They were happy in their swamp home.

There was plenty of small game about them, and it was warm under the windfall.

Rarely did they go beyond the limits of the swamp to hunt.
Out on the more distant plains and the barren ridges they occasionally heard the cry of the wolf-pack on the trail of meat, but it no longer thrilled them with a desire to join in the chase.
One day they struck farther than usual to the west.

They left the swamp, crossed a plain over which a fire had swept the preceding year, climbed a ridge, and descended into a second plain.

At the bottom Gray Wolf stopped and sniffed the air.