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and spotted the wolf on the east side of the ravine.
    He wasn’t dying. In fact, he was moving at a speed that impressed even me. He didn’t make a sound as he zigzagged through the scrub pines on the trail of a ten-point buck. Then he made an astonishing leap and landed on the deer’s shoulder. Before I could beat my wings three more times, he’d brought the buck to his knees and ripped out his windpipe.
    I sat in one of the stubby pines watching the wolf tear into the deer. His ravenousness was terrifying. But I have to admit the speed and ferocity with which he’d made his kill had been breathtaking. I’d never seen anything like it. Soulless and earthbound though he was, he inspired a bit of awe in me.
    Once he’d gorged himself, he sat back and started cleaning the blood off his snout with his long tongue. Most of the buck’s carcass remained. It smelled delicious.
    â€œYou’re quite the hunter,” I said.
    He lifted his head, looking surprised to see me. “We do better in packs,” he said.
    â€œWould you mind . . .”
    â€œHelp yourself,” he grunted.
    He was within striking distance of the remains, but I felt only mild nervousness about hopping down and digging in. Why would he want a mouthful of feathers with all that lovely meat around? And the fresh venison truly was delicious.
    As I pecked away, the wolf yawned and looked up. The ravine had gotten dark, but there was still light in the sky.
    â€œMaybe I will catch that nap,” he said.
    He circled a couple of times and lay down in the pine needles. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep—hardly surprising after his skirmishes with the humans and chasing down a deer. After eating my fill, I returned to the stubby pine and looked down drowsily at the sleeping wolf, trying to think why I shouldn’t accompany this amazing meal ticket on his journey.

4
    THE SKY WAS AS BLACK as my tail feathers when the wolf and I woke from our after-dinner naps. He climbed out of the ravine and headed due south. As we skirted a ranch, a herd of cattle kicked up a fuss, but he left them alone, and no humans appeared.
    By daybreak we were in the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains. Once we got to a good elevation, he did his circling routine and settled down to sleep on the shady side of a boulder. Late in the afternoon he got up and chased down a hare. We agreed that it was a lot stringier than deer, but edible. While we were relaxing after the meal, I asked his name.
    â€œBlue Boy,” he said. “You?”
    I told him, realizing a second too late that I’d missed a golden opportunity. I could have turned myself into something wonderful like a Miranda, or a Rosalind, or an Evangeline. Who could he have checked with? But at least he didn’t snigger and say “Maggie the magpie.”
    For the next few days we made our way west through the mountains. It turned out I was good at spotting prey, and with him such a deadly predator, we had plenty of chances for after-dinner conversation. He wasn’t very talkative, but I pumped him with questions, and using a little imagination, I managed to piece together his story.
    The mountainous terrain gave him no problems because he’d grown up in the Canadian Rockies. He’d been the firstborn in his litter. This, it turns out, is a big deal to wolves. The firstborn grabs the nipple with the richest milk supply, giving that pup a big advantage over the others, turning him or her into a sort of heir apparent. But the life of a young wolf, firstborn or last, sounded even more hazardous than a young magpie’s. Blue Boy’s litter was six, and by the end of his first summer only two were left. All three of his sisters were killed—one by drowning in a stream, one courtesy of an eagle, one mysteriously—and one of his brothers wandered too close to the territory of a neighboring pack and got torn to shreds.
    â€œMy other