Authors: Pat Murphy
Max glanced at Ned, who was staring in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you suppose you ought to check on that pie?” Max asked. “It smells just grand.”
But you must write to Mrs. North and tell her about what that hunter said.”
Max shrugged, still reluctant.
“Mrs. Selby?” It was Ned again. “Don’t you think those pies might burn?”
“You must write,” Mrs. Selby said to Max. “You must write and tell her about the wolves.”
Ned stood up then, looming over Max. “I think that’s a fine idea, Mrs. Selby. I’ll make sure he writes. You go check on those pies.” Ned smiled down at Max. “You’d best start writing, or we’ll never get any pie,” he said softly.
Max nodded in resignation. He opened his travel bag and took out pen, ink, and paper. “You check that pie, and I’ll get started,” he told Mrs. Selby.
Under Ned’s watchful gaze, he began a letter to Audrey North. By the end of the evening, he had not finished it. He promised Mrs. Selby, when she served him apple pie, that he would.
The letter, which began as a simple report on what Max had learned from Socks, became something more. He described the town of Downieville and the tavern where he met Socks. He explained that the world of the mining camps was not the civilized world she knew. He described Mrs. Selby and Selby Flat, an oasis of civilization. He wrote of himself and his life.
“The men of Selby Flat were happy to do all they could for your sister,” he wrote. “There are so few women here. We are a company of men, which leads to great camaraderie and great loneliness. I do a excellent business in portraits, capturing miners in all their bearded glory so that they might send the likeness to their wives.
“I sympathize with this sentiment. I was once a married man, but my wife died of a fever long since. Were she still alive, I cannot imagine how hard it would have been to leave her and seek my fortune in California. But that is what so many good men have done—leave their loved ones safe at home while they endure the dangers of the wilderness.”
Several days later, he finished the letter, sealed it in an envelope that Mrs. Selby provided, and addressed it to Audrey North. After some thought, Max included with the letter a copy of the piece he had written for the Nevada City paper.
As summer turned to autumn and the days grew colder, the wolves moved down into the foothills, following the deer but staying clear of settlements, where miners were tearing up the hillsides in search of precious metal. One autumn afternoon when the sky was dark and threatened rain, Wauna led the pack to the den where her pups had been killed.
Sarah explored the den, squeezing into the narrow opening and feeling the corner of a rough wooden box. Sheltered by the den, the box retained a faint smell of man sweat, and the scent made Sarah anxious and unhappy.
She was naked now. She had lost her petticoat and moccasins somewhere along the way. But her skin had tanned in the California sun, and the soles of her feet had grown tough. She was as healthy as a savage child could be.
The pack wandered down the hill to the campsite where her parents had died. The tent was still there. No one had troubled to clean up the area, though passing Indians and miners had searched the wreckage for valuables. The quilts and boxes that Jasper had scattered on the slope were still there—washed by the rain and dried by the sun. The fabric had faded, and the wooden boxes had begun to warp and split. Grasses had taken root on her parents’ graves, softening the raw earth with greenery.
Sarah wandered in the wreckage, drawn by feelings that she could not name. She was restless, nervous, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. There was something here that drew her—and something that made her wish to flee. But the attraction was stronger than the fear.
She pulled at the boxes, examining what she found. In one box, overlooked by Indians and scavenging miners, she found a hunting knife in a leather sheath. The rivets in the handle were touched with rust, but the blade was still shiny when she pulled off the sheath. Holding the knife, she ran a finger along the edge, marveling at how it glittered in the sun. Cut by the sharp steel, she yelped in pain and dropped the knife.
For a long moment, she stood on the slope, sucking on her injured finger and staring at the blade that lay among the rocks at her feet. She was struggling with a memory that came to her from far away. She remembered that same sharp blade, or one just like it. She had reached out to touch it, and someone had snatched her up and said, “No, Sarah,” in a deep, warm voice. Papa, she remembered. That was Papa. She remembered sitting on a lap—Mama’s lap—and watching Papa use a knife like this one to skin a rabbit.
She squinted at the knife. She could use something that could cut a rabbit skin. Focusing on that memory, she reached out and took the knife by the handle, holding it as she remembered Papa had. She pushed the sheath onto the blade. The sheath was attached to a belt. Clumsily, carefully, she looped the belt over her shoulder so that the knife dangled at her side. Then she continued to explore.
She found a child’s sweater caught beneath a wooden keg. One sleeve was unraveling. The wool was grimy with dust. But for all of that the sweater was intact. It had been knit by Aunt Audrey and sent along with the wagon, but Sarah did not know that. She knew only that the wool was warm against her skin and the air was cool. She pulled the sweater over her head (remembering her Mama’s voice saying “Let me help, Sarah,” as she struggled to pull on her clothing).
A dirty child, armed with a hunting knife and clad in a ragged sweater, she wandered. She found a pair of moccasins, just a little larger than the ones she had discarded that summer. Her mother had traded for them on the trip across the plains, knowing that her daughter’s feet would grow and thinking that children’s shoes would be in short supply. Sarah pulled them onto her feet.
She touched a scrap of fabric, torn from a quilt, admiring its patches of color and struggling to remember a sound she had once known. “Mama,” she muttered, fingering the fabric.
As the sun set, Wauna went searching for her adopted daughter, and found her huddled in a wool sweater, sheltering beneath the canvas of the collapsed tent. She was weeping quietly, caught by memories that she could not understand.
The weather was mild that year, with no snow in the foothills. Wauna and Yepa watched out for Sarah. At night, she slept between them, kept warm by their body heat. On days when the pack traveled great distances in the hunt, Wauna or Yepa stayed with the girl, joining the pack only after the hunt was over. Sarah howled with the pack at night, her high-pitched cry joining the deeper howls of her packmates.
As winter edged toward spring and the days grew longer, Wauna’s attention wandered from her foster pup. Rolon was always close by Wauna’s side—grooming her, following her. The other males in the pack—young Dur and Duman—also followed Wauna when they could, but Rolon warned them away, with stares and growls. Once, when Dur ignored Rolon’s warning and came too close, the two males fought, a short and savage conflict that ended with Dur on his back, his tail between his legs, and Rolon standing over him.
Sarah was puzzled by the change in her foster mother’s behavior. She did not understand that it was the mating season.
During mating season, a wolf pack is in turmoil. The younger males are eager to supplant their father, the alpha male. Often, a brash young male will challenge the alpha male and get himself thrashed as a result. The younger females are on edge, their hormones in a state of flux. Sometimes the alpha pair will leave the pack, seeking seclusion while they mate.
Yepa did her best to reassure Sarah. If her communications had been formed into words, she might have said, “Be calm, little one. This is a season of change, but it is nothing to worry you. Stay with me and be safe.”
And so it was in the early spring that Wauna and Rolon disappeared from the pack for a few days. Yepa cared for Sarah while Wauna was gone, keeping the child close by her side. When the alpha pair returned, life resumed its normal course.
Two months later, Sarah woke up feeling cold. When she had gone to sleep, Wauna had been on one side of her and Yepa on the other. Yepa was still at her side, but Wauna was gone.
Sarah got up and stretched in the sunshine. She squatted to pee on the edge of the clearing where the pack had spent the night, lifting the hem of her sweater out of the way of the stream of urine.
Though the air was chilly, it was warmer than it had been for had been her only garment through the winter. Aunt Audrey would have been shocked at how filthy it had become—marked with pine tar and river mud and the blood of Sarah’s kills. It had been soaked by the winter rains and dried in the sunshine. The wool had stretched and lost its shape. Grimy, disreputable, baggy—but still a warm substitute for the fur coats of her packmates.
The clearing where the pack rested was on the side of a hill. Halfway up the hill was an old fox den. For the past few days, Wauna had been digging in that den, excavating a tunnel and a chamber large enough for her to curl up in. Sarah had explored the den when Wauna had taken a break from digging, but could not understand why this underground chamber held such fascination for her mother. Why crawl underground when the spring sunshine was so warm?
That particular morning, Rolon crouched outside the den, as if standing guard. Sarah stood beside him, listening to strange whimpering and mewling sounds that came from the underground chamber. She caught a familiar scent—mother’s milk.
When she moved toward the mouth of the den, Rolon warned her away with a growl. It wasn’t until the next day that he allowed her to creep into the passage to meet her new brothers and sisters, four fat pups that crawled blindly over one another to reach their mother’s teats.
For the next three weeks, Wauna stayed in the den with the pups. The pack hunted as usual, bringing meat back for Wauna. Sarah waited at the entrance to the den, standing guard with Rolon or Yepa.
One morning, Sarah was drowsing in the sun at the entrance to the den. Yepa was asleep, not far away. The rest of the pack was off hunting.
Sarah woke when something warm nudged her side. When she opened her eyes, she found a pup leaning up against her. It was Beka, the first pup to venture from the den. She leaned against Sarah’s leg and stared out at the world with wide eyes. When Sarah reached down and fondled the pup’s ears, Beka licked Sarah’s hand and gazed up at her.
A tiny puppy growl made Sarah look up from the pup at her side. Marek, the largest of the pups, stood in the entrance of the den. His other sisters, Istas and Luyu, were just behind him. He was a sturdy pup with jet-black fur, unmarked by gray or white.
Marek’s ears were a little back. His head was tilted to one side; his tail, level—neither wagging nor tucked between his legs. In his posture, Sarah read embarrassment and uncertainty. He was a little afraid of the outside world, which is why Beka had been the first one out. He was a little embarrassed by his fear, wanting to appear to be the strongest in all things.
His dark brown eyes focused on Beka, the pup at Sarah’s side. Without hesitation, Marek pounced on her. While Sarah watched, the male pup wrestled his sister to the ground, dominating her with tiny puppy growls.
Wauna’s pups grew up, playing and learning in the way of wolves. Sarah watched them grow, helping Yepa with baby-sitting duties. As the pups grew, so did the rivalry between Beka and Marek.
Bullies exist among wolves as they do among people. Marek was a bully. He dominated his sisters, always claiming the sunniest place to sleep, the largest portion of food, the place closest to Wauna’s side.
Luyu was almost as large as Marek, but she was a shy, good-natured pup, unwilling to fight. She let her brother have his way, content to make do with second-best in order to avoid trouble. Istas was equally accommodating.
Of the pups, Beka was the only one to challenge Marek. Though she was the smallest of the pups, the runt of the litter, she fought for her rights. In a fair fight on level ground, Marek always won. Though Beka snarled and fought, Marek could bowl her over and pin her to the ground, dominating by virtue of his superior size and strength.
But Beka knew how to pick her fights. Once, Sarah watched as the pup scrambled to the top of a boulder. Patiently, Beka waited, motionless, until her brother wandered below. Then she launched herself from the boulder top and landed on Marek, knocking him down. Once she had the advantage, Beka did not give an inch, fighting with determination and ferocity. On that occasion, she won, forcing her brother to submit. More often, she lost, but never without a fight.
When Beka was six weeks old, Sarah noticed that the pup was limping. Marek had just forced Beka away from a place in the sun, and, for the first time, Beka gave way without a fight.
Sarah followed the limping pup into the shade and sat down beside her. Gently, Sarah took Beka’s paw in her hand. The pad of the pup’s paw was hot and inflamed. Beka had stepped on a branch of whitethorn bush, and a barb had embedded itself in the tender pad of her paw.
The pup whimpered as Sarah touched the injury. The girl stroked Beka’s ears and murmured to her, making sounds like the ones Wauna made to soothe the pups. Beka remained still while the girl pinched the thorn between her fingers and pulled it from the inflamed flesh, leaving the wound clean so that it could heal.
Sarah cuddled Beka in her lap, keeping the pup warm. Later that day, when the pack brought down a deer, Sarah brought some scraps of meat to Beka, keeping Marek and the others away while Beka ate. That night, Beka slept with Sarah and Yepa, kept warm by the girl’s body heat. Until Beka’s paw healed, Sarah took care of the pup.
Why? Perhaps Sarah recognized a kindred soul small in body but large in spirit. Whatever the reason, Sarah cared for Beka, and Beka returned that attention with affection. When her paw had healed, Beka followed Sarah wherever she went, a loyal companion.
The pups matured quickly, as wolf pups do. By the time they were six months old, they were traveling with the pack, assisting in the hunt.