Runt (8 page)

Farther on, King sniffed out a fresh trail and turned to follow it, but when they arrived at the small clearing where a moose was grazing, the huge animal, a cow in her prime, stared back at them with stubborn unconcern. Even Bider didn't argue that they should hurl themselves at an animal who refused to run, so they moved on.

They came upon a raspberry patch and paused to sample and then to feast, but a black bear arrived, an enormous, cross male intent on the same berries, and they moved on.

"Some confrontations," King said quietly, "aren't worth the cost."

Again, not even Bider disagreed.

They moved through the night this way, sometimes testing an animal into a brief dash, then, when their prospective prey proved strong, dropping back to preserve their own strength. Occasionally, they chose to move on because the animal they found was large and could hold them at bay. Sometimes they simply encountered no game. When they came upon the territorial marking left by the leader of a neighboring pack, King marked the edge of their own territory. Then they began to circle back.

Finally, as the rising sun filtered through the trees, King led them again toward their own clearing, their bellies still empty. Silver's limp had grown worse. Hunter, with her sore chest, was moving slowly, too. And the pups were so tired that they had begun to waver on their feet. But no one uttered any complaint, either about pain or fatigue or lack of food. This was the life of a wolf. Sometimes food was plentiful. Sometimes it was not. They all knew that.

When they reached their own clearing, each dropped to the ground and tumbled into nearly instant sleep.

It was later that Runt woke to see Bider standing at the far edge of the clearing, staring in the direction of the sleeping King. After a long moment, the white wolf turned and slipped away, disappearing among the trees. Runt didn't call after him to ask where he was going.

He didn't have to ask. He knew. His stomach rumbled at the thought.

The next time Runt awakened, Bider was emerging from the forest, his belly distended, his face bloodied by the feast he had just finished. He swaggered up to King, who was just waking, too, and stood in front of him. With King's eyes full on him, he regurgitated a steaming pile of meat, dropping it before his leader as though he were feeding a pup.

"For you," Bider said. "I thought you might be hungry."

Runt held his breath. Such deep insult was mixed with the gift that he could not even guess at his father's response.

King said nothing. He looked neither at Bider nor at the meat the white wolf had brought back in his belly. He merely rose, stretched, gave out an enormous yawn, and walked away.

The newly awakened pups rose, too, and began to edge toward the feast.

"Leave it!" their father growled.

Even before his nose had confirmed what he knew, Runt understood why King had refused the gift. This meat came from one of the cows that belonged to the humans.

Bider remained standing there, next to his gift. His yellow eyes studied each of them in turn, daring them to come for the food, despite King's command. No one did. However hungry they might be, no one was ready to disobey their leader.

Runt didn't dare disobey, either, but he stood several feet from the steaming offering and watched both Bider and his father closely.

What was wrong with King? Was he so afraid of humans that he was afraid even of the placid, stupid beasts who supplied this marvelous food?

Runt shivered. What was wrong with
him?
He was questioning his own father.

And yet the question remained.

When no one moved toward the meat, the white wolf gulped it again. Runt watched him eat, his own mouth watering.

Then, just as everyone was turning away, relieved that the near confrontation had passed, King turned back to give Bider a stern stare. But this time, instead of lowering his head and tucking his tail as he had always done before, the white wolf lifted his chin, pricked his ears, raised his hackles. A direct challenge such as that could not be ignored.

The fight that followed was silent and terrible. For months the pack had been accustomed to Bider's constant encroachments on King's rule. A rude word, eyes too direct, ears cocked at the wrong angle, tail too high. But King had always handled the threat to the pack's order easily, with a growl, a stare, a loud chomping of the teeth. And Bider would return to his place again, submissive, properly respectful.

But this time the white wolf came at King with his tail high, his hackles raised, his gaze unwavering. He said nothing, just came straight on, clearly having made up his mind to bide his time no longer.

The rest of the pack barely breathed. Runt edged closer, but he knew better—as everyone did—than to interfere in any way with the fight.

Bider threw himself at King, his mouth open, his teeth gleaming. After a too-brief struggle, King was down and Bider was on top, snapping and snarling, snatching at King's shoulder with vicious teeth.

Stop!
Runt wanted to cry, but he didn't. No one else cried out, either.

Then, with a mighty effort, King twisted, threw Bider off, scrambled to his feet again. The two wolves circled once more. Blood dripped from the jagged tear in King's shoulder.

"Father!" Sniffer cried, but a look from Silver warned her, and she said no more.

Bider feinted, withdrew. King lunged, snapped, came away with white fur clinging to his lips. The two threw themselves at each other, gnashing their teeth, rolling on the ground, locked together until the black fur and the white fur seemed like separate parts of the same being.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the fight was over. King stood over Bider, his teeth clamped on the white wolf's throat. The black wolf panted and bled, but he was victorious.

Bider lay on the ground, limp, waiting.

The others waited, too.

Now,
Runt thought.
Now. My father will kill him.
And though he wanted to cry out, Don't! Runt held his breath, held his entire self in silent suspension.

If Bider had been the winner, King might never have risen again. Compassion was not in the white wolf's nature. But King was the one on top, and he had always ruled with a gentle authority. He stood for a long time, staring down at his would-be usurper, then took a quiet step back, allowing Bider to find his feet once more. Both wolves bled profusely.

"Go!" King said.

And Bider did. Slinking off across the clearing, across the stream, his head low, his tail tight against his belly, he disappeared into the deep woods without once looking back.

The pack would feel Bider's absence. Food would be harder to come by without the white wolf's prowess. Their days would be quieter, too, less filled with tension. They all settled to the ground slowly, one at a time, and sighed.

Only Runt continued to watch the dark
place between the trees into which Bider had disappeared.

Bider knew how to get food. Easily and in quantity. Food that his father refused. Bider had shown him where and how.

Should a pup named Runt follow?

The night was long beyond imagining. King made himself a bed at one edge of the clearing, and all the pack circled him, licking his wounds, murmuring reassurance and respect. All except Bider, of course, whose absence no one mentioned.

Runt tried once to approach his father, to reach him to nudge his chin in the way a young son should. But Leader pushed past him, and the black pup withdrew, returning to his accustomed place beneath the maple. He lay there, his chin resting on his paws, watching.

Lying in the dark, though, he could not rid himself of the memory of Bider, bloody and defeated, slinking away into the forest. The white wolf was being tended by no one.

Would he, Runt, be a bider one day, too?
Would there ever be a true place for him in this or any pack?

Morning had come before King's bleeding finally stopped. When the sky had gone from pewter to a pale rose, the black wolf gathered strength to rise stiffly and move off to the stream for a drink of water. The pack let out a collective sigh. Their leader would survive. If King survived, they would continue to be who they were meant to be, a family, each single wolf grown stronger for its connection with the others.

With King wounded and Bider gone, with Silver and Hunter both still injured and the pups too young yet to be much help on a hunt, the pack faced certain hunger. They had survived hunger before, of course. Wolves are often required to survive hunger. But this time winter was coming on, and the pack was badly depleted. This hunger was going to be serious.

Runt lay at the edge of the clearing, gazing at his family, loving them all. His gentle mother, Hunter, Leader, Runner, Sniffer. King, so proud, usually so strong. But even looking at them, one after the other, he couldn't stop
thinking of Bider and of the meat that waited so close at hand. Meat that would bring back his father's strength. The pack's strength.

Except that King would never accept it.

That great beast Bider had brought down was feeding the white wolf, restoring him, perhaps even encouraging him to return to battle. The meat would feed other creatures of the forest, too. Even Raven. But not King or his family.

Runt knew his father was wrong. It was possible for his father to be wrong! Humans were good, kind. Runt knew this for a fact. The meat of their beasts was good, too. And easy to get. Very easy.

But if his father wouldn't listen to him—and what father, after all, would listen to a pup he had named Runt?—then there was no way to save him. Or anyone else in his family.

All that was left for Runt to do was to save himself.

Runt paused once, just at the edge of the close-growing trees, listening to see if someone from the pack might call him back. No one did.

He moved out, taking the direction Bider had earlier.

He found the place again easily, following his nose, following his memory of humps of rock and fallen trees, even of patches of flowers. In the open pasture beyond the easily penetrated fence, the beasts owned by humans grazed. They moved slowly as through a dream of thin morning light. At the edge of the pasture lay the carcass of the one Bider had killed. The smell of meat filled the air, rich and compelling.

And as Runt had guessed, Bider was there before him, feasting again. When Runt
approached, the white wolf growled, deep in his throat. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see if you were all right," Runt replied.

"Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?" Bider tore off a hunk of meat from the carcass and swallowed it in a great gulp.

Drool dripped from Runt's tongue at the sight, but he kept a respectful distance. He had seen what Bider's teeth could do. Looking at Bider, he could see what King's teeth had done, too. The white wolf was bleeding from a wound on his back, and one leg was deeply slashed.

Still ... Runt was hungry. "May I?" He took a step toward the food.

"Why should I share my kill with the likes of you?" Bider growled again. "You'll only go back to
him
when your belly's full."

Would he? "No," Runt said. "Never."

Bider made no reply, just tore off another hunk of meat and gulped it down. Runt was almost certain he was smiling, though. Whether with something like affection or merely satisfaction at seeing the pack break up he couldn't tell.

"I could help you hunt," Runt offered.

"Help me hunt? Do you think I need help from—"

Runt knew what Bider was going to say. "Do you think I need help from a runt like you?" But the white wolf left the sentence unfinished. In fact, he stopped eating entirely and suddenly sat back, perfectly still, his head twisted at an odd angle. He looked surprised, though Runt couldn't tell why.

Runt took a few steps closer. Maybe Bider had eaten his fill and was ready now to share.

"No! Don't! You mustn't!" a hoarse voice shouted.

Runt glanced over to see Raven perched on the fence. What was that annoying bird doing here now? And what was he worried about, anyway? That two wolves feasting on this huge carcass wouldn't leave enough scraps for one bird? Runt decided to ignore him.

"I know I'm not very big," he said to Bider. "And I know 1 have a lot to learn. But I will grow bigger, and you can teach me." He licked one of the cow's hind hooves. It had been too long since he had eaten.

"No!" Raven screamed again. And this
time he landed directly in front of Runt.

The black pup stepped back, away from the bird, but he was rigid with impatience. "Why shouldn't I eat," he demanded to know, "if Bider is willing to share?"

"Can't you see? This meat has been touched by
them!
"

There it was again. Such ignorance. Humans contaminate all they touch. Well, Runt knew better. He stepped around Raven.

But before he could take his first mouthful, Bider gave a sudden jerk. He lifted his front paws to his face, pulling at his muzzle. His eyes, still on Runt, looked bewildered.

Raven flapped his wings and rose into the air only to drop again to the ground at Runt's side. "Look around you!" he screamed. "Just look! Can't you see?"

For the first time since he had arrived at the pasture, Runt looked. Not only was Bider behaving strangely, trying to vomit now but unable to bring anything up, but other animals lay on the ground. A jay. A wolverine. A score of mice and velvet shrews. Even a bald eagle lay still and dead, just a few feet from the meat he had been eating.

"Poison!" Raven croaked. "The humans have poisoned the meat."

Even as Raven spoke, Bider struggled to his feet. He stumbled toward Raven as though attacking him would change the truth of what had been said. But before he could reach the black bird, his front legs gave out, he lurched forward, and his jaw struck the ground. Saliva bubbled from his lips.

Runt went still, the sweet-smelling meat just inches from his nose. He stared at the white wolf and at the rest of the animals lying on the ground, dead before the feast.

Runt had seen death before, of course, but never in so terrible a way as this.