by Pat Murphy
Panicked by the wolves at its heels, the buck did not hesitate to rush past Sarah. The hot scent of the animal’s fear filled the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh blood. The buck was bleeding from many wounds, but he was running hard. Without Sarah’s help, the wolves could still lose him.
As the buck passed her, she tossed the loop of the lariat neatly over his head. When he reached the end of the rope, his head jerked to a halt, but his body kept going, flipping in an ungainly somersault. His neck was broken even before the wolves closed in.
Rolon was the first wolf to tear at the fallen buck. That was his right. Wauna was behind him, and Sarah was just behind Wauna. Behind her came the others, growling beasts eager for the feast.
With her sharp knife, Sarah slit the buck’s abdomen, a long deep cut that spilled a flood of blood and viscera onto the carpet of pine needles. While the wolves pulled at the mess, Sarah sliced out the liver and turned to leave the fray and eat in peace.
Marek blocked her way. Rather than tearing meat from the carcass, the black wolf had adopted a different strategy: He ambushed those who had successfully obtained choice bits of meat.
Sarah met his challenging stare with a steady gaze. She was not willing to give in to him.
Marek snarled, lips pulling back to reveal his teeth. His head was high; his ears were back; his dark eyes were fixed on her. His message was clear: I am your superior; you are my subordinate. Give me what I want, or I will punish you.
Sarah did not move, standing her ground and returning Marek’s stare. In the past she had sought to avoid conflict with him, choosing to flee rather than fight. But her time with Max had changed her in subtle ways. She knew that she was not a wolf; she was something else, something different. She did not know what she was, but she knew that she was strong; she was fierce. She had killed a grizzly. She would not submit to Marek’s domination.
In her right hand, she held the coveted liver; in her left she held her knife. When Marek sprang, she moved quickly, taking an action no wolf would have taken. Marek wanted her food. A wolf would respond to such an attack in one of two ways: abandon the food to the other wolf or fight to protect the food.
But Sarah took a third course. As Marek sprang, she threw the bloody liver, catching the black wolf full in the face. The disputed food became a weapon. The sticky organ meat clung to Marek’s fur, temporarily blinding him. In that moment, Sarah jumped to one side.
Marek’s leap carried him past Sarah. The black wolf collided with Rolon and Wauna while the alpha pair was feeding at the carcass. At the moment that Rolon and Wauna turned to chastise Marek for interrupting them, Sarah attacked, throwing her full weight against the blinded wolf and knocking him over. As he fell, he struck Yepa and Beka, and those wolves turned on him as well.
For just a moment Sarah held Marek down, her knife pressed to his throat so he could feel the cold metal through his fur. Then she snatched up the liver and leapt clear of the conflict, leaving Marek facing the wrath of four wolves.
She sat in the branches of the oak and laughed as Rolon, Wauna, Yepa, and Beka trounced the black wolf.
The next day, Jasper and Max reached the lake where Max had met Sarah. The snow flurries had given way to cold rain and freezing sleet. The trip had been miserable, cold, and wet. Jasper didn’t mind any of that. He whistled as they rode through the rain and chided Max for grumbling.
Jasper had done very well for himself over the years, using the money from the stagecoach robbery to establish legitimate businesses, to build himself up as a man of status and means. But the possibility that Sarah McKensie lived had preyed on his mind. The girl could destroy all that he had accomplished simply by identifying him as her parents’ murderer. He had been so careful to eliminate anyone who could connect him with the stagecoach robbery. It seemed unfair that this child could still upset his otherwise flawless plans.
Now that Max had located the child, Jasper could settle the matter quite satisfactorily. He would kill the child—out of Max’s view, if possible. If necessary, he could dispose of Max as well. Max was such a mild-mannered fellow; he didn’t even carry a pistol. Jasper couldn’t see the man putting up much of a fight. And he would have no trouble explaining Max’s disappearance. Accidents happened in the high country. One way or the other, Jasper could settle this problem for good. So Jasper whistled and joked as they rode.
The rain had let up by the time they reached the lake. They made camp in the same spot Max had camped before. After they had set up camp, Max took Jasper to the place where Sarah had killed the grizzly.
The grizzly’s bones had been scattered by the wolves, picked clean by coyotes and other scavengers. Sarah had taken the skin and the claws as gifts for Malila. Max found the bear’s skull, still intact, at the bottom of the cliff.
“He was a big ’un,” Jasper said in a respectful tone. “You say the girl killed him?”
“That’s right. With a lariat and a bow and arrow.” Jasper nodded. “Mighty impressive,” he said.
Back at camp, Max settled on the granite slab by the lake with his sketch pad. “We’d best stay here,” he told Jasper. “If she comes looking for me, this is where she’ll come.”
“Fine. You stay put while I explore a bit,” Jasper said. “Maybe I can find some sign of her.” He left Max in camp and headed out around the lake.
If he spotted her when Max was out of sight, it would all be easy. Shoot her and hide the body. He would tell Max that he had shot at a deer, but missed.
Jasper picked his way carefully through the marshy meadow, heading toward the shore of the lake. Halfway to the shore, he glanced back at the camp. He had an unpleasant feeling that he was being watched, but Max was staring in the other direction, up into the mountains. Jasper shrugged and continued on his way.
Sarah watched Jasper go.
She had been traveling with the pack when she had run across their camp of the previous night. She had recognized Max’s scent—and she had recognized the scent of another man.
The other members of the pack sniffed the man scent and moved on, dismissing the trail as unimportant. But Sarah had lingered, and Beka lingered with her.
When Jasper had killed her parents, so long ago, Sarah had been a child, raised by human parents and no more attuned to her sense of smell than any other child. Back then, she could not have identified Jasper by his scent. But her years with the wolves had focused her attention on her sense of smell. By comparison with her packmates, her sense of smell was dull, but compared to any human’s, it was remarkable. She could sniff the air and know that a doe and her yearling fawn were hiding in the brush, that a cougar was prowling nearby, that a badger was digging on the slope above the meadow (the scent of the animal mingling with the aroma of freshly dug soil).
A scent can stir memories that lie forgotten, awakening emotions associated with those memories. The scent of Jasper Davis stirred unfamiliar emotions in Sarah. She did not know why, but the scent of this man touched her with an inexplicable dread, a feeling of helplessness and terror. She was afraid; she wanted to run; she wanted to hide.
Beka nuzzled her face, puzzled by the fear that she smelled in Sarah’s sweat. The she-wolf licked Sarah’s face, trying to reassure the girl. Beka started away, following the pack. When Sarah did not follow, the wolf returned, circling her friend, staying close.
Sarah wanted to run, but she could not. This man, the man with the terrifying scent, was with her friend Max. Perhaps Max was his captive. Overcoming her fear, she followed their trail. Beka came with her.
At the lake, Sarah and Beka watched from concealment while the men made camp. The situation puzzled Sarah: Max did not seem to be frightened by the man; he seemed to be talking with him amiably enough. She watched them go to the place where she had killed the bear, then return to camp. When Jasper walked away from camp, she waited until he was out of sight. Then she crept to the edge of the granite slab where Max sat sketching, corning up behind him.
“Max,” sh
e said softly. Her heart was pounding. Even from there, she could smell Jasper’s tobacco, catch the acrid scent of the man’s sweat.
Max put down his pencil and turned to look at her. “Sarah,” he said. “I came back to get you. I…”
“No,” she said, interrupting him. “We must go. We must run away. That man…” She looked in the direction in which Jasper had gone. “Very bad.” She searched her limited vocabulary for words that would convey her feelings. “Rotten,” she said, a word that Max had applied to spoiled meat—bad-smelling and foul. She shook her head. “Dangerous.” That was a word that Max had applied to rattlesnakes and cougars and grizzlies, all animals that could kill you.
“What are you talking about?” Max stared at her. “What’s wrong?” He could see that her hands were trembling. Her face was pale, beneath its tan.
“Run away,” she said. “Run and hide.”
“Sarah, don’t be afraid. You…”
“Run away!” she repeated. “Come.” She came around the rock, reaching out. When he put his hand in hers, she grabbed it and pulled him down, so that he half jumped, half fell into the meadow beside her. Beka snuffled in his ear, greeting him properly. But Sarah had no time for that.
“Now!” She was pulling on his arm, trying to drag him away from the camp, away from the lake. “Sarah, what are you doing? I…”
He and Beka followed her, not as fast as she would have liked, but at least they followed. She did not listen to his questions, did not stop to answer. She wanted him to leave this place and go with her to the safety of the hills.
They were at the edge of a stand of trees when Sarah gave his hand a mighty yank, causing him to fall full length on the grass. She fell flat beside him, just as the sharp crack of a rifle shot echoed from the granite slopes. “Hurry!” Sarah called. “Run away.”
And she was gone, vanishing among the trees, faster than he could have followed if he wanted to. Beka was at her heels.
“I saw the wolf,” Jasper told Max that night by the campfire. “I saw you. I didn’t even see the girl. You were running, and the wolf was coming right after you. I thought you were in trouble. Otherwise, I never would have fired. I was firing at the wolf.”
“The wolf is Beka, Sarah’s friend,” Max said. His voice was flat. Jasper studied Max’s face, wondering whether the man believed him. Max was a hard fellow to read, Jasper decided.
“I know that now,” Jasper muttered. “I’m glad I missed. Never thought I’d be glad to miss a wolf.” He shook his head slowly, then put his head in his hands, covering his face. “The worst of it is—I’ve chased her away.”
“You’re right there,” Max said slowly. “We won’t be seeing her again.”
Max didn’t speak for a while, then Jasper felt Max’s hand, patting his shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” Max said. “She belongs up here. She’ll be fine.”
Jasper nodded, dropping his hands as soon as he had composed his face into an expression of grim determination. “I’ll have to tell Mrs. Selby what happened. That poor lady.”
Jasper noticed that Max was watching the fire, giving Jasper a chance to compose himself. What a gentleman he was. Jasper liked that in a man. The more polite and sympathetic a man, the easier he was to fool.
“We’ll just tell Mrs. Selby that we didn’t find her,” Max said.
“That’s close enough to the truth.”
When they returned to Selby Flat, Max wrote a long letter to Audrey. He described Sarah, doing his best to be objective. He enclosed one of his many sketches of the girl. Sarah was healthy and smart and strong—but she ate with her hands and ran with wolves and was unlikely to be presentable in New England society anytime soon. She was a sweet-tempered child who could kill a grizzly and eat its liver raw.
“He says that my mother was a white woman named Rachel,” Sarah told Malila. After she had left the lake, she had gone to seek out Malila’s advice. They sat by the fire, sipping yerba buena tea. “He says that I have an aunt who misses me.” She shook her head. “How can she miss me when I do not even know her?”
Malila watched Sarah quietly. The adolescent Indian girl that Sarah had rescued four years before had grown into a young woman, a healer in her own right. Though Malila had spent many hours with Sarah, the Indian still wondered what the girl was. A spirit of some sort? A human made of flesh and blood? Or a human touched with a powerful spirit that made her more than flesh and blood? Malila thought that the last answer might be right. She was a human girl, possessed by a powerful wild spirit.
“He came with another man.” Sarah shivered. “A very bad man.”
Malila nodded, accepting Sarah’s assertion that the man was bad. “So you ran away.”
“I had to,” Sarah said. “He is too strong.”
“But before that,” Malila said softly. “You did not go with the white man called Max. Did you want to go?”
Sarah shrugged, a gesture she had picked up from Max. “I do not know. Part of me wanted to go.”
“Why?”
Sarah looked uncomfortable, confused. “To find out…” She stopped, unable to say what she had wanted to find out.
“To find out who you are,” Malila said, filling in the silence. “To find out where you belong.”
“I belong with the pack,” Sarah said.
“Sometimes,” Malila said. “Sometimes you belong here with me. And sometimes, maybe you belong with these white people.” Malila studied the girl, her riot of red-gold hair, her skin, pale beneath the tan.
Over the years, Malila had speculated about Sarah’s relationship with the whites. Perhaps, Malila had thought, Sarah was the white people’s wild spirit. When she ran away, the white people lost their connection to the wilderness. By losing her, they lost their balance, and that was why they tore up the land and poisoned the rivers and drove off the game. Perhaps if Sarah visited the whites, they would see how they fit in the world.
“I think you need to meet these white people to learn who you are,” Malila said. “They are a part of you.”
Sarah sipped her tea, gazing into the fire. Since she had rejoined the pack, she had been restless and uncertain. She was glad that she had not gone with Max, but she kept thinking about him. Her dreams were haunted by sights and sounds and smells of the past. She dreamed of her mama’s face and her papa’s hands, lifting her above his head. She dreamed of baking bread and frying bacon; of harmonica music and a woman singing lullabies. And when she woke, she was with the wolves.
Sarah shrugged again, sipping her tea and wondering what to do.
14 ANGEL IN THE WILDERNESS
“I have been on the verge of being an angel all my life, but it’s never happened yet.”
—Mark Twain
IN THE AUTUMN OF 1859, Wauna was fourteen years old, a healthy age for a wolf in the wild. She had been four years old, a mature wolf, when she met Rolon and formed the pack. She had reigned as alpha female for ten years, and during most of that time she had not faced a serious challenge from the lower-ranking females. There were, as in any pack, always younger wolves testing her leadership. But Wauna dealt with insubordination quickly and firmly. Consequently, insubordination was rare. The other wolves respected her. Under her guidance, the pack was stable, free of the turbulence and change found in packs where the alpha pair was constantly battling to retain dominance.
Sarah remembered her human mama as a dreamlike figure: a soft voice, a gentle touch. But the memory of her human mama wiping her face clean with a warm cloth had been overlaid by the memory of Wauna’s tongue washing her. Wauna was her mother.
On a chilly night with the promise of snow in the air, Sarah fell asleep curled up between Yepa and Wauna, warm and content. Wauna had borne many pups since adopting Sarah. Those pups had grown to adulthood, becoming mature wolves. Some, like Yepa, had remained with the pack. Some had left the pack, striking out on their own. But Sarah, her little foundling, had never entirely grown up. In many ways, Sarah was still her pup. When Sarah w
as with the pack, she slept by her foster mother’s side.
That night, Sarah woke in the darkness, feeling cold. She blinked sleepily, wondering what had woken her.
It was a cold, clear, moonless night. Overhead, the stars shone in the blackness of the night sky: brilliant, beautiful, and indifferent to the doings of the creatures who gazed up at them from the earth below. The Milky Way was a sweep of white across the center of the sky. Malila’s people said that the Milky Way was a path through the sky, a trail to another world. When people died, they followed the path.
Gazing sleepily upward, Sarah snuggled closer to Wauna, seeking to share the mother wolf’s warmth. Her foster mother did not move—did not shift in response to Sarah’s movement, did not sigh in her sleep. The night seemed unnaturally still. Sarah could hear Yepa’s soft breathing beside her, but she could not hear Wauna.
Sarah knew much of violent death—the death of deer at the fangs of the wolves, the death of wolves in battle. But this was something else: Wauna was asleep and would not wake. Sarah sat up and stroked Wauna’s head. The mother wolf did not respond. Sarah whispered to Wauna, but the wolf’s soft ears did not swivel to hear her.
Yepa woke when Sarah moved. The wolf watched as Sarah tried to rouse Wauna. Yepa sniffed Wauna’s muzzle, washed the mother wolf’s muzzle and face. When Wauna did not respond, Yepa washed Sarah’s face, tasting salty tears as the child wept for her foster mother.
Yepa became the alpha female. She had learned much from Wauna. Like Wauna, Yepa was calm and wise in her treatment of the younger females.
The wolves accepted Wauna’s death quickly. They remembered the past, but they lived in the present, accepting each moment as it came. Sarah was blessed and cursed with the human propensity to remember the past and plan for the future. She mourned for Wauna, aching for the comfort the wolf had given her, grieving as she had for her human parents.
