After four or five minutes of this internecine warfare a raven flew low over the gully, and as his shadow slipped past the pups they abandoned the bone and scuttled for shelter. But this was evidently only part of the game, for they emerged again at once showing no signs of real fear. While two of them went back to battling over the bone, the other two ambled off to the muskeg patch and began sniffing about for mice.
Any mice which still remained in this small area must have become exceptionally cagy. After a few minutes of perfunctory snuffling, and one or two attempts to burrow into the muck, these pups gave up the attempt to hunt and started playing with each other.
It was at this moment that Angeline returned.
I was so engrossed in watching the pups that I was not aware of her presence until I heard a deep whine near at hand. The pups heard it too, and we all swiveled our heads to see Angeline at the edge of the ravine. The pups instantly abandoned their games and set up a shrill yammer of excitement, one of them even standing up on his pudgy hindlegs and pawing the air in joyful anticipation.
Angeline watched them for a second or two, poised and lovely, then leaped over the rim and down to the valley floor, where she was mobbed. She sniffed each pup, turning some of them right over on their backs in the process, then she hunched her shoulders and began to retch.
Although I should have known what to expect, I was caught off guard and for a horrible moment was afraid she had eaten poison. Nothing of the kind. After several convulsive motions she brought up what appeared to be at least ten pounds of partly digested meat, then she leaped out of the way and lay down to watch the pups go to it.
If the morning meat delivery made me somewhat squeamish, it did not inhibit the pups. With single-minded voracity they waded into their breakfast while Angeline watched them tolerantly, making no attempt to correct their appalling manners.
Breakfast finished—and not a scrap remained for lunch—the pups simply keeled over where they stood—bloated, and evidently incapable of any further hellery for the moment.
The somnolence of a hot summer morning descended on us all. Very soon I was the only one still awake, and I was having a hard time staying that way. I would have liked to ease my position a little and have a stretch; but I did not dare move, for I was so close to the wolves and the silence was so complete that they would have heard the slightest sound I made.
It may be indelicate of me to mention it, but I seem to have been equipped at birth with the equivalent of an echo chamber in my stomach regions. When I am hungry, or even sometimes when I am not, this portion of my anatomy becomes autonomous and begins producing noises of a startling variety and volume and of a carrying power which has to be heard to be believed. There is nothing I can do about it, although, over the years I have at least learned how to mitigate the consequences by pretending, with some skill, that I am not involved, and that the rumblings which others hear do not proceed from me.
My demon drummer of the nether depths now chose to do his stuff, and the resultant cacophony rolled through the hush of the morning like distant thunder.
Angeline woke with a start. Her head went up and she listened intently, but with a puzzled expression. When the sounds continued (despite everything I could do to muffle them) she got slowly to her feet and, after a glance at the pups, as if to assure herself that they were not responsible, she cocked a speculative eye at the cloudless sky above. It held no solution to the mystery. Thoroughly aroused now, she began trying to track down the sounds.
This was no easy task, for there is a pronounced ventriloquial effect to abdominal noises in general and to mine in particular. After walking up and down the ravine twice, Angeline seemed no closer to satisfying her mounting curiosity.
I was undecided whether to attempt a retreat or whether to stand my ground in the hopes that my internal orchestra would exhaust itself; but the orchestra showed that it was still full of vim and vigor by producing a new and protracted rumble, of earth-shaking proportions. Moments later Angeline’s head appeared over the rim of the gully about ten feet from me.
We stared mutely into each other’s eyes for several seconds. At least she was mute, and I was trying very hard to be, but with limited success. It was an extraordinarily embarrassing predicament: the more I had seen of Angeline, the higher my regard for her had risen; I valued her good opinion, and I did not want to appear foolish in her eyes.
However I may have appeared, I felt extremely foolish. Her sudden appearance seemed to stimulate my intestinal musicians to more splendid efforts, and, before I could think of any feasible way of excusing myself, Angeline wrinkled her lips, bared her superb white teeth in an expression of cold disdain, and vanished.
Hastily abandoning my hiding place, I ran after her to the edge of the ravine; but I arrived too late even to apologize. All I saw of her was a scornful flick of her beautiful tail as she disappeared into the warren of crevices on the far side of the gully, driving her pups before her.
17
Visitors from Hidden Valley
ALTHOUGH I continued my vigil at the observation tent well into July, I did not add much to my knowledge of the wolves. Because the pups were growing rapidly and needed increasingly large quantities of food, George, Angeline and Albert were forced to devote most of their energy and time to hunting far afield. During the brief periods when they were at the den they spent most of their time sleeping, since finding food for the pups had become an exhausting business. Nevertheless, occasionally they were still able to surprise me.
One day the wolves killed a caribou close to home and this convenient food supply gave them an opportunity to take a holiday. They did not go hunting at all that night, but stayed near the den and rested.
The next morning dawned fine and warm, and a general air of contented lassitude seemed to overcome all three. Angeline lay at her ease on the rocks overlooking the summer den, while George and Albert rested in sandy beds on the esker ridge. The only signs of life from any of them through the long morning were occasional changes of position, and lazy looks about the countryside.
Toward noon, Albert roused himself and meandered down to the bay to get a drink Then for an hour or two he hunted sculpins in a desultory fashion, after which he started back toward his bed. When he was halfway there he had to stop to relieve himself—an effort which seemed to exhaust him so thoroughly that he gave up the idea of going back to the crest of the esker and sprawled out where he was instead. His head instantly began to droop, and he was soon asleep.
He had not been unobserved. George had been lying with his head on his forepaws, casually watching the progress of his friend’s fishing expedition. When Albert collapsed in sleep, George got up. He stretched, yawned hugely, and with an appearance of idle insouciance began to amble off toward the spot where Albert lay. He seemed quite aimless, stopping to sniff at shrubs and mouseholes, and twice sitting down to scratch himself. Nevertheless, he never lost sight of Albert—and when he had drifted to within fifty feet of the sleeping wolf his demeanor changed dramatically.
Lowering himself into an almost catlike crouch he began to inch toward Albert with every appearance of serious intent. The tension began to build, and I found myself clutching the telescope as I waited for the denouement, wondering what had prompted George’s swift transformation. Had the perfect harmony of the family broken down at last? Had Albert somehow transgressed the wolfish code, and was he about to be made to pay for his transgressions with his blood? It looked that way.