Another howl.
“The wolves are back?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Sounds like right at the edge of the woods.”
Just inside the woods a wolf raised its head and howled a second time. There was a small clearing in the trees. Pale moonlight shown down through the trees and the wolf looked up, parting the air with his belly cry of hunger. The sound reached through the night air into the farmhouse bedroom. Wolves at night, particularly in cold like this, can make a wail that resonates through the frozen dark, as though the wolf was inside the house instead of a quarter mile behind it.
Diane tensed. “That was incredible,” she whispered. She’d heard wolf howls, but never this close. It was a thrilling, wild, frightening sound, one that made you happy there was a wall between you and whatever animal made it. She was disappointed by the interruption, but a wolf howl was genuinely distracting.
“Gotta‘ be the pack that went into the barn.”
“You think so?”
The next low chorus of howls made Diane grow more tense. Sam waited by the window, watching the tree line. He heard another wolf call, closer than the last. There was a large expanse of white where the rear field disappeared over a small rise to the woods, but it was empty.
“Do you think they’ll come near the house?” Diane wondered. She moved a little closer.
Sam sensed her shuffle. Touching her breast triggered the recollection of one or two fantasies he’d played out in this room that had featured the much younger Diane. He could still feel the fullness beneath his hand. Unexpected, but compelling.
Another howl snapped his reverie. “Wolves hate anything human. They’ll give us a wide berth. If it’s them, they’re back to feed.”
They saw movement at the edge of trees, though it was too dim to see clearly. One hundred yards across the field, first one, then another, then all five stepped out of the trees, making the pale moonlight come alive. The first one to come out of the woods raised its head and howled.
“They’re so close,” Diane said.
“Any closer and...”
Sam could hear her breathe beside the opposite stretch of window. He’d noticed this before, how the close proximity of wolves (or any predators, for that matter) made him hyper attentive. Then again, maybe it was the kiss. He listened to his heart beating in the old bedroom. And then the wolves again.
“What?”
“We could see their yellow eyes,” which made him think.
They watched them approach, tentative with each step. After a few yards they paused and sent their call into the night sky. Sam had observed wolves often enough to notice their clear shapes and markings even in the moonlight. These wolves were big. Unnaturally large. He couldn’t be certain. Their coloring wasn’t clear in the dark. But their shapes were more the size of timber wolves or arctic wolves than Great Plains. If they were Great Plains wolves they were the largest he’d ever seen. What he thought was, he needed a closer look.
All those years ago it was wolves that awakened him. Since then he had observed countless packs and examined plenty of individuals up close. And in all that time the thrill of seeing a pack in the wild never abated.
“Why howl and alert everyone to their presence?” Diane wondered.
“It’s a warning. Mostly to other wolves. They’re making sure everyone in the neighborhood knows it’s their kill. Would you go near a howl like that?”
They watched the wolves approach, more emboldened than a normal pack. There was something familiar and unusual about them. They moved as a pack, paused to howl, but kept driving toward the barn, where the rest of their kill remained. The last animal came cowering, taking up the rear. It appeared the least wolf. Its legs were a little too thick. Its coat a little dark. Its tail, ears, snout, all of its proportions a little skewed.
“Goddamn,” he said. “Got to be a hybrid.” It made him wonder about the others.
As the wolves came closer they began to move with cowering, tentative steps, testing the air. It was an unusual gait. Wild wolves only cowered before other wolves, or other members of the pack, if they were bested, or if their pack position ordained it. These wolves lowered their heads and smelled the air with suspicion. It was unusual movement for a pack.
“Let’s just watch, see what they do,” he said.
One wolf was out in front, leading. The others followed from a comfortable distance. It took them less than five minutes to approach the house and barn.
They paused, their noses in the wind. When they felt certain nothing in the yard stirred, they came on more quickly.
Sam and Diane were hypnotized by the way the pack moved together, one wolf in the lead, the others following: a web of tooth and claw that could be focused, Sam knew, in an instant.
They visited like ghosts. And while it was the middle of the night, the right time for wolves to approach, a normal pack would have been more reticent. A normal pack would be approaching from behind the barn, from the safety of trees and bush that hugged outlying buildings.
The lead wolf neared the cracked door. He paused, sniffing the night air. His nose bent to the ground. In the moonlight he peered around the door. Sam thought he saw something. Probably Angus Moon’s traps. Setting wolf traps in snow was almost impossible. Any fraction of displaced powder, any crease or depression in the snow’s surface, and the animals sensed something awry, gave it a wide berth.
But the smell of food was compelling. The lead wolf stepped carefully through the snow toward the cracked barn door. He placed his muzzle through the opening, which was just wide enough to permit its entry. And then he disappeared inside.
“Incredible,” Sam said. “No wolf would do that,” he whispered. “These animals have some familiarity with buildings.” Hybrids, he guessed.
The other wolves followed the same zigzag path toward the door, stepping carefully over the snow, avoiding the delicate surface anomalies where Sam guessed Angus Moon had set foothold traps. And then they were through the opening and gone.
Diane turned to look at him. “What now?” she asked.
He actually considered pulling her back to bed. But now they had to deal with the wolves.
“We trap ’em.”
“How in the hell are we going to trap them?”
Sam peered at the barn door. He wondered why Moon left it partially opened. It wouldn’t have been normal, but Moon was a born trapper. He was baiting them.
From this distance the black rectangular opening was large enough to permit a wolf to squeeze through it. Sam could barely discern the shadowy opening against the grayer exterior of the barn, the color of weathered wood in moon shade. Trying to get a fix on the door’s details from the bedroom window was impossible. “We can go out there and shut them in that barn.”
“You want to go out there while they’re feeding?”
“You have a better idea?”
“Yes. Sneak back the way we came. Give them the widest possible berth and hope they don’t hear us.”
“And lose this opportunity to catch them alive, study them?”
“And avoid the opportunity to be attacked, killed,” Diane corrected.
“They’re busy feeding. We can sneak out and slam that door shut before they hear anything.”
“Supposing you can’t get the door shut?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said.
“But they’re wolves?”
“This may be our best chance to trap them, have a closer look. If I’m right about these animals, we’ll need one to corroborate what I suspect will be the results from the DNA analysis.”
“They’ll hear you coming.”
“In this powder we can be quiet.”
“We?”
“You wouldn’t have me going out there alone, would you?”
“This is crazy.”
&n
bsp; Sam smiled. “It is crazy,” he agreed. “Normal wolves would scatter. But a normal pack wouldn’t have entered a barn to feed, let alone kill. They would have fed on their capture someplace safe, eating it in a thicket. I don’t know what these wolves would do if they were cornered, but I’m not passing up a chance to trap them in that barn. If I’m right it could explain plenty.”
“And what are we going to do with them?”
“Leave them here. Go back to the car. And in the morning alert Svegman so he can get out here and secure them.”
“And then?”
“Examine them,” Sam said. “We need to understand this pack, this kind of carnage. If they are wild it’s a whole new level of wolf behavior. It’s a whole new breed of wolf.”
“And if someone comes back, like Angus, and happens to open the barn?”
“He’ll see the tracks. He’ll notice they only go one way.”
“And he’ll know someone was here, to shut the door?”
“Not that I care. He won’t know who was here.”
They had two options: leave the house and return to their jeep without disturbing the animals and their middle of the night meal. Or try and trap them. Twenty years ago Sam fled. Today he didn’t think twice.
“Let’s go.”
Diane wanted no part of it, but didn’t feel like she had a choice. Eventually she’d have to head back to the jeep. If the wolves were trapped where they couldn’t follow, that would be a good thing.
They bundled up for the cold. Then they moved to the front door, opening it without a sound, stepping carefully into the cold.
Their earlier work had worn a path to the barn’s entrance. They stepped onto it and, slowly, carefully, approached the barn in silence. Sam stopped ten yards short of the door. He examined its exterior. Normally the door could be slid shut and fastened. Now that he could see it more clearly, Sam recounted the way he’d done it before, absent about the process, automatic. He looked up at the handle, and then along the top sliding door runner. A small pile of snow drifted across the entrance. It had been partially tamped down by the wolves, enough to prevent the door from closing completely.
Diane stood behind him. He turned and pointed to the snow-choked entrance. He made a clearing motion with his hand, pointing again to the bottom of the door. Diane understood and nodded. She took off her mitten, placing it in her front parka pocket. She wore a small cotton glove beneath it, one that would allow the unencumbered positioning of her finger inside the trigger guard of the door handle.
Sam stepped carefully toward the entrance. He could see where the wolves had skirted Angus’s foothold traps. He could barely discern where he thought the traps were set, but wasn’t certain. Angus had done an excellent job concealing them, knowing wolves had a preternatural sense for anything awry. Now Sam kept to their paw prints, glad they’d forged a path for him.
He concentrated on slowing his movement. The rectangular opening was a deep black gap. He tried to listen in the cold, but could not hear into the barn. He assumed the wolves were feeding. He knew their preoccupation with food would be a good thing, though it could cut both ways. If they were feeding well-away from the door, they might only rise to snarl a warning. But if they were close, or if they felt their feeding was threatened, they could attack.
The wolf tracks moved to the right of the trail, entering the barn door from the side. He followed their tracks, stepping to the right of the barn’s entrance, careful his shadow didn’t cross the threshold. The powder enveloped his feet, as though he were stepping into fine dry sand.
To shut the door he would have to be directly in front of the threshold. He would stay to the side so as not to forewarn them. He imagined it, stepping over the doorway, one foot into the barn as the other kicked the snow free. Then he’d pivot and pull the slab of wood across its runner. It would have to be done in one fluid motion. Wolf jaws could exert over 1,000 pounds of pressure. If they were lucky enough to reach him they could snap his forearm like a matchstick.
Adrenaline heightened his senses. He could feel his muscles tighten. Over the door handle there was a latch. He imagined driving it into its metal catch. He imagined the sound it made as it fell into place.
And then he sprang.
Sam took hold of the door handle and began kicking snow across the threshold. He looked up and saw a spray of snow enter the barn. Ten feet away a startled wolf leaped from its feeding, cowering low. It started to growl, crouching, ready to spring. But it paused, rumbling a low growl. Sam pivoted, jerking the door shut. But there was still too much snow in the narrow gap. He held the door handle with both hands, peering through the crack. The wolf was still recoiled ten feet from the opening, watching him, waiting for his next move.
“Come here!”
Diane stepped forward. “What now?”
“We need to clear out this snow. When I tell you, open the door about a foot. I’ll try to clear it again and then we can both slam it shut.”
She nodded.
“Ready?” he whispered.
Diane stood behind Sam, gripping the handle.
“Now!”
She pulled the door open a foot. Sam grabbed the sliding handle to steady himself, kicking at the snow.
The wolf stayed in its low crouch, ready to spring.
“Shut it!” Sam said, and they pulled hard on the handle. It swung into its slot with a solid thwack and Sam flipped the latch.
They leaned against the door, breathing heavily in the cold night air, their collective pulses rocketing through their veins. After a few moments they eased. Sam stepped away, turned and started back toward the farmhouse.
“Watch those traps,” he said, pointing to the ground, stepping carefully to avoid them.
“What now?”
“We’ll call Svegman when we get back to town, leave him a message. These wolves’ll keep. I’d guess Angus Moon is sipping on his inheritance, not that he ever needed an excuse,” he said, turning to wait for her. “I doubt he’ll be out before noon.”
Once they were beyond Angus Moon’s traps, Diane hurried up behind him.
Sam checked his watch. “1:30.”
“That gives us some time. I could use a drink.”
The moment wasn’t right. Or rather, he didn’t know her well enough to say it, but what he thought was, I could use you.
“Me too,” he finally said.
Part IV
We have the wolf by the ears, and we can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation in the other.
Thomas Jefferson
Chapter Twenty-Seven
February 1st, early morning—Williston Winthrop’s farm
In the early morning light Angus turned into the drive. He’d been up before dawn, awakened with the others by Williston who had stood in the front room and bellowed, “Get up, you miserable peckerwoods! Our work isn’t done! Get up!” A chorus of groans assured him his troops were on the rise.
“Not even light,” Grebs commented, from the comfort of his narrow cabin bunk.
“That’s right,” Williston agreed. “Dark’s the best time for our kind of work. It’ll get you at the farm by daybreak. See if we’ve had any luck with those dogs. If Angus is right he’ll need help with those sorry animals.”
Angus didn’t move. Williston finally walked into the small cabin bedroom and pulled down the covers on Moon’s bed. The room was cold and the woodsmen cussed. “Christ, Williston. I went to bed two and a half hours ago.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for sleep after you get those dogs and the check. And today yours truly finally gets buried. We’ll have a fitting celebration tonight. Last night was just a rehearsal. And if I’m right about those dogs you can take care of them and sleep in tomorrow. Get the fuck up!”
Two hours later Angus turned into the farmhouse dr
ive. He was the first to notice something awry and he didn’t like what he saw. There were more tracks around the barn’s entrance, ones he hadn’t made. He could see they came out of the woods. But the door was closed and latched shut. Angus left it cracked for a reason.
“Shit,” he hissed.
Bill Grebs and Hank Gunderson followed Moon’s rusting truck down the drive. The cages jostled beneath the old bed’s tarp. Angus pulled into the yard, backing around so the taillights faced the closed door. He got out of the cab as the others parked in front of the garage and stepped into the early morning cold.
Sunlight was breaking off the horizon. They’d made good time. The frosty three-mile snowshoe was like a draught of strong coffee.
“What do you think?” Grebs asked.
Angus was walking toward the barn door, studying everything with a tracker’s eye. He could see animal prints coming out of the woods. He watched them approach the barn. He saw other trails cross over the path, step to the side and approach the barn door. He could see another pair of tracks approach, their kicking brush marks in the snow, the closed door and fastened latch. And not a goddamn trap triggered. Wolves and men, they’d both been observant.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said.
“What?” Grebs asked.
“Looks like my dogs’er back. And they had company,” he said, pointing to the tracks.
Grebs approached. Then Gunderson.
“Walk here,” Angus said, pointing to the zigzag tracks left by Sam and Diane. “Les‘ you want to get caught in a trap.”
The three of them approached carefully and stood in front of the fastened door. “What’s this?” Gunderson asked
Angus listened for movement inside. “Somebody’s been here. Since last night. And it looks like my dogs come back to feed.”
“They in there?” Gunderson asked, concerned.
Angus nodded. “Looks like.”
“Who in the hell was here?” Grebs asked.
Wolves Page 23
