringing the wolf
pack up off its crouching bellies. For five minutes
Awklet and his stags kept up their short charges and
retreats. Then, after three of the stags had been cut
down by the wolves and another two so severely
wounded they could barely stagger, Awklet and the
surviving stags once more fell back into the canon's
throat.

They had paid a hard price, but they had succeeded in gaining the precious time the herd
needed. When the fighting stopped, Loki could see
by the growing daylight that once again the herd
had disappeared. Loki could not see through the narrow opening of the canon's walls into the inner
valley, but he had no need to. While the young bull
and those tough old stags had fought so well, the
other caribou had probably panicked and fled into
the little valley of no return. All Loki had to do now
was cut down the moose and finish off the rearguard stags. After that, the way to the inner valley
and the big kill would be wide open.

As the king wolf allowed himself one last conquering howl, the big moose started to move. Loki
narrowed his one good eye suspiciously. As he
watched, Awklet looked across at him and bellowed
defiantly. Then, surprisingly, the moose turned,
forced his way through the old stags and fled up the
canon.

Instantly Loki snarled the signal to attack. The
waiting wolves leaped forward. Snapping with
rage, their king led his combined packs down upon
the nine old stags.

Awklet, stumbling with exhaustion, caught up
with the herd in mid-valley. As he did, the howling
and yelping of Loki's attacking wolves rose to a sudden climax in the canon behind him. Forging to the
head of the slowing herd, Awklet led it out and
across the rocky ground toward the sheer north wall
and his last goal-the brawling, rushing course of
Lost River. Gallantly the tiring caribou lumbered after him, struggling to keep up with his giant strides.
None of them questioned why the young moose was
leading them in this direction.

The strange, deep stream of Lost River drained
the tiny glacial lake at the widened end of Blind
Canon. From the lake the stream ran a short distance across the mile-wide inner valley, then disappeared abruptly and mysteriously into the perpendicular face of the northern cliffs. Thence it
raced in a silent, black flood underground beneath a
high spur of the Boulder Hills to issue forth again in
the outer spaces of Half Moon Valley. It ran open
and unfrozen all year, for the little lake that was its
source was fed by the same great subterranean hot
springs that underlay the Rotten Lakes Swamp.

Long before, Neetcha had brought Awklet into
Blind Canon. To a wobbly-kneed calf, the purpose
of the visit was far from clear. The gentle caribou
doe led him to the eerie place where the roaring waters of Lost River smashed into the rock of the north
wall and disappeared. Here she paused on a granite
ledge high above the stream, urging him to join her
and look down. As he did so, she had deliberately
shouldered him over the edge, sending him sprawling into the racing waters. His single piteous bleat of
terror had been lost in the roar of the churning
flood.

Short minutes later, wet and bewildered but unharmed, he had been shot forth from the Half Moon
Valley side of the cliff, to come to a floundering stop
in a quiet, broad pool from which he easily struggled to shore. The next moment he had been joined
by Neetcha herself, who came bobbing out of the apparently solid rock as magically as had he.

Awklet alone knew that the friendly, warm current of Lost River would carry any animal from the
apparently hopeless trap of Blind Canon back out to
the freedom of Half Moon Valley-and do it in less
than three minutes! It was something that he had
never forgotten, and he was remembering it now as
he urged the tiring caribou toward the spraysplashed rock from which his foster mother had
pushed him those long years before.

Horsa and Kajak and the other old stags in the
canon's throat fought to the last. But no such small
band could stand before Loki's fury. Shortly the last
of the brave oldsters went down, and the wolf pack
poured over them into the inner valley. Instantly
they saw Awklet and the main caribou herd making
for the north wall and Lost River. Loki threw back
his huge head, howling deeply and hoarsely. Like
mad things, the white wolves streamed off after
their quarry, their wide red mouths hanging open,
their slobbering jaws chopping furiously. By some
dark instinct bred in their killer kind, they knew
that they had to catch those desperately racing caribou before they reached the river.

But Horsa's stubborn stags had done their work
well. They had given Awklet a few minutes of precious time. Time for him to lead the herd to the rock
overlooking Lost River. Time to urge the timid and
the frightened into the fearful stream. Time for the
swirling flood to bear its antlered, strongswimming burden beneath the mountain and away
to freedom.

When the first of the pack reached the rock, the
last caribou had disappeared. Loki was amazed and
furious. And a little frightened. High boulders had
hidden the herd from the pack's view in the last minutes of its race across the little valley. Now there was
not so much as a crippled fawn in sight. And no least
sign of what had become of better than 300 woodland caribou. But the king wolf's uneasiness disappeared before his renewed anger. There were high
boulders across the swift river, beyond where it disappeared into the north wall. Somehow the herd
must have forded the stream higher up and gotten
into those far-shore boulders. It seemed impossible that the entire band could have done this and vanished so completely in the little time it was out of the
wolf pack's sight, but there was no other explanation.

Snarling wickedly, Loki turned on Boron. The
caribou must be across the stream somewhere. Any
living thing falling downstream in the current of
the river would have been smashed to a pulp
against the face of the cliff into which the water
plunged. The river came within inches of the top of
the great cave through which it flowed under the
mountain. The caribou could not have gone that
way and lived. They must be upstream. Loki swung
his followers on up Lost River, seeking the secret
way across it. Boron and his rabble waited at the
rock for his return.

Certainly Half Moon Valley had never seen a
stranger sight. Certainly the crest of Lost River had
never borne a stranger freight. Without warning,
from the bare rock of the stream's outer issuance
spewed forth a torrent of waterborne caribou.
Within seconds the big landing pool was alive with
the antlered, bobbing heads of the entire Hemlock
Wood herd. Not a single animal had been lost in the
swift-churning ride through the mountain.

By the time Awklet reached the rocky beach, the
herd had swum clear of the stream and reformed on
its southern bank. At this point the caribou could
easily have fled back to the beloved fastnesses of
their forest home, but Awklet's bravery did not end
with merely escaping from Blind Canon. And, refreshed by their miraculous journey through Lost
River's underground caverns, the herd did not falter
nor fail to follow him.

Leaving the yearling fawns and their mothers un der a strong guard of the older stags and barren
does, the balance of the herd swung obediently off
after Awklet. Doughty old Bartok took charge of the
band staying behind to watch over the does and
their fawns. In spite of his past actions, Bartok was
the best and angriest fighter among them, now that
Horsa and Kajak were gone. And for all his surly
ways, he could be trusted when the wind fell still
among the aspens and the hunting song of the Arctic wolves was in the winter air.

Awklet led his followers at a lumbering gallop
back toward the narrow rock passage of Blind
Canon. Sensing instinctively their leader's intention, the slowest-witted, least resolute of the embattled caribou began to grow fiercely excited.

As Loki searched pantingly for the secret crossing
place of the caribou herd over Lost River's swirling
torrent, a sudden snarl from Split Lip brought him
up short. Swinging his huge head, the king wolf
looked back toward the entrance of Blind Canon.
Something was happening over there by the canon,
something unexplainable, something possibly very
dangerous.

The king wolf's pack was on high ground with
the whole width of the inner valley spread below it
in the glaring snow light of full sunup. Far over by
the canon's outlet to big Half Moon Valley, the
wolves could see a dark mass of living forms surging into the little inner valley's mile-wide arena. The
missing caribou! The very animals they had been
seeking just now along the banks of Lost River. The
herd that had disappeared without a trace had now
reappeared in the same mysterious manner. This
time, however, there was one sinister difference.
This time it was the wolf pack that was sealed in the valley from which there was no escape known to
them or their leader.

A deep and terrible anger struck the great wolf.
His single snarl was so heavy it shook the very snow
beneath his huge pads. With that snarl and without
another signal or thought for the pack behind him,
Loki turned and started alone for the canon entrance. Over there, waiting for him, was the young
moose he had come to kill. Loki did not think of
himself. He did not think of the pack. He thought
only of Awklet.

Meanwhile, over by the canon's rock-grit throat,
where a mid-valley range of ragged boulders hid
the wolf pack from his anxious view, the exhausted
young moose thought of Loki. He knew that somewhere out in the stillness of that little valley the king
wolf was waiting to kill him. Awklet was not afraid,
but he was very, very tired. He had waited a long
time and with an anger of his own for this final
meeting with the giant wolf. Yet now that the time
was near, he feared that his great weariness might
cause him to fail the herd and thereby to fail the
memory of the soft-eyed foster mother from which
he had inherited his leadership.

Across the valley Loki's followers now made their
own last decision. As their snarling leader started
toward the caribou herd, his faithful pack, to the last
red-tongued wolf, fell in behind him. They had lived
with their king and now, if it were time to do so,
they would die with him.

Typically Loki thought nothing of this fierce show
of loyalty. It was simply the way of the wolf pack.
Without looking back, he led the way down and off
the higher ground and into the great boulders of the
valley's broken floor. As he went, his savage heart burned with the desire for revenge. The pack might
be trapped and facing a fight to the death. So be it.
Loki was willing to sell his own life for a price-the
life of a giant young bull moose standing five inches
over six feet tall at the shoulder and weighing a full
1,300 pounds.

Awklet waited a little longer, then led the herd a
cautious few steps out into the valley. Here he
paused again, every sense straining for a sign of the
wolves. He still could not see or hear anything of
them. After another careful time of waiting and listening, he took a small band of seasoned old stags
and started off to look for his enemies, leaving the
main herd on guard at the canon's entrance. He
went with confidence and without fear.

There was realistic cause for the young moose's
calm lack of fright. From time immemorial the caribou had fought the wolves by gathering in a tight
circle, with the females and the fawns inside and
the males outside facing the attackers. Thus the wolf
had always been the offensive fighter, the caribou
the defensive fighter. Now the young moose had unknowingly changed the old order. The wolves were
in the position of an attacked herd, while the caribou were taking the place of the attacking wolves.
The outcome of the threatened battle, therefore, was
not at all reassuring for the wolves.

No wolf is a match for a ring of adult, aroused
caribou in a stand-off fight. The wolf always operates as a raider. He attacks, slashes inward, leaps
outward and away. Loki had always killed what he
wanted and withdrawn before his surviving prey
could recover enough to start dealing him punishment with razored hoof and crushing horn. When,
upon rare and notable occasion, he was trapped as Awklet's herd now had Loki trapped, the wolf king
was an entirely different animal. A cornered wolf
will fight, as will any cornered wild thing. But he
will not fight with the same fury and self-confidence
displayed in the bloody attack. Somehow Awklet
must have sensed this. His triumphant situation
must have produced the courage and brave assurance with which he led the old stags out into the valley in search of Loki.