The Black Wolf Pack | Page 9

"the dogs. You startled me; I thought it was
Indians."
"I wish it was nothing wuss," muttered my guide, as he examined his
weapons with a critical eye and loosened the cartridges for his
revolvers in his belt to make sure that they would be easy to pluck out.
"Those hain't our dogs, mister," he remarked after he had examined his
whole arsenal.
As I again fixed my attention on the noise, in place of the resonant
voice of the hounds, I heard nothing but the crackling of branches, with
an occasional half-suppressed wolf-like yelp.
Big Pete turned pale and muttered, "It's them for sartin; it's them agin!
And I hain't been drinkin', nuther!"
Big Pete Darlinkel remained crouching in exactly the same pose he had
first assumed, but his face looked sallow and worn. I marveled. Was
this big westerner really awed by the situation we were facing? What
disaster impended?
My guide's eyes were fixed upon an opening in the woods and I knew
that something would soon bound from that spot. I could hear the
crashing of brush and half-suppressed wolf-like yelps, followed by a
pause, then a rushing noise, and out leaped as beautiful a bull elk as I
had ever seen--in fact the first I had ever seen at close range in his
native wilderness. I had only time to take note of his muscular neck,
clean cut limbs, his grand branching antlers, and--not my dogs but a
pack of immense black wolves at his heels before I instinctively brought
my gun to my shoulder. But before I could draw a bead Big Pete struck
it, knocking the muzzle up.
"Hist!" he exclaimed, pointing to the bird.
The eagle screamed, descended like a thunderbolt and skilfully
avoiding the branching antlers, struck the bull, driving one talon into
the neck and the other into the back, flapping its huge wings as it tore

with its beak at the body of the elk like a trained "bear coote."
I was thunderstruck. The evident partnership of the wolves and bird
needed explanation and it was not long in coming. A shrill whistle
pierced the air, the black wolves immediately ceased to worry the elk,
the eagle soared overhead, and for an instant the elk stood confused,
then leaped high in the air and fell dead. The next moment I heard the
crack of a rifle and saw a puff of blue smoke across the lake.
"That's no ghost," I said, when partly recovered from my astonishment.
"Wait," said Pete laconically.
[Illustration: The eagle screamed, descended like a thunderbolt ... and
struck the bull]
Not long afterward there was a movement among the wolves and,
noiselessly as a panther the figure of a man lithe and youthful in every
movement slipped to the side of the dead elk. He made no noise,
uttered no word to the fierce black animals that sat with their red
tongues hanging from their panting jaws, but without a moment's
hesitation whipped out a knife and with a dexterity and skill that
brought the color to Big Pete's face, proceeded to take the coat off the
wapiti, while the great eagle perched upon the branching antlers. The
skin was removed and with equal dexterity all the best parts of the meat
were skilfully detached and packed in the green hide, after which,
removing a large slice of red flesh, the strange hunter held up one
finger. One of the wolves gravely walked up to him, received the
morsel, gulped it down and retired. Each in turn was fed, then the great
bird flopped on his shoulder and was fed from his hand, and before I
could realize what had happened the man, the wolves and the eagle had
disappeared, leaving nothing but the dismembered carcass of the elk to
remind us of the strange episode.
CHAPTER III
To say that the whole spectacle that I had just witnessed startled me
would be stating it mildly indeed. The strange appearance of this big,

powerful, smooth shaven man in a buckskin hunting costume with a
retinue of black wolves and a trained eagle, the mysterious manner of
his hunting and his coming and going, aroused in me great interest and
curiosity and I could realize the effect it evidently had upon Big Pete's
superstitious mind in spite of the fact that the big fellow was
accustomed to facing almost any sort of danger. As for me, I could not
myself prevent the creeping chills from running down my spine
whenever I thought of the wild man.
Could it be possible that this strange, half-wild man of the mountains,
this killer, this master of a wolf pack, could be in any way connected
with my father? I wondered, and as I wondered I found that a vague
fear of