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in the forest,
she must know it. If they had gone, all was well.
They would not return until the following late winter. Once they quitted the Hemlock Wood, they
never turned back; they headed steadily into the polar darknesses from which they came. But as the
new caribou herd queen, Neetcha had to know if
they had started their return journey or were yet in
the woodland and still on the hunt. Toward this purpose she led her search.
    With her went Bektan, Bela, and Blue Nose, all
trusted elder stags. For two days they drifted
through the Hemlock Wood, circling every
meadow, probing deeply into every thicket and
windfall. With nightfall of the second day they returned to the herd yard satisfied that the wolves
were finally gone.
    Gazing about her at the grim reminders of
Loki's visit, Neetcha knew she had no time for
rest. Yonder, by the base of that slender balsam
from which she would never move, lay Olanchi,
the friend of her fawnhood. There by the ledge
rock beyond the balsam, still and huddled, lay Santu, the sister of her mother. Among the alders
behind the rock sprawled the motionless, frozenlegged form of Lepak, Neetcha's beloved brother,
while all about lay scattered the other pitiful victims of the king wolf's recent passing.

    There was but one thing to do now-find a new
yard for the remainder of the herd and find it, not
tomorrow, but tonight. As the frosty moon rose an
hour later, it shone on the long straggling line of the
caribou herd, winding south through the silent forest aisles. At the head of the shuffling, nervouseyed column moved Neetcha, studying with wary
glances the trail ahead in anxious search for the
new hiding place and bedding ground. By her
flank, very much excited by the whole adventure,
ambled the spraddle-legged Awklet. He was getting his second lesson in proper herd leadership,
and enjoying it immensely. All was exactly right
with his innocent world. He had not a worry in the
whole wide woodland.
    Meanwhile, far to the north, across the frozen sweep
of the tundra, roamed the huge, white-furred, oneeyed Loki. Running now at the head of the pack, the
king wolf had lost some of his recent good feeling.
Well as the hunt had gone and smoothly as the
home journey was progressing, Loki was growing
troubled. Something far back in a hidden crevice of
his savage brain kept bothering him. His uncanny
sense of memory had served him too well throughout the years of his kingship to be ignored. And it
was warning him now that he had somewhere and
recently committed a serious error.
    His lone eye narrowed, his broad skull furrowing
with the effort of animal concentration. Presently he began to growl, low and deep. His pack mates
running near him drew quickly away, knowing
from the quality of the growl that their king was
angry. From past experience they had learned that
it was not good to run close to Loki when he was in
such a mood.

    Then, suddenly, the growling ceased. The king
wolf suddenly knew what he had done wrong back
there in the Hemlock Wood. He should not have allowed that trapped moose calf to live. That had been
an act of weakness, a characteristic foreign to the
wolf nature. And the guilt of it was sufficient to send
Loki's memory back across all those frozen miles.
    He slid his furry haunches in the powdery snow.
So abrupt was his halt that the first of the following
pack actually piled into him from the rear. His deep
snarl lashed out at once, warning them back. They
fell away from him instantly, sensing the quality of
his excitement.
    Again his chest rumbled, the hoarse growl going
this time, and with less anger, to old Sukon, his favorite. At once the aging wolf understood that he
was to lead the pack homeward from that spot. His
replying growl to Loki was quick, and there was no
complaining from the others. It was the law of the
pack. The leader was to be blindly obeyed. Any wolf
that thought otherwise would have to fight Loki to