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Updated: May 24, 2025
They leave not a Wolf track. And you're broad in the loin, and heavy in the jowl, and short in the leg a Dog, a Hermit Dog, by the knowledge that has come to me of age." "I'm a Wolf from the Southland," maintained A'tim. "We shape different there. Our meat is the flesh of Buffalo, and our Kill is because of strength, and not speed therefore we are of a strong build.
"But the Redmen the hairless-faced ones," interrupted Dog-Wolf; "they killed many a Buffalo in the old days." "We could spare them," replied Shag; "their Deathshafts of wood slew but a few. Like yourself, A'tim, they killed only when they were hungry.
"They will not poison the meat to-night," muttered A'tim, "and when they have gorged themselves to sleep, I also shall feast, for it must have been a great Kill." "It's dreadful!" lamented Shag; "it's dreadful! I can't eat the grass tastes of blood, for this Kill has been of my kind. It is different with you, A'tim.
"A teepee!" exclaimed A'tim, as they came close to the crossing. "Let us go back and swim the river," pleaded Shag; "there will be hunters within the lodge." "No, wait you here," commanded A'tim; "there will surely be food in the teepee, and I mean to have it." "Be careful," warned Shag; "this is a land of scarcity, and the hunters may bring us evil."
"The Grass Feeders will wax fat for the benefit of the Meat Eaters. I wish one would come my way now," he sighed hungrily. "We are almost half way," continued A'tim, as he trotted beside the long-striding Bull. "I'm glad of that, Brother. My foot joints are not so well oiled as they once were, and are getting hot and dry. Strange that we should not see some of our cousins, is it not, Dog-Wolf?"
In the evening, as they entered a little thicket of dogberry bushes growing in low land, a small brown shadow flitted across their path. With a snarl A'tim was after it, crushing through the long, dry, spike-like grass in hot pursuit. Shag waited.
A'tim was bred in the far Northland, where the Cree Indians trail the white snow-waste with Train Dogs; and one time A'tim had pressed an unwilling shoulder to a dog-collar. Now he was an outcast vagabond on the southern prairie, close to the Montana border-land.
"We must go on until you also have food, my friend." It was coming up the bank out of La Biche River that A'tim, perfectly mad with hunger, made a vicious snap at the Bull's leg, just above the hock, meaning to hamstring him. Shag flipped about and faced the Dog Wolf. "What is this, A'tim?" he demanded, lowering his horns and stamping in vexed restlessness. "A big fly of the Bull-Dog kind.
"Queer company you keep, Great Bull; a Herd Leader leading a Wolf is new to me." "I'm no Wolf, Scavenger!" retorted A'tim. "I'm a Dog; I'll crack your " "Perhaps, perhaps," retorted the Cow-Bird. "Perhaps what?" snarled A'tim. "Perhaps you're a Dog, and perhaps you will crack my neck, you were going to say. Are you leading the Bull to your Wolf Pack, perhaps Dog?"
There was no sound within; no living thing even drew breath beyond the cotton wall he could have heard that. In through the flap he slipped. Yes, his scouting had been perfect. A pair of blankets, an iron fry-pan, and ah! there was the rich brown meat, its white edge gleaming a welcome. With a famished snarl A'tim fastened his lean jaws upon it, and sprang for the door. He was none too quick.
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