Wolf Shadows Page 4

  They followed the winding creek for about thirty yards, then set off through a dark stand of cedar to Mackenzie Lake.

  The woods were still—too still. A breeze would help cover their crunching sounds and carry their human scent downwind, so deer wouldn’t smell them coming.

  Along the shore, Seth noticed a half-foot rut sloping down the bank. He stepped closer to investigate. Beneath an overhanging cedar and lip of land lay a small pile of clam shells. He picked one up. Crusty gray clams had been pried open, revealing silky pink insides. The meaty critters were gone. Seth looked out into the bay.

  Two black openings were cut in the snow-dusted ice. Suddenly, out of one, a brown head popped up, whiskers wide, eyes staring. An otter! It hopped out onto the ice, skidded across on its belly, and just as quickly as it appeared, dove into the second hole. Seth dropped the shell, smiled, and turned to Matt.

  Matt leaned against the slanted cedar tree, back to the lake. He’d missed it all.

  Click. Clickety. Crack!

  They stared at each other. What in the world?

  Crack! Crack!

  Seth stood still and followed the sound to the opposite edge of the bay. Motionless, the boys watched. The sound came from within the cedars. What was it? A bull moose? Seth remembered trying to attract one by banging sticks together.

  The white tail of a deer emerged first—a buck. Rear legs straining, it was trying to hold its own against another buck. Antlers engaged, the larger buck emerged from the woods, its rack twice the size of the smaller buck, its coat grayish brown.

  Click-clickety. Crack! They tapped their antlers together, them rammed harder. The larger buck lifted its front legs and thrashed with its hooves. From their black noses, shots of air sounded.

  Matt slowly pulled his gun into his hands. Seth was aware of what he was doing, that this might be a once-in-a-lifetime shot, that maybe they wouldn’t get another chance at two bucks. But he couldn’t take his eyes off them. Off the drama, their fight for dominance. So involved they hadn’t even picked up the boys’ scent.

  The larger deer pushed on toward the lake, and the smaller buck’s legs surrendered, one step at a time, edging out on the ice, its hooves raking—tink, tink—for a grip. Ice cracked, and its hind legs broke through, its body going down as shafts of water and ice exploded into the air.

  A circle of ravens, black and scraggly, appeared and hovered overhead, calling.

  Seth hoped the deer could get footing, that the lake would be shallow there, but he knew better. Mackenzie Lake was a trout-fishing lake, nearly one hundred feet deep in spots.

  Splash! The deer, its rack and head above the water, snorted and wheezed. It broke at the surrounding ice with its sharp hooves, carving a wider circle for itself.

  The ravens croaked in nearby trees.

  Seth glanced back toward shore. The large buck had vanished, disappeared into the cedars. His breath caught. In the buck’s place, standing still on the rocky shore, eyeing the struggling deer, was a gray wolf.

  Chapter 8

  The wolf stood on the opposite shore, maybe twenty-five yards away. Seth didn’t move. He held his breath, his heart pounding. Except for the wolf that flashed across the highway on a drive to Two Harbors, this was the first time he’d seen one in the wild. And he was relieved it was intent on the deer, not on them.

  The wolf, heather gray with lighter face and leg markings, blended in with rock and snow. It reminded Seth of an oversized sled dog. Its neck fur was ruffled, revealing a black collar—a radio collar?—but its ears, snout, and legs were much larger than a husky’s. Lanky, huge, lean. If it smelled them, noticed them, it would vanish.

  Good thing Matt was there to see it, too; otherwise who would believe him?

  A raven swooped over the deer’s antlers, then up into birch limbs. Seth had heard ravens earlier—could they have alerted the wolf to the deer’s predicament?

  With its tail straight out, ears straight ahead, the wolf stepped stealthily on wide paws toward the lake’s edge.

  Another raven swooped down from the trees, over the deer, as if testing how close the animal was to death.

  Head lowered, the wolf edged onto the lake. But it was only one wolf—where were the others? One wolf couldn’t bring down a deer by itself, could it? Maybe it could.

  The deer’s eyes went wider, showing white; its snorting grew frantic. Its front legs were on the ice, and the ice was holding. With a groan, the buck was heaving itself out of the frigid water.

  In the same instant, at of the edge of Seth’s vision, he saw Matt, raising his .30-30 to his shoulder. No! It wouldn’t be fair to shoot the buck now.… If it sank in deep water, it would be a waste!

  As if in slow motion, mouth open, Seth turned his head as the gun went off, blasting the air. It knocked Matt back against the cedar tree and sent a sprinkling of snow onto his contorted face.

  “Got him!” Matt shouted, and with a pit in his gut, Seth spun his gaze back, back to the ice, but the deer was out of the water, leaping through the air, front legs curled and hind legs extended. Touching the ground only once, it bounded into the woods, its white tail lifted high.

  The wolf was gone, too.

  Matt stood still. Then he huffed and slowly lowered his rifle. “C’mon.”

  “Uh … I think you missed,” Seth said, glad the deer had escaped.

  Matt didn’t seem to hear. He was stepping out from under the cedar branches and heading along the shoreline to where the wolf and bucks had stood.

  Seth followed, catching branches from whipping his face, as images rolled through his mind. The bucks going head to head, the wolf, and the deer’s near brush with death. This time, the buck escaped.

  He followed Matt over a fallen pine, circling wide around a patch of tangled brush, and within minutes they were on the opposite shore.

  Then Seth saw it. On the shore where the wolf had stood, gray strands of hair and a bloodstain the size of a handprint sprayed the snow. Could Matt have … did he … ?

  Matt squatted next to the blood and glanced toward the balsam trees.

  “Told you I got him.”

  Seth couldn’t answer, didn’t want to speak. Saying what he thought would make it too real. His insides rolled slowly, like a fish giving way to death, belly up.

  Matt didn’t meet—wouldn’t meet—Seth’s eyes. He faced the lake, the open patch of water. Ice tinkled against ice.

  Seth opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed senseless. Worthless. He spun away, disgusted, and stopped himself. He couldn’t believe it! It was as if he’d just witnessed a murder. And what would happen when his dad found out, then what? Was he suppose to keep quiet, act like it never happened? Did Matt expect him to lie about it?

  “You gut-shot the wolf, didn’t you?!” The words exploded out of Seth’s mouth.

  Matt was still on his haunches, facing the lake. He didn’t turn around.

  “Why?!” Seth demanded.

  Matt humphed. He didn’t move. “You think wolves are so great, then why won’t you let Fudge go, huh?”

  Seth squared himself, legs planted. Hot anger churned in his chest. He didn’t want to look at Matt’s face or hear his lame arguments.

  Matt shifted his feet and started to stand.

  “Don’t even try to stand up,” Seth warned, clenching his fists tighter, “or I swear, I’m gonna hit you!”

  Matt didn’t move.

  Seth swore and pivoted away, rifle in hand. “You find your own stupid way home!”

  Then he took off down the shoreline, crashing through the brush. He didn’t care if he scared away every deer for miles. Matt’s shot had destroyed everything.

  Chapter 9

  At the creek, Seth grabbed his sweater from a branch and raced across the dam’s length, not caring if he fell or not. Matt shot a wolf! Did he have any idea what he’d done? A threatened species could mean a fine of thousands of dollars and jail time! What in the world was he thinking? Maybe Matt wasn’t an A student,
but Seth had never thought he was stupid.

  “I don’t care if he gets lost out there,” Seth muttered. Despite the chilly air, a sweat dampened his brow. If Matt couldn’t find his way home, it would serve him right to spend a night in the woods. Maybe he’d learn something.

  Where the deer path crossed the four-wheeler trail, Seth went left, toward home. He’d sleep there tonight. The last thing he was going to do was share a room with Matt. And that collar. Matt was in huge trouble. It had been radio-collared. What an idiot!

  Eyes burning, stomach twisting, he stormed down the deer path to the main trail.

  Under a towering pine, Seth paused. He stood beneath its spreading massive branches, next to bark crusted with years of green and gray lichen. Where was the timber wolf now? Limping away to escape the pain in its belly, pain that wouldn’t go away until it dragged itself to a place deep in the woods to die slowly? Sure, Matt had reason to be angry about losing the calf, but that didn’t mean that shooting a wolf somehow balanced the scales.

  At his field, shadows stretched like gaunt soldiers. As he ran his hand along the split rail fence toward the barn, a deep ache and anger surged inside him. Tears brimmed quickly, warm and salty. He wiped them away with the back of his gloved hand, and swallowed hard. “What a brainless thing to do.… ”

  He became suddenly aware that he couldn’t feel his left foot. He tried to wiggle his toes, but they didn’t respond. He hurried toward his barn, its faded red shape more like home than anywhere else in the world. The noon sun was already low in the sky and hazed by thin clouds. A breeze came up suddenly and whistled through the pine boughs. Seth felt empty. Awful. His first day of deer hunting wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  He trudged to the barn and stepped in, warm air blanketing him. Quest swung his chestnut head over his stall door and rumbled a deep hello, pawing in his stall.

  “Hey, Quest,” he said, pulling off his gloves. From the metal garbage can he scooped a handful of molasses oats and extended his hand in front of Quest’s velvety muzzle. His horse nibbled, wetting his hand with slobber.

  From the moose calf’s stall came the sound of rustling straw. Heck, maybe Seth would sleep in the barn tonight. And why not? Quest and Fudge made better friends than Matt could ever be. Sometimes, animals made more sense than humans.

  Seth took a deep breath, panged for a second by guilt. What about his own actions? Maybe he shouldn’t have abandoned Matt. Then he shook his head, and anger surged through him like white water. He could never forgive Matt for what he’d done.

  Sitting on a hay bale, Seth untied his left boot. He tugged extra hard, the wet leather stiff with cold. He peeled down the red wool sock, then the white liner designed to wick away moisture. Right.

  His toes were swollen balloons, white as cotton. “Not good.” He pinched his big toe. Nothing. With both hands around his foot, he rubbed gently, then stopped. What had he learned about frostbite? Don’t rub, wasn’t that it? That the skin could rub off? And what else? Don’t heat it up too fast, like by putting it in a tub of hot water.

  He shivered uncontrollably.

  “Huh. Maybe the barn isn’t that warm.” Seth looked at the wet sock and boot. If Matt had been the one to fall in the creek, Seth wouldn’t have left him. But Matt was dry. He’d be fine. Seth doubted his boot would be easy to get back on, now that he’d taken it off. It was probably easier to hop to the house on one leg.

  He hobbled up the deck steps and paused, hand on the back door. Light snowflakes were beginning to fall. Could he risk letting Matt get lost? Could he really? But the sound of Matt’s gunshot replayed in his mind, and his stomach clenched. He hopped inside.

  Midnight greeted him, snaking in and out of his legs, purring at full volume. Seth poured cat food into Midnight’s bowl, then noticed the answering machine on the kitchen counter, blinking red.

  He pushed the play button: “Hi, Seth. This is Mom.” Her voice sounded tired, but happy. “It seems strange,” she said, “to be down here with your dad and Lizzy without you. Seems like part of the family is missing, because it is, I guess. Don’t you hate leaving messages on answering machines? I sure do. They make me feel like I’m talking to a wall. But I want you to know that I’m thinking about you and hoping you’re doing okay at Matt’s. Oh, and Lizzy is coming along fine. She started nursing today, which is a big relief, because her little lungs had been clogged up and she was having difficulty getting air. Oh, she’s so adorable, Seth. You’ll just have to hold—”

  Beep. The machine cut her message short.

  Seth walked down the hallway and peered into the room opposite his own, hands pressed against the door frame. Wallpaper—bright blue, green, yellow, and red stripes with a border of circus elephants—splashed the walls. Mom had picked the color scheme after reading that babies prefer primary colors over pastels, such as pink and light blue. A white crib with white ruffled sheets sat waiting—empty. He still couldn’t quite grasp it. A baby sister. At first he’d felt a pang of disappointment, had really hoped for a little brother. But it would be okay. Heck, he could teach her to ride horseback, to run barrels when she got older. Still, the whole thing—a sister—was weird.

  Downstairs, under a green-and-black-striped wool blanket, Seth ate his trail lunch, a salami and cheese sandwich. Then he stretched out on the couch and watched part of an old western. The figures moved across the screen, but he couldn’t concentrate on the story. Midnight curled into Seth’s chest and, with his pink sandpaper tongue, licked Seth’s wrist.

  Punching the remote control, Seth zipped from one channel to the next, surfing through the whole three stations they received. Some people, like Matt, had satellite dishes with a thousand zillion stations to choose from. Matt was spoiled, especially as the youngest. Having to find his own way home was probably just what he needed.

  “I hope he regrets it,” Seth said, guilt nudging at him. He pushed it away, his eyes growing heavy. “Hope he pays.”

  His left big toe began to throb, a sign of life. At least his toes wouldn’t have to be cut off.

  Hours later, he woke up, rubbing his eyes. “Get your shovels ready,” the five o’clock weather reporter said, his smile as wide as the Grand Canyon, “because we’ve got plenty of snow coming our way tonight.” You’d think he’d just announced an all-expense-paid trip to Florida. “A Canadian Clipper will be blasting across the northern half of Minnesota dumping a predicted ten inches of snow before morning. That’s right. You heard it. Ten inches of white stuff! Weather advisories have been issued immediately for persons traveling—”

  Seth hit “off” on the remote control. He leaned his face into his fists. Dang it! With more snow, Matt couldn’t even follow their tracks—if he was lost, that is. “Quit being a mother hen,” Matt had said once. Maybe he was worrying too much.

  He moved Midnight off his lap and onto the couch. “Sorry,” he said. He stood to walk, and limped, trying to avoid putting weight on his left foot.

  Hobbling up the stairs, he knew what he had to do. Go to the Schultzes’. Check if Matt had returned, which he must have by now. Seth would stand at the door and keep it short—to the point. He didn’t want to waste words on that jerk.

  He glanced beyond the lacy curtains on the kitchen window. Daylight was completely gone. A shiver fingered its way up his back as he sat on the wooden bench in the entry. The house was too quiet.

  He eyed his foot, shook his head at the puffy pink toes, too swollen to squeeze into his own boots. He reached into the closet and pulled out Dad’s Redwings, size eleven, three sizes bigger than his own. Fumbling in the socks and mittens basket, he pulled out two pairs of wool socks, slipped them on, then pulled on his father’s boots. Way too big. Then, like Bigfoot, he clomped outside through a couple inches of new fluff, down the driveway, and crossed the road. He looked ridiculous, but he’d make it quick.

  When Mrs. Schultz opened the front door, her smile dropped like a book off a shelf. “Where’s Matt?”

  �
��Uh … I was just checking to see if, uh, he’d returned yet?”

  A warmth climbed to his neck, and he clenched his jaw so hard a pain shot through his left molar.

  “Step in,” she said, hand on his shoulder, hurrying him inside and shutting out the dark and cold. Smells of spaghetti and garlic bread tickled his nose. His stomach growled.

  “Now, what’s this?” Her voice was rising, charged with accusation, worry. “I thought you two were sticking together. You were both supposed to head back—before dark.”

  “Well …” He lowered his eyes. What would his father say about this? Dad would be outraged to learn that Seth had left Matt in territory he didn’t know. Like water bursting over a dam, guilt overwhelmed him.

  “Did he get a deer out there?” Mrs. Schultz pressed. “Is he waiting for someone to come help him?”

  Brett and Stubby’s voices came from the living room. “Punky got a deer?” “Sounds like it.”

  They’d called Matt “Punky” since Seth could remember, short for “little punk,” even though Matt told them he hated it.

  Mr. Schultz stepped from around the oak banister. “Heard a shot just after eleven this morning. What did he get?”

  A wolf, Seth wanted to say. He got a wolf. He glanced up. “Uh … there were a couple of bucks—missed them.” He stared at his dad’s boots.

  “But you were suppose to stick together,” Mr. Schultz reminded him. Stick together. It was a rule, an order, a law of the woods that he’d violated.

  Seth cleared his throat. Mr. and Mrs. Schultz had always been generous with him, for years supplying him with free pop and snacks every time he visited their house. He forced himself to meet their eyes. “I was checking to see if he’d come back yet.” He didn’t want to worry the Schultzes more than necessary, but he had to let them know. “And there’s a storm coming. Ten inches.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” Mrs. Schultz said, reaching for a gold-and-white pack of cigarettes on a lamp stand. “I thought you two had more sense than—”