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back home again. Beautiful home!
    Head down, he picked his way through the slanting rain. When he reached the place where he was certain the mouth of the den should lie, he stopped. But instead of the welcoming hideaway dug into the side of the hill, an enormous structure rose before him. Trunks of trees piled on one another formed a huge enclosure. What kind of creature could live in so large a nest?
    Runt knew instantly that he was in the wrong place. He knew, too, that he should return to the safety of the trees. But he couldn't seem to take another step. He stood panting, rooted to the ground, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Even when the racketing storm moved on, taking its fierce light and noise with it, even when the rain began to fall more gently, he remained utterly immobile. His terror flowed out of him like the rivulets of water that coursed over the sweet-smelling earth, only to leave him empty, humiliated. He had proved, once
more, that he wasn't brave and fierce at all.
    He had run, he had lost himself in confusion and panic. He had cried out for all to hear. His brothers and sisters had gone to the den as they had been told to do, and he alone had run away.
    What would his father's golden gaze say when he looked at his son now?
    Runt sat on the sodden ground and whimpered. Then, lifting his face to the sky, he began to howl. His howl spoke not of joy and longing, as the songs of wolves often do, but of loneliness and humiliation and sorrow. He sang of the storm that had driven him here. He sang of being the smallest, the least in the pack. He sang of the disappointment he knew would be waiting in his father's eyes when the son who ran from storms found his way back home.
    Runt might have gone on singing for a long time, feeling enormously sorry for himself, had a strange creature not appeared suddenly around the corner of the giant nest.
    He had never seen such a being before. It moved clumsily, standing erect on its hind legs the way Bear sometimes did. But this
stranger wasn't Bear. After it came into view, it stood perfectly still, staring, and all the air grew heavy with a stench that made every hair on Runt's back rise in apprehension.
    At first, Runt could do nothing more than breathe in the dark smell. But then he remembered what his father had once said when the same smell had drifted near the den. "It's
them.
Humans." The word had frizzed in Runt's blood. And every wolf in the pack had shivered.
    Runt shivered now. Then he gathered himself together and turned to dash back into the forest. The human creature did not follow.
    Already, though, even as Runt ran, a plan was beginning to form.
    He had done it, at last. Hadn't he? Something brave and fierce and wonderful! And now he knew exactly what he would say to his father when he stood before him again.
    "I walked right up to their nest and sang to the humans," he would tell the great black wolf. Then he would add, "You can call me Brave One now."

7
    "Call you what?" King's voice was low, almost a growl.
    "Brave One," Runt repeated, though he said it more quietly this time. With his entire family gathered around and his father peering down at him from his great height, he felt even smaller than usual. Like a pup not yet out of the den.
    "I walked right up to the nest," he said again, hoping it would sound better in the second telling. "I walked right up to the nest, and I sang to—"
    "Have you ever heard of such a thing?" Raven interrupted. Runt glared at the interfering bird, but Raven ignored him and went right on. "For a wolf to let himself be seen, almost touched by one of
them.
Why, I never—"
    It was King who stopped the croaking chatter. When he did, Runt almost wished Raven had gone on talking instead. "A son of mine should know better." He said it quietly, but his voice was heavy with disappointment. "You should know better than to run from a storm, too. We wolves are careful. Always we are careful. But we are not