The Cross Pull/Chapter 22
CHAPTER XXII
Those who dwelt in the fashionable suburb which nestled under the bluff were far from suspecting the origin of the big gray dog who had lived among them for so many years. It was generally conceded that he sprang from some gentle breed of dogs; from some strain that never barked or snapped. It was inconceivable that he would ever bite.
A new snow had fallen, and the suburbanites looked from their windows upon a familiar scene.
The big gray dog was racing over the winding drives with his peculiar sliding gait. He drew a sled, and the six-year-old boy who rode it was making the air ring with shouted commands. No one who beheld the sight suspected the grim conflict which tore the soul of Flash. How could they know that this was The Season—the running moon of the wolves?
When night fell Flash slipped away and ran for miles over the hardwood hills. The phantom 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