It was night, a glorious night filled with moon and stars, under which the earth was whitening with a film of frost, when they heard the first hunt call of the wolves.

Now and then during the summer there had come the lone wolf howl, but this was the tonguing of the pack; and as it floated through the vast silence and mystery of the night, a song of savagery that had come with each Red Moon down through unending ages, Pierrot knew that at last had come that for which Baree had been waiting.
In an instant Baree had sensed it.

His muscles grew taut as pieces of stretched rope as he stood up in the moonlight, facing the direction from which floated the mystery and thrill of the sound.

They could hear him whining softly; and Pierrot, bending down so that he caught the light of the night properly, could see him trembling.
"It is Mee-Koo!" he said in a whisper to Nepeese.
That was it, the call of the blood that was running swift in Baree's veins--not alone the call of his species, but the call of Kazan and Gray Wolf and of his forbears for generations unnumbered.

It was the voice of his people.