All over that wild desolation the call of the wolf had carried its meaning.

Down there, where a lake lay silent in its winter sleep, a doe started in trembling and fear; beyond the mountain a huge bull moose lifted his antlered head with battle-glaring eyes; half a mile away a fox paused for an instant in its sleuth-like stalking of a rabbit; and here and there in that world of wild things the gaunt hungry people of Wolf's blood stopped in their trails and turned their heads toward the signal that was coming in wailing echoes to their ears.
And then the silence was broken.

From afar--it might have been a mile away--there came an answering cry; and at that cry the wolf at the end of his babeesh thong settled upon his haunches again and sent back the call that comes only when there is blood upon the trail or when near the killing time.
There was not the rustle of a bough, not a word spoken, by the silent watchers in the spruce.

Mukoki had slipped back and half lay across his support in shooting attitude.

Wabi had braced a foot, and his rifle was half to his shoulder, leveled over a knee.