Things he thought he had forgotten came surging through his mind. First his puppyhood days in the Adirondacks came back to him. He remembered Hilda Converse with a strange pang. Then he recalled as though it were yesterday his meeting with Richard Henderson and their long ride over the continent in the Henderson car; the pleasant days and weeks with Dick; the lost sheep and his joy at seeing Dick again; his betrayal by Pedro Garcia; the man with the club; Gene Gordet; and, finally, François Dupret.
At the thought of this sinister figure he growled softly and quickened his pace on the man trail. Perhaps it was François who had shot his wolf mate. But no. He was dead and his bones had been picked by the pack. The thought of François swung the pendulum back to the primitive life and sent him back to the wild. Man had betrayed him. He was a wolf.
And as he ran, the wolves who had been his ancestors, the shades of the wolves he
