The wolves dashed toward the rafts in a powerful burst, their teeth bared. Chuck stumbled backward, fear thrumming his insides. His foot slipped off the bank and his boot plunged into the icy water between the rafts and shore. Screams from the girls reverberated from the far bank.
“Chuck!” Janelle cried out.
The wolves came to a unified stop fifteen feet from the boats, paws planted, muscles bunched beneath their smooth coats. The rank odor of the animals’ wet fur drifted through the air.
Chuck hauled himself back up on shore with the traverse line, blinking through the downpour. The wolves crouched, eyeing Chuck and Toby on the riverbank.
“Toby,” Lex commanded.
Toby backed to the upstream raft. He clutched the black plastic pieces he’d dug from his pack to his chest; now that he had them in his hands, he didn’t seem to know what to do with them.
The wolves inched closer, growling. Lex helped Toby into the raft. Chuck stepped in after him. Instantly, the rafts moved away from shore, propelled by those on the far bank.
Chuck held out a hand to Toby, who handed over the plastic pieces from his pack as the rafts surged into the current. Still crouched, the wolves advanced to the water’s edge. Chuck slid the two plastic pieces against one another as the rafts tracked along the static line. The pieces snapped together with a well-oiled click. He hefted the result of the combined parts—a short-barreled break-down rifle, popular among the hundreds of out-of-state elk hunters who flew into Durango each fall.
“Shells?” Chuck asked Toby.
Toby dove into his pack. He came up with a box of 7-mm cartridges. Chuck thumbed the bullets into the rifle’s magazine. Though small in caliber compared to the 9-mm version favored by big-game hunters, the lightweight gun’s size was perfect for varmint control—or defensive purposes.
The wolves paced the shoreline, their eyes on the rafts.
Chuck slotted a shell into the firing chamber, slid the bolt home, and clicked on the safety. “No scope?” he asked Toby.
“My dad thought open sights would be best.”
The rafts passed the mid-point of the river. The current swept by, gurgling at the bow of the lead boat, the traverse line tight. The first wolf pawed at the water’s edge and snarled at the departing rafts. At well over a hundred pounds, the wolf was the largest of the six pack members by a distinct margin. A white plastic radio collar circled its neck.
“That’s right,” Lex told the wolf. “Stay right where you are.”
“Number 184,” Toby said. “Stander Pack’s alpha for the last few years. She’s a beauty. And a very capable leader. I can’t imagine what made her decide to bring the pack here.” He rested his hand on the carcass of the wolf between his feet. “This is 217, a two-year-old male. He was really easy-going—played with the pups, got along well with the adults. We probably would’ve collared him this winter.”
Raindrops exploded on the surface of the river. Chuck wiped water from the sides of his face. He rested the rifle across his thighs, its barrel aimed at the pacing wolves.
“You’re not allowed to have that thing with you,” Lex said to Toby.
“After what happened with the Territory Team, my dad insisted—not that I know what to do with it. He’s a big-time hunter, goes after Kodiaks in Alaska every fall.” Toby looked across the water at the wolves. “It was supposed to be for grizzlies.”
“Instead, it’s your wolves that have decided to go on the prowl for some reason.”
“They must be reacting to our arrival out here in the backcountry.”
“Reacting? From forty miles away?”
“If you have any better ideas, I’m all ears.”
“What about how 217 was hanging with the grizzly?” Chuck asked.
“That I don’t get at all,” Toby said. He nudged the dead wolf with his boot and shook his head.
“Neither do I,” Sarah admitted.
She and Toby exchanged glances. “I’m sorry about 217,” she said.
He dipped his head. “Thanks.”
On the riverbank, the wolves sat on their haunches, tilted their heads, and yipped and howled. Chuck thumbed the rifle’s safety off and back on. Was this odd behavior the result of human interactions in the park? Or were the wolves, as Sarah believed, pursuing the carcass of their pack mate?
Stander Pack’s alpha rose to all fours. Her forepaws sank into the mud at the edge of the water. She crouched, then leapt from the bank. The wolf hung in the air before landing in the river fifteen feet from shore and disappearing beneath the surface. Her head poked above the water and she swam toward the rafts, nose cutting the current like an alligator’s snout, furred spine curling back and forth at the surface.
Chuck knelt in the bottom of the raft, propped his elbows on the side tube, and snugged the rifle’s black plastic stock to his shoulder. Raindrops wormed their way down the back of his neck, cold and prickling on his skin. He clicked the safety off and rested the crook of his finger against the trigger as the wolf churned closer.
“No!” Sarah cried from the downstream raft.
Chuck aimed down the barrel of the gun and fired.