He spent the day waiting, alone. He wondered if something had happened to the girl. Or had she somehow guessed that he planned to take her against her will? After all, she had the wisdom of a wild creature.
The next day, he waited again. Sarah did not make an appearance. That second night, the weather turned cold. He woke to snow flurries. The meadow was dusted with white; the air was cold and crisp. Inside wool socks and leather boots, his feet were icy. He knew he could stay in the high altitudes no longer.
With a heavy heart, he loaded his gear onto the mule. “You know, Longfellow,” he said to the mule. “I’d be happy if I could just see her again. That would be enough.”
He left his camp, leading the mule. By the granite slab where he had spent many an afternoon, he paused, looking out over the lake. On the bare granite slopes of the distant shore stood a figure, a human figure. He recognized the red shirt he had given Sarah. As he watched, the figure waved, a gesture of farewell.
He waved back, his heart lightening. “Good-bye, Sarah!” he called across the lake. “I’ll be back.”
The mountains echoed his voice. “Good-bye…good-bye…good-bye.” Smiling, he headed down the mountain.
Sarah watched him go. She thought about what it would have been like to go with him, to travel among white men as one of them. She shook her head. Max told her that there were many good men, but she knew from experience that there were many bad men as well.
So she watched Max go, then turned away from the lake. She would rejoin the pack, return to her life among the wolves.
The pack had spent the summer ranging through its territory, hunting and raising the most recent litter of pups. When their travels took them near the lake, Sarah had rejoined them for an evening’s hunt. But when they had ranged far from the lake, she had hunted alone.
The wolves accepted Sarah’s absence and welcomed her when she returned. Sometimes, wolves craved solitude. It was not unusual for a wolf to withdraw from its pack, traveling and hunting alone and then rejoining the group at a later date.
After Max returned to Selby Flat, Sarah traveled eastward, climbing higher into the mountains. On the second day, she picked up the pack’s trail. Not far from the edge of the pack’s territory, she found a boulder that had been scent-marked by several wolves. She recognized the scents of her packmates. By the intensity of the scents, she knew that they were less than a day’s travel away.
She followed the trail, covering the ground at an easy lope and coming upon the pack while they rested in a sheltered hollow. There, her old friends greeted her with great enthusiasm. Wauna and Yepa wagged their tails furiously, grinning to show their pleasure. Wauna reared up and placed her front paws on Sarah’s shoulders, bathing her foster daughter’s face with a warm tongue. Dur, Ruana, and Istas romped around her like pups.
Wauna’s latest litter—a trio of gangly pups—hung back at first. Sarah had spent so little time with the pack of late that they were shy of her as they would have been with any stranger. But she scratched their ears and played chase with them until they accepted her as a friend.
After the excitement of the first meeting was over, Sarah settled down with the pack. Within the hour, she noticed that relationships among some of the wolves were not as relaxed as they had been when she left. Dur, the beta male, was grooming a wound on his right paw—a small cut in the pad of his foot from a sharp rock had become infected, inflamed.
Wolves, when stalking deer, select the weakest members of the herd for their prey. They are alert to any behavior that indicates weakness, and they exploit that weakness without mercy. The pack’s survival depends on it.
Within the pack, wolves use that same awareness of weakness to determine when to challenge their packmates. A wolf that wants to move up in the pack hierarchy watches for the moment to attack, waiting until the wolf who is superior to him is ill or injured.
Sarah noticed that Marek was watching Dur bathe his injured paw. Marek was smiling, the relaxed grin of a confident wolf, when he stood and stretched, his black fur shimmering in the sunshine. He strolled over to where Dur lay and stood so that his shadow fell across Dur’s face, blocking the sun that warmed the beta wolf. From this position, Marek stared at Dur.
Dur lifted his head from his paw and growled at the lowerranking wolf, pulling his lips back to show his teeth. The fur on the back of his neck rose, an indication that he was irritated by Marek’s behavior. His message was clear: I’m warning you nicely. Back off.
But Marek did not look away. He continued to stare at Dur, taking a step closer so that he was looking down on the beta wolf.
The other members of the pack gathered, watching the confrontation. Sarah crouched beside Wauna, her hand on the she-wolf’s back. Wauna licked her lips nervously, distressed by the inevitability of the battle. Marek would not back down, Sarah knew that. And she knew that Dur would not give up his position without a fight.
Dur snarled and shifted his weight, ready to stand up. At that moment, Marek lunged, knocking the beta wolf back down and snapping at Dur’s throat. Dur, a seasoned fighter, met Marek’s jaws with his own, and for a moment the two wolves fenced with open jaws, teeth clashing against teeth as each fought for the advantage. Dur moved quickly, and his teeth closed on Marek’s right paw, a sharp bite intended to punish but not injure.
Marek jumped back, still facing Dur, angry but unhurt. Dur was on his feet, glaring at the younger wolf as Marek circled, seeking to attack from another angle. For a moment, Dur hesitated. He licked his lips. His gums were bleeding where Marek’s teeth had cut them.
In the wolf pack, most battles for dominance were won and lost without bloodshed. It was to the pack’s advantage to minimize bloody battles among its members. A family cannot survive if the members are constantly battling. An injury to a member weakens the pack as a whole. The pack needs its members to be healthy and strong, ready to hunt so that the pack could thrive.
A subordinate wolf tests the will of the wolf above him in the hierarchy in many ways. If the dominant wolf is not confident and strong, the rivalry will intensify until the subordinate wolf is constantly testing the dominant animal. By the time the challenge escalates to a battle, both wolves know who will win. The wolves fight, but the fight is quickly over. The combatants may be bitten and bruised, but the injuries are rarely serious. The loser submits to the winner, acknowledging the victor’s supremacy. And the pack hierarchy is established once again.
Dur had chosen to warn the younger wolf, failing to recognize how serious the threat to his position had become. Dur could have broken the younger wolf’s leg, but he had chosen not to weaken the pack. The beta wolf had made a choice. This choice, Sarah realized, would not serve him well.
It was not fair—but the wolf pack did not recognize the human concept of fair play. Two wolves would fight and one would win. The winner might be stronger or faster or smarter or simply more ruthless. The reason did not matter. One wolf lost; one wolf won.
Marek rushed in without warning, striking with his shoulder to Dur’s left side. To stay on his feet, Dur had to take the full force of the charge on his injured foot. The first time that black wolf tried this maneuver, Dur met the charging wolf with snapping teeth. He got a grip on Marek’s neck, but the black wolf tore free.
Marek circled. Sarah could smell blood, could see blood wetting the fur at Marek’s neck. But the black wolf ignored the injury, circling to Dur’s left side. The beta wolf turned as Marek circled, but his injured foot made him slow, too slow to keep up.
Marek lunged again, striking with his shoulder. Dur stumbled, but recovered, snapping as the black wolf leapt away.
Both animals were growling, their hackles bristling. Their eyes were locked in the intimate gaze of battle, neither willing to surrender, neither willing to acknowledge weakness. Sarah caught a flicker of fear in Dur’s eyes, the realization that he had made a mistake.
A third time Marek lunged, as if he planned to strike Dur with his shoulder again. Dur
braced himself for the impact. But Marek, for all his bullying ways, was a clever fighter. At the last moment, he darted in low, snapping at Dur’s uninjured leg, connecting with a brutal bite that tore the flesh to the bone.
Marek jumped away, then charged again, bowling Dur over and pinning him, jaws on his throat, choking him. The black wolf shook his opponent, tearing the fur and skin. Sarah felt a spray of hot blood on her cheek.
Dur shrieked in pain. His tail was between his legs. His ears were flattened to his head, a signal of submission. His lips, no longer snarling, were pulled back in a fear face, a grinning mask of submission.
At last, Marek stopped his punishment. He stood over the fallen wolf, glaring down at him. Then, turning away, Marek shook himself. He settled down in the sunny spot where Dur had been sleeping and made himself comfortable.
Dur lay where he had fallen, whining low in his throat with each breath. Wauna went to him, touching her muzzle to his in a gesture of greeting, then grooming his face with a comforting tongue. Sarah joined her foster mother, stroking the fallen wolf, comforting him. From his place in the sun, Marek, the new beta wolf, grinned.
13 LITTLE LOST LAMB
“Always acknowledge a fault frankly.
This will throw those in authority off their guard and give you opportunity to commit more.”
—Mark Twain
“EAT UP, MAX,” Mrs. Selby urged. “You need some meat on those bones of yours.”
Max accepted another helping of potatoes and grilled onions, another pickle, another slice of fresh-baked bread—all foods he had sorely missed during his time in the mountains. He washed down a salty bite of pickle with beer and considered his heaping plate. He would have to be careful, or he wouldn’t have room for dessert. Mrs. Selby had promised him apple pie.
It was a weekday afternoon, and the dining room was nearly empty. Most men were out working their claims. Max had arrived just a few hours before, and Mrs. Selby had insisted on feeding him right away, not waiting for dinnertime to roll around.
“Where have you been all this time, Max?” Mrs. Selby asked. “Mr. Selby and I were wondering where you’d gotten to.”
Max glanced across the room at Mr. Selby. He rather doubted that Mr. Selby had given Max’s whereabouts a moment’s thought. Mr. Selby had been very busy. Over the summer, he had built a fine addition to the hotel, a dining room with a wooden floor and real glass windows, transported from Sacramento at great expense.
Selby’s was the finest hotel this side of Nevada City. The Selbys brewed their own beer, grew fresh vegetables in an extensive kitchen garden, brought cattle in from the ranches near Sacramento, and generally did their best to bring civilization to the gold fields.
Businesses in the hills of California usually didn’t last long. The gold fields were a place of rapid change; the get-rich-quick mentality of the miners affected the surrounding businessmen. Towns burned in a night and were rebuilt in a week. The average hotel was thrown together in a week or so, remained in business for a month or two, maybe even a year, then folded when the owner left for richer pickings.
Thanks to Mrs. Selby’s influence, Selby’s Hotel was an exception, a rock in shifting sands. Max was delighted to be able to return to the calico-draped barroom, to admire the new dining room.
“I was up in the mountains, sketching, camping beside a lake,” he said. “Looking for solitude and a good place to fish.” He studied Mrs. Selby’s motherly face. He hadn’t told anyone of his meeting with Sarah. Now that he was back in the mining towns, the encounter seemed dreamlike, unreal. He knew that Mrs. Selby would be happy that Sarah was alive—but upset that the child had not come to her motherly arms. He hesitated, then continued. “I found a little bit more than that.”
“What did you find, Max?” Mrs. Selby seated herself comfortably in the chair across from him, obviously anticipating a good story.
Max took his sketch pad from his saddlebag and opened it to a sketch of Sarah, sitting by the lake and sharpening her knife on a smooth stone. She was wearing his shirt with the cuffs rolled up and her pair of cut-off trousers. Her legs were bare.
Mrs. Selby frowned at the sketch and then at Max. “An India girl without enough clothing to cover herself? I thought better of you, Max.”
“Look at her face,” Max said quietly. “And her hair—it’s the color of burnished copper. She’s no Indian. She’s a white girl living in the mountains with the wolves.”
Mrs. Selby studied the sketch again, then stared at Max, her eyes wide. “Sarah McKensie,” she murmured.
Max shrugged. “She came out of the mountains and saved me from the biggest grizzly you’ve ever seen. Before I started teaching her, the only words of English she knew were Mama and Papa.”
“Where is she?” Mrs. Selby scrutinized him as if he might be hiding the girl in his pocket.
“Last I saw her, she was waving good-bye from the far side of the lake.”
“You left her there? Alone in the mountains? The poor little lost lamb.” Mrs. Selby was almost in tears.
“She didn’t want to come back with me. The only way I could have brought her back was if I’d hog-tied her and dragged her back. And I suspect I would have been the one who ended up hog-tied. I tell you, she may be lost, but she’s no lamb.”
“Why? Why wouldn’t she come back?”
“She doesn’t seem to think much of people,” Max said. “Can’t say as I blame her, sometimes.”
“I can’t believe you left her up there,” Mrs. Selby said again. “Left who where?” Max glanced up. The tall man who had spoken was silhouetted against the open door. He stepped inside, and Max saw his face. Jasper Davis.
The man was looking quite prosperous. His boots were polished; his slouch hat was nearly new. He wore a black broadcloth vest over a clean cotton shirt that hadn’t seen much wear, and a gold watch fob looped from his buttonhole to his vest pocket. Max expected that a fine gold watch was on the end of it. On Jasper’s vest shone a silver star.
“Sheriff Davis!” Mrs. Selby was on her feet, holding her hands out to the man. “Max has found Sarah McKensie.”
An expression flickered across Jasper’s face—a mixture of fear, anger, and shock, quickly replaced by a look of determination. Max saw the determination and wondered if he’d imagined the fleeting expression that preceded it.
“You found her after all these years?” Jasper said.
“He found her and then he lost her again. He left her up in the mountains alone.” Mrs. Selby shook her head, still looking at Max accusingly. “You have to save her, Sheriff. Can you get together a posse? With enough men…”
Jasper sat down at the table beside Max. “Tell me what happened.”
Reluctantly, Max told them of his encounter with the grizzly, of meeting Sarah, of teaching her English, and of her refusal to return with him. He would not have chosen Jasper Davis as his confidant, but it seemed that he had no choice.
“We have to bring her back for her own good,” Mrs. Selby
insisted. “She’ll freeze up there.” Mrs. Selby pushed her chair away from Max, regarding him with horror. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why you left her up there.”
Max shook his head. He had convinced himself, during the long walk back to Selby Flat, that he had done the right thing. “You didn’t see her. This is a child who can fight a grizzly and win. She’s done just fine without any help for all these years.”
“A child!” Mrs. Selby cried. “A little girl, alone in the wilderness.”
“Not quite alone,” Max said. “The wolf that followed her…”
“A wolf! You think that makes it better?” Mrs. Selby turned to Jasper. “Can you raise a posse?”
“A posse would scare the child so much she’ll never come out of the hills.” Jasper’s voice was easy and soothing. “Yes, we have to rescue the child, but maybe me and Max should just mosey up there and bring her back.” He glanced at Max. “What do you think?”
“She doe
sn’t trust people,” Max said.
“We can convince her,” Jasper said. “We have to. I can’t have it on my conscience that I left a child in the wilderness.”
Max frowned. Jasper and Mrs. Selby were voicing the concerns that had plagued him before he left the lake, the concerns he had managed to dismiss. Looking at Mrs. Selby’s sorrowful face, he felt guilty. Perhaps he had given up too soon.
“If you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone,” Jasper said.
That decided Max. No matter what happened, it would be worse if he left Sarah to meet the sheriff alone. He was her friend; he couldn’t do that. “Very well. I’ll go with you.”
“Maybe we can lure her out with one of Mrs. Selby’s apple pies,” Jasper smiled at Mrs. Selby. “Surely no child could resist that.”
“The poor lamb,” Mrs. Selby murmured.
At that moment, the poor lamb was chasing a deer. The deer was an old buck that ran slowly, favoring one leg.
Sarah ran with her packmates, glad to be with them again, glad to join in the hunt. In the hunt, the wolf pack came together and worked as a unit, many animals with one purpose. When the pack gave chase, all disputes were forgotten. The wolves were united. Like dancers in a troupe, like musicians improvising a tune, they were working together, responding to one another, playing off each other.
Sarah ran, her nostrils filled with the scent of the deer. Yepa was at one side; Beka at the other. At a look from Rolon, Sarah fell back and took up a position by a sturdy oak, holding the loop of her lariat loosely in her hands, wrapping the other end around the tree. Like any good leader, Rolon knew how to use the strengths of his pack members. Now that Sarah was back, he was making use of a hunting strategy they had perfected together over the years. Sarah waited as Rolon and the others turned the deer, chasing the frightened animal toward her.
Panicked by the wolves at its heels, the buck did not hesitate to rush past Sarah. The hot scent of the animal’s fear filled the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh blood. The buck was bleeding from many wounds, but he was running hard. Without Sarah’s help, the wolves could still lose him.