Ordinary Wolves by Seth Kantner Read Free Book Online Page B

Shooting some poor creature. It just wasn’t me.”
    Had he told Iris this yesterday? Probably not; she didn’t have my mouth that had always wanted to know how to be someone else.
    â€œI propped the Super Cub for my dad, the day he crashed. Kind of a heroic thing to do?”
    Willows slapped my face and the crook of his arm. Snow sifted down my neck.
    â€œThe engine sounded funny. I could have said something but Dad would have hollered to stand clear. Guess life’s like shooting a caribou, huh? You want a fat one, but if you end up with a skinny one, you don’t waste it.”
    â€œPeople leave a skinny caribou, Abe. Or feed it to the dogs and shoot a sledload more.”
    â€œYou kids!”
    We plowed out of the willows, onto a lake. I saw her across the ice; she stood on long graceful legs, huge black shoulders. The backs of her ankles were pale yellow; along her flank stretched a white gash in the hair.
Figment hollered and lunged, cheering the other dogs on. The moose cantered into low brush. The brake ripped furrows in the snow. The sled slid across the ice.
    â€œStand on the snow hook!”
    I jumped out with the hook. It bit into the packed snow. I held it down with knees and palms. The moose waded in deep snow, disappearing into the willows. Abe raised the gun and shot. The moose went down, and WHOMP—the bullet hit sounded like an air-dropped box of nails. Fresh meat! I forgot my frozen cheeks. But not that I wanted to be the one to shoot. Abe wasn’t going to change. He didn’t believe it made any difference which hunter pulled the trigger. Since he was already an expert, of course he always shot.
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    A FEW YARDS FROM THE DOGS, I stood beside the steaming gut pile. Under the snow, the lake was solid six feet down, and I pictured lethargic pike and whitefish squeezed in the dark silence between mud and ice, waiting with cold-blooded thoughts for winter to go away. I felt strong withstanding the cold.
    Up close the moose was alarmingly big. Abe and I loaded the huge hindquarters and butt on the basket sled. He hurried off to break willows, the springy sticks shattering like glass in the cold.
    â€œMaking stick towers to scare the ravens?”
    â€œGet dry wood. I’ll start a fire.”
    I discovered with dismay that one of us was staying with the remaining meat. Abe stepped away from the newborn fire and cut snow to clean his bloody knife.
    I pretended to break the ice off my eyelashes. I peered about nervously. A couple of the dogs whined and tugged at the anchored sled, their feet and noses freezing, their hearts anxious to run toward home and dinner. The rest had curled up, conserving warmth. I longed to go, tented between the companionship of my father behind on the runners and the huskies panting faithful in front.

    â€œI’ll try to make it back ’fore too late.” Abe planted the .30-06 stock-first in the snow. He stepped carefully, keeping his moosehide-bottom mukluks out of the circle of blood around the kill. “At home I’ll have to lash on the gee-pole. And my skis.” The gee-pole tied onto the front of the sled and Abe skied behind the wheel dogs—in front of the sled—and used the pole to steer when the load was heavy or the trail deep. I hefted the gun. The weight was powerful. The cold steel seared my bloody fingers and I knelt and thawed them in the pool of blood coagulated in the moose’s chest. I wiped my hands on the coarse fur, slid my mittens on.
    Suddenly all the dogs held their breath. Nine pairs of ears swiveled north. Abe and I turned. Across the distance floated shivers of sound: wolves howling. Abe straightened up bareheaded. His hair, aged gray with frost, slapped me with a glimpse of the future. We scanned the horizons. Finally, he took off his mittens and cinched the sled rope. Abe hated loose loads the way he hated whiny kids. “Nice to hear the wolves,” he murmured.