Glass heard a snarl behind him and ducked instinctively. The one-eared wolf came tumbling over his head, missing his strike at Glass’s neck, but knocking Glass to his side. He groaned at the impact of the fall, which reignited pain in his back, throat, and shoulder. The bundled torch hit the ground, spilling on the sandy soil. Glass grasped at the branches, desperate to pick them up before they extinguished. At the same time, he struggled to regain the upright position on his knees.
The two wolves circled slowly, waiting for their moment, more cautious now that they had tasted the flame. I can’t let them get behind me. Lightning struck again, followed rapidly this time by the boom of thunder. The storm was nearly over him. Rain would pour down at any minute. There’s no time. Even without the rain, the flames on the torch were burning low.
The white wolf and the wolf with one ear closed. They too seemed to sense that the battle was nearing its climax. Glass feigned at them with the torch. They slowed, but did not retreat. Glass had worked himself into a position only a few feet from the calf. The two wolves feeding on the carcass succeeded in tearing off a hindquarter, and retreated from the commotion of the battling wolves and the strange creature with the fire. For the first time, Glass noticed the clumps of dry sage around the carcass. Would they burn?
Eyes fixed on the two wolves, Glass set his torch to the sage. There had been no rain for weeks. The brush was dry as tinder and caught fire easily. In an instant, flames rose two feet above the sage next to the carcass. Glass lit two other clumps. Soon, the carcass lay in the middle of three burning bushes. Like Moses, Glass planted himself with his knees on the carcass, waving the remnants of his torch. Lightning struck and thunder boomed. Wind whipped the flames around the brush. Rain fell now, though not yet enough to douse the sage.
The effect was impressive. The white wolf and the wolf with one ear looked around. The alpha male, his mate, and the pups loped across the prairie. With full bellies and a breaking storm, they headed for the shelter of their nearby den. The two other wolves from the carcass also followed, struggling to pull the calf’s hindquarter across the prairie.
The white wolf crouched, poised, it seemed, to attack again. But suddenly the wolf with one ear turned and ran after the pack. The white wolf stopped to contemplate the changing odds. He knew well his place in the pack: Others led and he followed. Others picked out the game to be killed, he helped to run it down. Others ate first, he contented himself with the remainder. The wolf had never seen an animal like the one that appeared today, but he understood precisely where it fit in the pecking order. Another clap of thunder erupted overhead, and the rain began to pour down. The white wolf took one last look at the buffalo, the man, and the smoking sage, then he turned and loped after the others.
Glass watched the wolves disappear above the rim of the cut bank. Around him, smoke rose as the rain doused the sage. Another minute and he would be defenseless. He marveled at his fortune as he glanced quickly at the bite on his shoulder. Blood trickled from two puncture wounds, but they were not deep.
The calf lay in the grotesque throes of its failed efforts to escape the wolves. Brutally efficient fangs had ripped the carcass open. Fresh blood pooled beneath the open throat, an eerily brilliant crimson against the muted tans of the sand in the gully. The wolves had focused their attention on the rich entrails that Glass himself craved. He rolled the calf from its side to its back, noting with brief disappointment that nothing remained of the liver. Gone too were the gallbladder, the lungs, and the heart. But a small bit of intestine hung from the animal. Glass removed the razor from his possibles bag, followed the snaking organ into the body cavity with his left hand, and cut a two-foot length at the stomach. Barely able to control himself at the immediacy of food, he put the cut end to his mouth and guzzled.
If the wolf pack had availed itself of the choicer organs, it also had done Glass the favor of nearly skinning its prey. Glass moved to the throat, where with the aid of the razor he could pull back the supple skin. The calf was well fed. Delicate white fat clung to the muscle of its plump neck. The trappers called this fat “fleece” and considered it a delicacy. He cut chunks and stuffed them into his mouth, barely chewing before he swallowed. Each swallow revived the excruciating fire in his throat, but hunger trumped the pain. He gorged himself in the pouring rain, arriving finally at some minimal threshold that allowed him to consider other dangers.
Glass climbed again to the rim of the cut bank, scanning the horizon in all directions. Scattered clumps of buffalo grazed obliviously, but there was no sign of wolf or Indian. The rain and thunder had ended, blowing past as rapidly as they appeared. Angled rays of afternoon sunlight succeeded in breaking through the great thunderheads, streaming forth in iridescent rays extending from heaven to earth.
Glass settled back to consider his fortune. The wolves had taken their share, but an enormous resource lay below him. Glass suffered no illusions about his situation. But he would not starve.
* * *
Glass camped for three days on the cut bank next to the calf. For the first few hours he didn’t even set a fire, gorging uncontrollably on thin slices of the gloriously fresh meat. Finally he paused long enough to start a low blaze for roasting and drying, concealing the flames as much as possible by setting them near to the bank.
He built racks from the green branches of a nearby stand of willows. Hour after hour he carved away at the carcass with the dull razor, hanging meat on the racks while he steadily fed the fires. In three days he dried fifteen pounds of jerky, enough to sustain him for two weeks if need be. Longer if he could supplement along the way.
The wolves did leave one choice cut—the tongue. He relished this delicacy like a king. The ribs and remaining leg bones he roasted on the fire one by one, cracking them for their rich, fresh marrow.
Glass removed the hide with the dull razor. A task that should have taken minutes took hours, an interval during which he thought bitterly about the two men who stole his knife. He had neither the time nor the tools to work the fur properly, but he did cut a crude parfleche before the skin dried into stiff rawhide. He needed the bag to carry the jerky.
On the third day, Glass went searching for a long branch to use as a crutch. In the fight with the wolves, he had been surprised at the weight that his wounded leg could support. He had exercised the leg over the past two days, stretching and testing it. With the aid of a crutch, Glass believed he could now walk upright, a prospect he relished after three weeks of crawling like a gimpy dog. He found a cottonwood branch of the appropriate length and shape. He cut a long strip from the Hudson Bay blanket, wrapping it around the top of the crutch as a pad.