Next morning, when the first glow of dawn touched the summit of Iron Mountain, Nashoba stood on a high ridge looking down into the still shadowy Bend Valley.
Over the past two weeks, the old wolf had hunted for food in many places, but without success. The animals the wolves fed on—deer, elk, and moose—were more than likely in the lower valley, where they had gone to wait out winter. That area, however, was where humans lived.
Though wolves never attacked humans, Nashoba was well aware that humans attacked wolves. Not only were these humans crafty, they were able to kill from great distances. All wolves knew to fear them.
Moreover, the last time Nashoba had ventured into the lower valley—two weeks ago—he had come upon an old human with white hair. At first Nashoba had thought that the human had been heading toward the pack’s den. He had been just about to race home to give warning when the human had veered away.
No, the deep valley was too dangerous for Nashoba. He needed to find another place to hunt.
But where?
He looked up. Branches of lodgepole pine, spruce, and still-leafless aspen crisscrossed over his head like a spider’s web. Higher still, the sky was as gray as his fur. To either side of Bend Valley, mountain peaks glistened with melting snow. To the west, the last of the three-quarter moon—pale white and growing fainter—was sinking into the horizon.
Nashoba looked left and right. He listened. He sniffed. Yet he did not hear, smell, or see anything to tell him where any large animals might be.
Undecided, the old wolf was standing perfectly still on a quilt of dirty snow and mud, an area spotted with pools of cold water that lay as mute as dark mirrors, when he heard: “Caw! Caw! Caw!”
It was the call of a raven.
Nashoba tilted his ears forward and listened intently.
The call repeated itself. “Caw! Caw! Caw!”
As the wolf was aware, ravens had a well-deserved reputation for two things: playing tricks, and warning of death. Some wolves believed the birds were enchanted. Whatever the truth, Nashoba was also aware that ravens often knew the location of moose, elk, and deer. For their own reasons, ravens were interested in what wolves hunted.
Perhaps, thought Nashoba, this raven is sending a message.
Unfortunately, the bird’s call came from deep in the valley, precisely where the wolf did not want to go. Besides, the thought of depending on anyone—another wolf or some bird—was not to his liking.
Nashoba was not sure what to do. As pack leader, he was obliged to defend the pack, to keep all in health, to avoid danger, and to maintain good order. Those duties fulfilled, his dignity as leader would be respected, and every wolf in the pack would know his or her place. But this would not happen unless his pack was fed.
Nashoba looked about again. The sky promised change. He sensed dampness and a northern wind. Though late for snow, spring storms were always a possibility in the high country. That prospect added even more urgency to his need. Snow—or rain—would make his hunting that much more difficult.
The old wolf lifted his right front paw and studied it. The wound was now covered by dried blood. It still gave pain, but not, he decided, so much. He was sure he could still run, still hunt.
Garby’s taunt You are useless! seeped into his thoughts. Simultaneously, the raven’s call—“Caw! Caw!”—rang out again like the tolling of a bell. Its message—its possible message—that food was to be found was too tempting.
Very well: Nashoba would find the raven and see why it had called.
Decision made, the old wolf began to trot down into the valley.