The Black Wolf Pack Part 12

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I think the name 'Pluto' fits his character to a nicety"]

"He hates me," he continued, turning to us, "because of his ancestors.

In him is the blood of a Great Dane noted for its strength, size and ferocity, a fierce brute which I brought over the mountains with me many years ago. Pluto's mother was a pure black wolf of a mean disposition, and his father the half-breed son of a Great Dane and a she-wolf. He is the fiercest and most bloodthirsty beast in the whole pack, he hates me with the intense hatred of his wolfish nature, he hates me because he knows that I am the master of the pack, the real leader, and he is jealous. Since his puppy days he has watched for a chance to kill me; twice he nearly succeeded-the time will no doubt come when it will be his life or mine. Yet because of his wonderful strength, endurance and sagacity, I could almost love him.

"His breed does not want to recognize any master. But _I am_ his master!" cried the Wild Hunter as his eyes flashed and he struck himself on his chest, "and he knows it. The only way, however, that I keep my power over him and his pack is by forcing myself to think every time I speak to them, now I am going to _kill you_, and brutes though they are they can read my mind and fear me. Besides which self-interest helps a little towards their loyalty. With me for a leader there is always a kill at the end of the hunt, and they know that they come in for a share of the food.

"Sometimes I fear the wolves will break loose and attack my Indians, which I would very much regret, for the Redmen are faithful fellows and we form a happy community. The Indians look upon me as Big Medicine because I can control these medicine wolves."

Big Pete looked at the man with open admiration, a man who by the sheer power of his will could control a band of wolves, any one of which was powerful enough to kill an ox, certainly was a man to please the wild nature of Big Pete. "But," said Pete, "you say Pluto has helped you.

How?" he asked.

"How," exclaimed the Wild Hunter, "why, gentlemen, by governing the pack as savage as himself. The pack is the secret of my whole success; my power over them first won the allegiance of the Indians, won their admiration and their respect. They know that I could turn those wolves upon them at any moment, but they also know that I would not think of doing such an act and they are human and love me; the wolves are brutes and not susceptible to kindness. The wolves hate the Redmen as they hate me, but they supplied us all with food, they secured for us our winter meat while the men worked to build houses and clear the land, and thus made it possible for us to start this settlement. They even acted as pack animals for us, each of them carrying as much as seventy pounds in weight on their backs. But be on your guard, gentlemen, be on your guard! Remember that you are strangers to the wolves and they will not hesitate, if the opportunity offers, to rend you and even devour you."

A moment later his expression changed.

"Enough of this," he exclaimed in pleasanter tones, "come, dinner is served," and turning, he led the way through the broad doorway of the log ranch house into an almost sumptuously furnished dining room where two silent, soft-footed Indians began immediately to serve a truly remarkable meal.

"He may be lo-coed," whispered Pete to me as we took our places at the table, "but I'll tell the folks, he is a master looney alright. He knows how to make Injuns love him and varmints fear him, he kin pack all his duffle in my bag, he need not cough up eny money when he's with me.

Reckon we be alright here, but waugh! we've gotter watch tha' black wolf pack!-yes and also that young Indian whose ram you shot; it seems he looks after the wolves and sees to it that they are fastened up in their corral. I wouldn't want him to be sort of careless, you know."

CHAPTER XIX

What a dining room that was! All of logs, high ceilinged, with smoked rafters stained like an old meerschaum pipe. It reminded me of a wealthy man's hunting lodge in Maine, perhaps, rather than the abode of a wild man. There was a huge yawning fireplace at one end, above which was the finest specimen of an elk's head I have ever seen. There were other heads, too, p.r.o.ng-horned antelope, beautiful bison heads, remarkable specimens of bighorn sheep and mountain goats, there were buffalo robes and wolf robes strewn over the floor, and there were abundant well stocked gun cases on every hand.

But conspicuous among the collection of firearms was one, kept apart, polished and cleaned, and on a rack made of elk horns handily placed just above the big mantle. It was beautifully though not elaborately made, with a fine damascus barrel of tremendous length, a lock and set trigger that showed expert handicraft, and stock of beautifully polished birds-eye maple. An expert would have known immediately that it was a first-water product of an expert gunsmith.

Big Pete noticed it as soon as I did and he could not keep his eyes from roving to it occasionally during the meal.

"You may scalp me, stranger, fer sayin' it, but I'd like mightily well to heft that tha' shooting iron o' your'n and examine it when we git through with chuck," he said.

Our strange host looked up at the rifle, then searchingly at Big Pete.

"I don't mind showing it to you, but you must not touch it," he said finally.

"I reckon I wouldn't hurt it none. I've handled guns before," said Big Pete shortly, and I could see that he was piqued at the man's att.i.tude.

"Guess you wouldn't, but I've made it a rule never to let strange hands touch that rifle," said the strange man, and there was a grimness about his tone that forbade quibbling.

"Huh, well I can't say as perhaps yore not right about yore shootin'

hardware at that," said Pete. Then after glancing at it again, he added, "a hunter's gun and a woodsman's ax should never be trusted in strange hands. Bet a ten spot it's a Patrick Mullen. Hain't it?"

The name of my kinsman, the famous gunsmith, brought a sudden realization that Mullen was my own family name.

The mention of the gunsmith seemed also to have a curious effect on the old man. His face grew red under the tan and his brow wrinkled and I could see his cold blue eyes scrutinizing Big Pete closely. Finally he said bluntly,

"It is, and it's worth a thousand dollars."

"A thousand dollars!" I exclaimed, "a thousand dollars?"

"Yes," cried the old man almost fiercely, "yes, yes, and it is my gun.

He gave it to me, he did-to me and not to Donald. He-"

He stood up suddenly as if he intended to stride over and seize the gun, to protect it from us but as quickly sat down again and buried his face in his hands, and I could see him biting his lips as if he were attempting to control his feeling.

As for me, quite suddenly a great light seemed to dawn. This strange old man was mentioning names that were familiar-that meant worlds to me. I leaned toward him eagerly. Big Pete stood quietly listening, a silent but interested spectator.

"Did you know Donald Mullen, a brother to the famous gunsmith? Tell me, did you know him? I have come all the way-"

I stopped in wonder. Never in all my life do I ever expect to witness such a pitiful expression of anguish pictured so vividly on the human countenance as it was on the face of the Wild Hunter.

"What," he whispered, "did you know him?"

"He was my father," I answered simply.

For a moment the Wild Hunter looked at me intently, then said, "I believe you, you favor him somewhat." He then came forward as if to shake my hand, but changed his mind and sat down with a forced and wan smile.

"Did I know Don Mullen? Did I? He was my partner, my bunkee for many years and on many prospecting trips, a better bunkee no man ever had, but he is dead now, dead! dead! dead! been dead for a dozen years. He was killed by an avalanche. A better partner no man ever had," he murmured and relaxed into silence.

My efforts to get more information of my parents were of no avail. The Wild Hunter turned the conversation in other directions.

Of course, the knowledge that my real father was dead, had been dead a long time, caused me a feeling of sadness, yet strangely enough the little knowledge that I had gleaned from this strange old man brought a sense of relief to me. I think that it must have been a certain sense of satisfaction to know that this queer man was not my father.

But if he was not Donald Mullen, who was he? That question kept me pondering and for the rest of the meal I was silent, speculating on this strange situation, nor did I have an opportunity to note, as Big Pete did, the tearful, kindly glances that the Wild Hunter shot at me now and then.

Still, for all, he was sociable, extremely sociable, and talkative, too, but I fancy now as I recall it, he was simply keeping the conversation in safe channels, for it was very apparent that the rifle and his former mining partner were painful subjects.

Dinner over, we all went out onto the porch of the ranch house, where we talked while the twilight lasted. At least Big Pete and the Wild Hunter talked as they smoked two of those mysterious long cigars, but I was still silent because of the many strange thoughts that were romping through my mind.

Soon darkness settled down and Big Pete began to yawn. I also was heavy-eyed, and presently the Wild Hunter clapped his hands and summoned a leather-skinned old Indian to whom he gave brief low command in the Mewan Indian tongue, as I was afterwards informed by Big Pete, then turning to us he said in his fascinating soft voice:

"It will probably be a novelty for both of you gentlemen to again sleep in a bed between sheets and under a roof. I doubt whether you will enjoy it even though the sheets are clean linen which were spun and woven by my n.o.ble Indians. Moose Ear, here, will conduct you to your rooms and I will take a turn about the place before retiring to see that all is well, and also to see that my black wolf pack is securely confined within the wolf corral. This is a precaution, gentlemen, which I take every night, because a wolf is a wolf no matter how well trained he may be upon the surface, and night is the time wolves delight to run. These beasts are especially dangerous to strangers and it is for that reason I am putting you in the house in place of allowing you to camp outdoors, as I know you would prefer to do. Good-night, gentlemen, see that the doors are closed. Pleasant dreams."

As we said good-night to him I wondered vaguely if the wolf pen was securely built, for it seemed to me that I detected a suggestion of doubt in the mind of the Wild Hunter himself. I little realized, however, the horrors the darkness had in store for us.

CHAPTER XX

Moose Ear, the silent, wrinkled old Indian, with lighted candles made of buffalo tallow, guided Big Pete and me up the broad skilfully built puncheon stairway to the upper story of the surprisingly large ranch house, where he showed us to our rooms, rooms which were a joy to look upon. Each was furnished with a heavy, hand-made four-posted bedstead, which in spite of the ma.s.siveness was beautifully made, and I wondered at the patience of the Wild Hunter in teaching the Indians their craftmanship.

The other furniture in the room was also hand wrought, as were the fiber rugs on the floor and the checked homespun blankets on the beds. There was a harmonious and pleasing effect; the rooms were cheerful, abounding in evidences of Indian handicraft. Beadwork and embroidery of dyed porcupine quills were prevalent, even the tester which roofed the four-post bedstead was ornamented with fringes of buckskin and designs made of beads and porcupine quills. The chairs and floors were plentifully supplied with fur rugs, and the quaint, old-fashioned appearance of the room in nowise detracted from its comfort or even luxury.

If it had not been for the uncomfortable thought of that pack of black wolves outside, I am sure I would have been supremely happy at the prospect of once more spending a night between clean and cool sheets and a real feather pillow on which to rest my head. Eagerly and almost excitedly I threw off my clothes and donned the long, linen nightshirt with which old Moose Ear had provided me. Then I put the buckhorn extinguisher over the candle and dove into the feather bed as gleefully as a child on Christmas Eve.