“Promise. Now, get a good night’s sleep. It’ll do you good.”
The calm, kind manner in which he answered told her that he was a man of his word, that he had everything in order while she was spinning out of control; that he might be just right for her, that maybe they could be fugitives from society for a while. But Alaska? Why Alaska? And then she thought, Why not? Maybe he’s right. Maybe it would solve all her problems. Clear her mind. Cleanse her soul. Be an adventure. Be what she needed.
3
THE WOLF SET OUT ALONE with nothing to remind him of his origins and his crowded natal pack but the tracking collar he had worn ever since researchers from The Department of Fish and Game had drugged him with a dart shot from a helicopter, studied him and entered him on their capture data sheet as GW027, Gulkana wolf #27. He was recorded as a 105-pound, black and buff canis lupus, measuring six feet from the tip of his nose to the base of his tail. His age, based on the whiteness and slight wear of his teeth, was estimated at two years. But now, two months after his profile had been programmed into Fish and Game’s database in Anchorage, the file on GW027—nicknamed Daredevil by the wildlife biologists who had captured and eventually released him—was being closed out because the mortality sensor on his radio tracking collar indicated that, in all likelihood, GW027 had been killed.
Daredevil had begun his dispersal seventy miles northwest of the town of Gulkana and worked his way south, keeping the snow-covered peak of Mount Wrangell at his left shoulder. The afternoon he crossed Route Four near Glennallen would be the last time he would cross a road with the sun high above him. It was then that he learned to be wary of the trucks that carried fresh-hewn, sweet-smelling spruce and cedar logs south to Valdez and west to Anchorage, at first hearing the hissing and barking of airbrakes and then the report of a high-powered rifle as the gravel by his muzzle sprayed in front of him.
He leapt to the thick undercover, running from a second loud crack, covering ten yards with each bound; running and running to the edge of the Copper River where he splashed in its shallows until the water flowed above his long forelegs. There he stopped in a small, clear backwater, pricked his ears and worked his leathery black nostrils. Minutes passed before he was satisfied that danger was not following him or about him. He lowered his head and drank from the river and, when his heart had slowed to its normal rate, waded from the water and investigated an abandoned den that had been dug out of a low rise overlooking the river, its entrance littered with wolf scat and gnawed sticks and the bleached bones of beavers, snowshoe hares and caribou calves. He crawled to the back of the flea-infested shelter and crouched most of the night without sleep, watching and scenting for his mysterious new enemy.
TWO DAYS LATER, Daredevil worked his way southeast toward the town of Chitina and the junction of the Copper and Chitina Rivers when he was stopped by a curious scent. He stood hidden in a stand of spruces, searching, listening and scenting for trouble until the June sun slipped behind the mountains, throwing its soft nighttime glow across the lowland grasses and waving spikes of reddish-pink fireweed. He could not wait for darkness to continue his hunt, for this time of year darkness never came. He could only rely on the shadows of the low sun and his keen senses of hearing and smell. He dropped his body flat to the ground and crawled into the open, stopping every few yards and raising his head. Finally, he stood, the fresh scent still beckoning. He sensed no danger.
He crept through the tall grass when suddenly something foreign to him clenched his right foreleg with a loud slap. A crippling pain ran up his shin to his shoulder. He yelped and jumped back, pulling the trap chain taut. He stared at the trap and growled. He pulled his leg again and the skin of his shin peeled down to shiny white bone and bright-colored blood ran freely to his large forepaw, but his leg did not come free. He held his ground and tried lifting, then pulling his leg, furiously biting at the steel jaws of the trap. He jerked his leg and attacked the trap a second time. Nothing changed except the pain grew hotter, more intense, his blood now covering his once-buff-colored paw.
The wolf stood still for a moment; his head cocked to one side as though he were trying to find the answer to this puzzle and then lowered his head and lay down. Thick, glistening strands of drool and his long pink tongue hung from his mouth. His heart pounded rapidly and he huffed loud breaths that tasted sour to him. He whimpered and closed his eyes. He had made his second mistake in as many days—and perhaps his last. The freedom he had known all his life had ended.
WITHIN A FEW HOURS the sun crept above the foothills of the Wrangell Mountains and another long day began. Daredevil licked his wound clean and lay with his ears flat to his head, his foreleg throbbing with pain. The sound of a twig snapping caused him to stand and face the woods. Again he pulled his leg to free himself from danger, growling and straining at the trap, but the trap held him in place, and in pain. He saw movement in the trees and then his enemy stepped into the open and stopped when their eyes met.
The native Alaskan who stood at the edge of the forest was an Ahtna boy in his early teens. His wide-set eyes, long nose and broad mouth resembled his noble Ahtna ancestor, Chief Goodlataw, and the elders in his tribe had named him Littlelataw, a name he carried with great pride until his reputation as a boy who exaggerated his secret experiences while hunting earned him the name Storyteller. He held a crude bow and wore mud-caked running shoes, faded blue jeans and a camouflage shirt cinched at his waist by a frayed leather belt. A large bowie knife hung loosely from the belt, the point of its scabbard almost touching the boy’s knee. A Spruce grouse and a mallard duck, its iridescent green head flashing in the low sunlight, hung by their necks from a piece of twine the boy had looped over one shoulder; over his other he had slung a narrow canvas quiver that held a handful of arrows.
At the sight of the boy the wolf pulled back his lips, baring his large, curved incisors, let out a low growl, and lowered his shoulders and backed away, once again trying to pull his leg free from the blood-covered steel. When he could move no further the animal straightened and stared at the boy, his hackles raised in a thick black mass between his shoulders and his ears and tail pointed skyward in an attempt to appear as large and threatening as he could.
“Holy shit,” Storyteller said. He had never seen a live wolf this close before and the sight caused his heart to beat rapidly.
Daredevil continued to growl and kept his eyes on the boy’s.
Storyteller walked slowly into the meadow, keeping a safe distance from the wolf. He took a step toward the animal and again the wolf tried to back away. He took another step forward and Daredevil lunged at him, the trap holding him in place. The boy jumped back, and then shook his head. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He stepped twice more until he was a body-length from the wolf. He set his bow and the mallard and the grouse in the grass and sat, cross-legged. He slid two arrows from the quiver, placed them in his lap and folded his hands across his stomach, one hand gripping the handle of the bowie. He took in and let out a deep breath and after a moment closed his eyes and bowed his head. His coarse black hair, kept in place by a red and white bandana knotted at the back of his head, fell forward on his shoulders. He pulled the bandana tight and ran his hands back over his hair and then sat still as though he had fallen asleep. The only sound in the meadow was his breathing mixed with the wolf’s.
When Storyteller looked at the wolf again, Daredevil was lying on his belly in the matted grass, his head upright, his ears laid back. He was panting quietly. “Okay, brother,” the boy whispered, “we begin.”
For a moment, the Ahtna did nothing but keep his eyes on Daredevil’s and nod slowly to him, drawing and releasing heavy breaths. The wolf whimpered, lowered his head and switched his bushy tail. The boy then took an arrow in each hand and raised them in front of his face and began to tap them across each other. “Look at your brother,” he commanded in a quiet voice. “Trust him.” He continued to tap the arrows but did not speak until the wolf’s almond-shaped eyes
