pack ran with him but there was no real kill at the end of the chase.
It was one of those still nights that come at this time of year. No slightest breeze rustled the branches. The mercury did not vary a fraction of a degree; cold enough that the leaves beneath the snow were not even moist from its melting; warm enough so that no crust formed on top. All nature seemed suspended—trying to decide whether there would be a thaw or a drop to bitter cold.
Flash came out upon the bluffs which overlooked the town, standing erect, his great head stretched forth in a straight line with his back.
Horses and cows stood rigid in their stalls as the cry reached their ears. Prowling wild things stopped in their tracks. Distant bands of sheep stilled their maddening blat. Conversations in the houses below were broken short.
The suburban dwellers endeavored to explain the queer thrill the sound had given them.
Of them all only two knew the truth. Clark Moran and his wife knew that it was the wolf shiver which shook them; that the cry had been the call of the last buffalo gray for his mate—a cry that would never be answered.
the end
