The Unwanted

By Hartt Wixom

In a remote cave bordered by dark shadows beneath a broken ridge of rocks and stunted lodge pole pines on the north slope of Utah’s Uinta Mountains, a mother wolf licked at the squirming bodies of four pups. All were blind; but one, more aggressive than the others, pushed away his siblings to gain their mother’s life-sustaining milk. The old she-wolf also sought to turn life-giving nipples to her other offspring, cuffing them sharply until they nuzzled into her warm nourishment. Only then did they stop bawling and settle down to feed as did their more energetic sibling.

Less than an hour later, the mother admitted to the den a sister wolf who brought her a partially-eaten snowshoe hare. Since the new wolf mother was the dominant, or alpha female in the pack, receiving such homage was not unexpected. Nor would it hurt the other’s standing when the pack regrouped. The mother gulped the gift meal down almost without chewing, somehow knowing instinctively it would mean more milk for her offspring. Then, she nudged the other wolf from the den. The lesser bitch had done her duty. She left without argument.

A few weeks later, the largest pup left his mother’s side to forage after mice which ventured into the cave. He caught none, for he could barely see sufficiently in the darkness to move about on four spindly legs. At four weeks he became adventurous enough to walk toward the sunlight which drew him like a powerful magnet; but his mother growled and pinned him to the earth. A large male wolf, the outlaw of the band which had once been driven away, prowled the den’s mouth; anything, even a wolf pup, would do to fill his empty belly. The mother bared her teeth to the predator who protested but finally slinked away. She knew he would be back. She must remain alert until her mate returned.

Spring sunlight bathed the den door in the afternoons and the hungry canine mother would soon find forest grouse eggs, or perhaps even a sitting bird. Fawn deer would not be born for another month and then raw, red meat would be in greater supply. She yearned again for the plenty of summer but she knew it would come in time. For now, one must forage as best as possible. The days were growing longer; already, snow was melting off the exposed south ridges.

A month later, with the prowling male wolf finding food elsewhere and seemingly gone for good, the mother moved her brood into a small grassy flat beside a lightning-felled pine. When the sun grew warm, branches at the crown of the tree shaded the spot where she lay. Here, her eyes glistening with bright golden enthusiasm for her brood, she watched the black pup. He, with the white tuft of hair near his right ear, was adventurous; that was good. But he was not yet ready to leave her watchful eye to explore the nearby hillside. She could not fail to notice that the other pups were no match for the large black one; in fact, he seemed to grow bored by their submissiveness. He fought with imaginary foes, all to the mother’s amusement when he tripped and fell.

Soon, milk no longer sustained him. He turned from her breasts and uttered little half yelps for solid food. He pushed at his mother as if to coax her into a chase for meat. But his mother made him wait. The other siblings were not ready to follow in a quest for game.

The pack could help out, wherever they were, but she must wait until the pups grew larger and could fend against the other wolves before attempting to rejoin them. As a rule, most of the wolves protected alpha members of the pack but there was always the one who lurked. Once, the black pup’s father had run him off. But there was also the possibility that he who lurked at times near the den might go without food long enough for cowardice to give way to desperation.

There was, of course, no way for the black pup to know he had been conceived far from this place, in a high plateau of lodgepole pines that mankind called Yellowstone National Park. The wolf pack had left the park when snows piled head-high and following aging moose and elk, fed on the dying ungulates until reaching Jackson Hole. Food was more plentiful there but Homo sapiens were all about; the pack grew restless. Other predators moved about and sometimes usurped the elk carcasses before the black pup’s parents could move in. Coyotes were numerous and an occasional cougar hissed and pawed about. A large grizzly moved in and took what he wanted. Other wolf packs edged closer.

When the she-wolf felt movement about her belly, she nudged her mate to find solitude where she might give birth. He beckoned the others and all of the pack followed him to the south end of the valley. In time they crossed a large river and moved with several antelope herds into southern Wyoming. Following weeks of drought, the pronghorns moved farther east into a barren region where the he-wolf felt too conspicuous to follow. Above all, he must remain disciplined and not allow hunger to lead him into a trap. He disdained open space where the pack could be seen easily, for all had barely escaped danger when visible in daylight hours. Of all animals, the alpha wolf must be most wary of the one they called man.

Once, cowboys chased them with lariats. The cover of heavy timber was the only place the dominant male felt safe. The he-wolf moved his pack even farther south into a higher area where they found both forest and mule deer. A day later, they had entered what is known by man’s reckoning as the north slope of northeastern Utah’s Uinta Mountains. The old she-wolf soon found a dark cavern. Then, separating herself from the pack, and indeed, even her mate, she felt the squirming life within sprawl from her womb onto cold earth.

Male and female had mated for life; but as usual, the male must be gone for long periods looking for food; if he found enough, he would return with a rabbit or squirrel. While he was gone, she had to fend for herself.

But probing about one night, he found easy prey. It did not fight back. It seemed incapable of doing so. The creature only stood there and bleated with a docile futility. Normally, anything which did not take flight was reason for suspicion; the he-wolf preferred fleeing animals which showed fear in their retreat. But this animal neither fled, nor seemed capable of escape. The old he-wolf attacked cautiously at first, nipping a flank. When the prey appeared crippled by the bite, an all-out attack followed.

After ripping the passive animal’s throat, the wolf slashed into the heap until it was lifeless and struggled no more. He ate his fill, and loped off with the entrails in his jaws toward to the cave. His mate fed voraciously, for she had not left the pups for several weeks and her milk supply was waning.

What both parents did not know was that they had ventured into hostile territory. Those who had introduced the wolves into Yellowstone anticipated they might go as far as south as Wyoming. That state had been warned to brace for livestock kills during the winter but were told that in time of summer, with food plentiful, the predators would not likely venture far from their place of release. Few guessed the wolves would travel quickly as far south as Utah.

Originally, the parent wolves had been trapped in British Columbia’s Revelstoke region, knowing nothing of domestic sheep which offered no resistance. Deer were plentiful in the park. They would have probably remained there for the remainder of their lives if not for man’s intervention.

The old male wolf marked the spot where these wooly creatures bedded, determined to return there the next night. He had eaten beef once and preferred it; but these wooly creatures were less nimble and would do to feed the young. He had a duty to feed his family. He must not shun it.

As for the black pup, he had been born free; he knew nothing of traps or fences or people. He knew only that he now craved animal flesh. When his father stopped bringing fresh mutton to his family in the cave, the young one sensed he must learn how to kill on his own, else die. He pressed anxiously at his mother’s side that she might lead her pups from the cave, the only world he knew, or the lightning-killed tree at its doorway. The mother glanced at his two sisters and brother, and pawed him away. It was not yet time. But a few days later, at the black pup’s insistence, she led from the cave and beyond the fallen tree. If her offspring needed meat, she would teach them how to kill.

Returning with her mate to the sheep, the mother was ready to share what she knew in wolf survival. The meat was there and the pup smelled it; he ran carelessly toward it. But she cuffed him and he lay stunned, looking for solace. There was none. He got up and moved again toward a lamb standing with long ears dropped down and helpless. She pounced on him and knocked him to the ground a second time. There was a tinge of dreaded man-smell in the air.

This time the black pup lay still, looking at his mother in wonder.

His siblings showed no aggressiveness. They waited for instructions and seemed frightened.

The she-wolf held her charges at the edge of tall sagebrush. She must make a reconnaissance. They had been slow in gathering here and daylight was taking away the deep shadows. No immediate danger seemed imminent; but she was cautious, sniffing the air. Finally, she circled surreptitiously toward the bleating animal. It did not move. This was too easy. The old he-wolf began moving in to help. The mother emitted a low growl. He had been ready to pounce. What was wrong? She snarled at her mate; he backed off.

He was an expert at killing. Yet, he did not know the proper mentoring of the young ones. That was a mother’s role. Finally, he understood and sat down on his haunches to watch.

Killing a dumb creature by one of the parents would not teach the pups how to hunt. She must find real prey. Otherwise, they would not learn to give chase, to use their yet-meager teeth, to sever the jugular. No, the sheep wouldn’t do. She cast a look over her shoulder and led the brood off.

The he-wolf shrugged and followed.

Soon, the mother located a fool’s hen but it flew off before she could show them her attack technique. Farther on, she found a showshoe hare but it bounded off too quickly for the young ones to give chase. An hour later, the pups pushed at her nipples for milk; there was none. The he-wolf turned back toward the sheep in the meadow and she reluctantly followed.

The sheep stood exactly as before. But just as the mother wolf wheeled to attack the nearest ewe with the young ones following at her heels, a loud noise boomed out. Dust blew into her eyes. Another blasting sound. The next to smallest pup moaned and rolled into a thistle. The old he-wolf knew instantly what was happening. He howled and nipped at his mate, she in turn at her brood. They leaped for the sagebrush, while one more shot rang out. The second pup fell backward, blood spurting from his side.

The four survivors ran tails between legs into the thickest brush, frantically seeking security of the cave. Cowering in the corner, the mother licked at her son and his sister, searching for wounds. They were not harmed, for she found no blood; but all remained in deepest recess of their home, hungry but afraid to move, throughout the long night. She waited for the black pup’s lone brother and two sisters, but only one of the latter joined them.

Bob Crittenden strode belligerently into the Mountain Farmers Co-op holding two lifeless gray forms. “I told you there were wolves on the north slope,” he bellowed. “I told you. And this time I brought proof.”

The man at the desk examined them closely. “Sure they’re not just big coyotes?”

“Balls a’ fire, no, Craig! I bin fightin’ coyotes on the Stillwater Fork all my life. I know what a coyote looks like!”

Crittenden reached across the desk. “Kamas? Bob Crittendon in Evanston, Wyoming. Jist killed me two wolves in your state, on my ranch, straddles the border.” He was silent as if unbelieving what he heard next. “Whatta ya’ mean you don’t have any wolves in Utah? I told you, I jist killed two of ’em. And there’s more. What I want to know, is what you’re going to about it.”

Craig Saxton beckoned his frustrated colleague to sit down. “Bob, hang up the phone! You know what you’ve done? You’ve killed two animals on the federal rare and endangered list and now you’re bragging about it. You could be fined $50,000 and thrown in jail.”

“They was a killin’ my sheep, Craig! Ain’t a rancher got no rights anymore? I mean we’re in the 21st Century now and…”

“Bob, you better back off until the federal officials can check out your claims.”

“The only thing to back off is them wolves! When I first spotted them with my binoculars I knew they was wolves. In less than an hour they came back. I’d a got the others, two adults and two more pups, if I’d been closer. A ewe yesterday, then two new-born lambs. Proof is there in the pasture.”

“Well, be sure to leave ’em there, Bob, for the authorities to look at, I mean. I’m no expert on wolves. But don’t kill no more until…”

Bob shrugged and waved his arms. “If they come back, I’ll get ‘err all! m puttin’ some strychnine in the remains tonight.”

Craig was silent. He leaned back and lit a cigarette. “Better wait until we get witnesses, Bob. Meantime, git them pups outta sight until we kin notify someone to make positive ID at the kill site. Haven’t you bin readin’ the papers lately? Wolves killin all over Jackson Hole and no one dares steps in.”

“Balls a’ fire, Craig. We don’t need some high-falutin’ tinbadge from Washington meddlin’ into our affairs. I got dead sheep. And you can see these here two critters are wolves…”

The next day Craig received a phone call. Could Robert Crittenden meet Melany Turnbow, of the U. S Fish and Wildlife Service, at the co-op and show her the alleged wolf kills?

Crittenden’s cursing could be heard in the back bedroom. “Alleged wolf kills? And what do you mean, she? They sent a woman out to tell me my job? I’m not goin’ in. I got work to do.” He paused. “Alleged kills? I’ll show this lady up close what an alleged kill looks like.”

A female hand took hold of his wrist. “So, what’s wrong with a woman checking this thing out, Bob? Women are well trained these days in a number of…”

He moved his arm. “Not things like this, Beck. Raisin’ stock is a man’s job. I don’t mean no disrespect to you, honey, but some things are just a man’s job.”

“Like kiln’ wolves?”

“like anything that kills our way of life. What if one of ’em tried to attack Janis? is that something for me to take care of, or what?”

“I guess so, Bob.” She returned to the back bedroom where three-year old Janis slept. Bob grabbed his hat from a mule deer rack by the door, slammed the door, grabbed a shovel and headed for his pickup truck. Becky Crittenden watched from the kitchen and shook her head. Then, she leaned over and gave her daughter a gentle kiss.

Bob met the government truck at the driveway. A small, thin brunette woman stepped out from the passenger side. Mark Ferguson of the Wasatch National Forest parked his green pickup truck and joined the woman. Bob had experienced several dealings with Ferguson, as usual wearing starched shirt and polished shoes. It was no reason not to like him. Unless their paths crossed.

“Hello, I’m Melanie, from Casper.” “You got here fast.” “She got up at 4 a. m. this morning to drive here, Bob.” “A wolf kill is serious business,” said Melanie. There was no smile. “We’ve spent a lot of time and money…”

“Well, I got me a few dead sheep they killed. And that’s even more seriouser business. And more time and money.”

Melanie dug some papers from a file folder. “I’ve got the forms you can fill out for damages, Mr. Crittenden, after we take a look at those sheep. I think I can tell a wolf kill when I see it. But it just doesn’t seem possible they could get to Utah this soon. Our projections show…”

“Th’ hell with your government projections,” said Bob quickly. “I’ll show you the wolves. It don’t make no difference how they got here or what your projections show.”

Mark’s voice showed irritation. “Bob, Melanie has worked with wolf studies for several years at Yale University. She…”

“Where in Hades is Yale?” “Connecticut,” Melanie answered evenly. “Connecticut! How many wolves do they have in Connecticut?”

“None, Bob.” It was Mark. “But they study timber wolves there all over the United States. There are more in Minnesota than even Yellowstone or Wyoming, Idaho or Montana. Or Utah. They fill a precise niche within any territory. Melanie programs their locations all around the country.”

“It’s all right, Mark. I should have made myself clear. I came here to study the timber wolves you claim to have in Utah. As for elsewhere, I just try to determine where they’ll go next.”

“Well, by 6–, in Utah. That’s where.” “Let’s go in my truck,” suggested Mark. “How far?” d— close to my family.”

They bumped over a back road for several minutes until coming to a gate. Mark broke the silence. “Bob, are you going to believe those old fairy tales about wolves killing Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother and all that bunk? Because if you are…”

“Never mind,” Melanie said quietly. “Let’s just see what we’ve got out here.”

Bob directed Mark down a fence line. Soon, the truck circled around several sheep carcasses. “Bloated and picked apart by the magpies,” said Mark. “Can you tell anything, Mel?”

She walked about but said nothing for several minutes. “Yes, I’m sure it’s the work of wolves,” she said. “Big paws in the mud there. Did you know wolves only have four toes on their back feet?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Bob said as they approached the carcasses. “You shot two wolves r Mark looked at Melanie, who only shook her head. “Pups,” answered Bob. “But wolf pups grow into wolf parents. And breed more wolves. Is there a bounty on the wolves I killed? Mark rolled his eyes. Melanie ignored it. “We’ll have someone do a stomach sample on these and save the pelts for study. Meantime, here are some papers to fill out.” “Stomach samples? I kin tell you what they bin eatin’: sheep.”

“That’ll do, Bob. Remember you’ve got applications in for animal unit months on public land. We’ll need to work together on this new intelligence to see how it will affect your AUMs.”

Bob was silent for once. Melanie: “We’ve got to send a crew up there on the hill to determine how many wolves we’ve got. And how many on private land. How much private land is there?”

Mark pointed south to the upper Bear River drainage. “Just to the line where those tall aspens give way to conifers. Most is public beyond that, Wasatch National Forest.”

“I run my sheep up there in the summer,” said Bob. “And I don’t dare send ’em up with born killers waitin’ for ‘ern.”

“We may have to cut down on grazing permits…what with wolves in the vicinity,” Mark said in measured words. It may change things.”

“Well, it don’t change nuthin’ with me,” came the answer. “My sheep still need as much as grass as before. Minus three head.”

Back in the lithe meadow where the black pup was playing with a mouse he had caught by the tail, the old male wolf suddenly appeared with a snowshoe hare. The pup left the half-alive mouse to his sister and gorged on the larger animal. The mother wolf seemed to nod approvingly at her mate and licked him affectionately about the neck.

Two days later, the female wolf examined her mate’s jaws as he returned and found nothing. The pups nuzzled against their mother but could smell no raw meat. It was time to visit the sheep again. This time the wolf family went at night, with no moon. There were no live sheep in the pasture, only the remains killed before gunfire had frightened the predators away. The he-wolf sniffed at a breeze, finding man smell nearby. Unmistakable. Strychnine. He knew not man’s name for it, but he knew it spelled trouble. They must not eat.

The scent of raw meat was enough for the black pup. He rushed in to partake and instantly, felt the huge paw of his father strike him across the snout. It was the first time he had been reprimanded by his father and he jumped at the large old wolf only to be cuffed sharply to the hard earth.

The she-wolf need not inspect the meat for herself. She honored her mate’s more experienced senses. The larger wolf circled about and trotted off, turning back once to see if all followed. They must never return to the tainted carcasses again. There would be no more easy meals here in the pasture.

The crisis was not relieved, however. The mother wolf must find nourishment for two young mouths. Together, the wolf pair hunted through the night, departing their haunts on the Bear River to forge into the forest eastward. Once, they startled a deer; if the pack had been there, the small ungulate would have been theirs. But with only two wolves, the female making certain the pups did not stray far away, they could dispatch no food by sunup. Discouraged, the male wolf brushed his mate as if to say he was sorry for his lack of prowess. She did not nuzzle him as before.

At mid-morning, the male wolf got lucky. He spotted a wounded elk calf. Mired in a swamp, it had nearly broken a front leg scrambling across a log. The bone was only badly bruised but it slowed the creature enough that the he-wolf was quickly upon it. The calf flailed with its one good foreleg and cut the wolf’s lower jaw. When he emitted a petulant howl, the she-wolf joined him to help in the kill. She held her tail high now in jubilation, leading her brood to the first food they’d eaten in four days. After all had taken their fill, they went as a family to the swamp where they lapped the delicious liquid for long minutes.

At all times the black pup sensed kinship between his parents. He did not know his parents had been mates since they were sexually mature at age two, breaking away from the original Yellowstone pack to form their own. The pup remained afraid of his father, yet held an abiding respect for him ; he yearned to be as large and powerful. On occasion he would spar with the he-wolf, although the latter seemed to have little patience, bowling the youngster aside. Still, in so doing, the pup could discover his strengths and shortcomings. He would grow up to best his father some day.

While he lacked the confidence to be rowdy with the he-wolf, the pup yearned to see how far he could go. Usually, he was ignored; but one morning the father ejaculated a deep-throated roar that sent the black pup scrambling for what seemed his very survival. The pup had a strange white birthmark by one ear that was growing larger, an his teeth were growing sharper. The paws were larger. Yet, the wolf yawned; the pup decided no damage had been done. He would play with his mother’s tail. She seemed content to let him gnaw and cavort to his heart’s content without moving a muscle, other than watching him in what seemed monitored tolerance.

One day, the mother led them from the cave and they never returned to it. Their rendezvous was a patch of grass by a small brook. Next day she sniffed about and followed the scent of warm meat to an Englemann spruce where she halted. The black pup supposed they would dine. But the “it” turned out to be a porcupine and the mother wolf turned as if to say, “We’re not that hungry.” The black pup would not be so easily distracted, attacking a hind leg. For his trouble, he received a spear-like cut to his nose. He spent almost an hour pulling at the stubborn quill and tried to worry it away on a rock. The mother looked at him in disdain but gently grasped the last stub in her teeth to cough it out. She lay for a long time with her mouth in the stream. The he-wolf came over several times as if to show sympathy; but seeing he could do nothing, he returned and lay down, his lower jaw on his left paw.

The next day they came upon a black and white cat-like creature; but when the animal turned and raised its tail, the mother growled her offspring away. This time, the black pup minded his mother and followed her. What the reason might be for not attacking, he did not know; but by now he had learned to trust his mother. Savage instincts must at time be bridled.

The wolves returned several times to the elk calf but when it was gone, three bellies felt terribly empty again. Feasting as they had to satiation, they could go perhaps four/five more days without red meat. But fasting was not something to be tolerated by wolves. It was not in their nature, particularly the father who shook his head in frustration.

The mother knew she could always howl to relocate the pack. Working together in shifts, they might bring down as large an animal as a bull moose. But it would be perhaps another month before she dared risk her young ones to the morose old male wolf who sniffed at her den earlier. For now, she preferred the absolute safety of solitude.

Once they found where a cow elk had left a blood trail but lapping it up until locating the owner brought no satisfaction. The animal had apparently not been seriously wounded in her flight from a black bear and could not be found. The elk crashed noisily through spindle aspen ahead of four pursuers until the forest was silent again. The bear was more fortunate than the wolves. It could feast on dried berries and grasses to ease the pain in its stomach; they, being strictly carnivores, found no such solace.

On the third day, the black pup’s sister could not be roused from sleep She had succumbed to hunger overnight without a whimper. The mother wolf nudged at her body several times, moaning in a disconsolate lamentation which sounded to the black pup as mournful a sound as he had ever heard. A few minutes later, the father rolled the carcass down a small hill away from sight while the mother watched. She knew if other wolves found the body, they would surely partake of it.

On the fifth day without finding a major food source, the wolf pair came upon a makeshift wire corral at the edge of a small patch of spruce. In the corral were five cows which had been there since the fall roundup on the prairie, grazing on whatever sparse grass they might find. Fortunately, it was a relatively mild winter. Their owner had located them when mending a fence on Mt. Elizabeth, taking wire from his small pickup to enclose the cows until he could return with a cattle truck. They were penned in with no escape.

The old he-wolf was wary. Experience over his eight years told him this sort of thing was never as easy as it seemed. These animals were alive; he need not fear poison. Fresh meat was never as risky as kills made by someone else. His challenge would be finding a way to enter through the narrow fence mesh without squeezing into a trap. As he approached, one of the black Angus cows snorted and pawed the half-frozen earth. Another rushed at the predator with head lowered.

The two adult wolves tried to dig beneath the fence but it would never do. The male wolf finally climbed up a metal pole, but when he descended, it was into a chaos of hooves and horns. The panicked cattle gored and butted until one pole bent over, the fence heaving on that side. Finding his mate would not leave her pups and that he could not make a kill by himself, the frustrated male scrambled back over the sagging portion of fence. They would have to look elsewhere for a meal.

The next day Bob Crittenden received a phone call from his neighbor Hevut Spilker. “Speak up, Hey; you say what? Five cows bolted into your fence and nearly tore it down last night? Something stampeded them? Did they kill any? No, well, you’re lucky. Wolves, Hevut! Wolves r

Before he put the telephone down, Hevut heard knocking. “Voe, just aine minute. Sean! I get off telephone with Bob Crittenden. I have wolves on mine property, Sean. Bob, he say they are timber wolves. We have no wolves in Denmark. Only in the Grimm’s fairy tales…”

“Just brought your boy back, Hevut. Great little cowboy! Wolves…didn’t see any timber wolves near my home in Chicago either. How romantic! Wait until I tell the boy. We came all the way out here to get away from the city, Hevut and…”

“They try to kill my cows!” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Hey. You chased them off?! “Bob says they’ll be back.” “Sean, Vow you get along Blacks Fork? The Radovich family never could make ranch life work there.. .rough soil, all rocks.”

“No problem, Hey. I’m retired, you know. I just wanted to get away from the city and… wolves you say?” Sean accepted a drink of cold water, then looked out the south window. “Can you show me up on the mountain…where the wolves attacked?”

When they returned from the hill, Mrs. Spilker had a message for her husband. Melanie Turnbow had called. There was to be a public meeting in Evanston Wednesday night. To talk about timber wolves. “All the ranchers and anyone interested is invited.”

Cornering Mark at the entrance to the Federal Building auditorium, Bob Crittenden had a question. “Will I have an opportunity to speak my piece at this hearing? I know some others I talked to who feel the same way.”

Mark looked down. ‘This isn’t a hearing, Bob. It’s a meeting. To tell the people who live here what to expect about timber wolves. I don’t know if Melanie has time for…” he glanced at Melanie, papers in hand, people talking to her as she rushed about. “Audience participation? I don’t know if it’s in the agenda, Bob. She’s got so much to cover.”

“Well, I got me some things to cover myself.”

It seemed to Bob that the meeting droned on in obscurity. Some high official from Salt Lake City’s Fourth Federal Planning District introduced a Dr. Eustice Swensson who began this way: “The Latin name for the timber wolf is Canis lupis. There are 24 sub species, none described more recently than 1943. It is doubtful whether a systematist revising the wolves today would list so many sub-species and possibly none would be recognized anyway. As yet, however, there has been no formal synchronization of any of these sub species names…”

He looked at Melanie. She was gently shaking her head. “Let me introduce you at this time to Melanie Turnbow, our local canine zoologist for Region Four. We will turn the meeting over to her for more internal data on what we have learned about Canis lupis.”

Melanie cleared her throat. “We do need to know something about the background of the timber wolf,” she began, glancing at a sign which read, “Get rid of sheep-killers.” She referred to it. “I know many of you make your livelihoods from livestock. it is has always been that way in the West. We do not want to destroy that. But we also have a federal mandate to not let any species go extinct…”

A man sitting by Bob stood up. “We don’t want our sheep to go extinct.”

Melanie motioned him to sit down. “We are not going to take any action at this meeting but we want you to know we have a team, which I will participate in, to study these wolves. We need to see if any are radio-monitored; if so, we aren’t picking up any signal. We may have to capture one and…”

“And kill it,” came a voice from back of the room. “And see how many there are, what they are eating…” “Sheep,” muttered a voice from somewhere.

Melanie wiped her brow. “We made a mistake killing off all the wolves in Yellowstone in the 1930s and 40s. They were natural to the park and should have been left alone. It was only natural they be re-introduced. We didn’t want them outside the park but there is funding for proven damages…”

After the meeting, Hevet told Melanie how the wolves had raided his cattle pen and nearly run them off. “I git money frum that?” he asked. “Vhat if zey scatter mine cows mitout killing them?

Bob stepped up angrily. “It’s like the grizzlies,” he said. “Show bite marks on your legs and they might give it consideration.”

“No,” said Melanie. “There is no way of proving the wolves did any actual damage to your cattle. Maybe it wasn’t even wolves. Maybe it was some rancher’s dog. A so-called wolf was killed last year raiding a chicken coop in Idaho and it turned out to be a large German shepherd. We can’t just pay out claims willy-nilly without proof. It would be a waste of the taxpayers’ money.”

Hevet shrugged. Bob stepped in but Mark put a hand on his shoulder. “It could be worse, Bob. Have you read about the struggle they’re having getting the lynx returned in Colorado? Plenty of people seem to want them. Did you read about the group who burned down a ski resort under construction near Aspen because it would encroach on the lynx habitat?”

“Well, nobody wants wolves here,” said Bob. “Nobody.” He!vet nodded his head. “Wolves are completely unvaunted here.” Bob turned around as the last dozen people cleared the auditorium and shouted, “Is there any resident of the valley within sound of my voice who wants timber wolves here?”

One man raised his hand. It was Sean.

—

In the weeks which followed, Melanie would call on both Mark for help in locating the wolves. She wanted to fit them with radio collars but dared not divulge locations of the animals to those who might try to shoot them. There were reports and rumors but the two had no success in locating the wolves until Melanie answered her telephone on a Friday morning in early July. It was Bob.

“I got me another wolf kill,” he said sharply.

“Yours?” she asked without expression.

“Hevut. The wolves which raided his stock pen. They came back and killed a calf.” “

I thought he had only mature cattle in that pen.”

“Maybe so, but he added some calves and one of ’em is dead.”

Why did he place a calf where he knows wolves might attack? Never mind, how do you know it was wolves.”

“Paw prints all around.” He sounded impatient.

“All right. have to come out and write a damage report. You’re sure they’re the claw marks of wolves on the calf.”

“Hevut says they’re wolf prints.” “But he just moved into this country where he’s seen no wolves before. How would he know?” “Well, he’s got a complaint to make. Are you turning him down on the telephone?”

The next day Melanie Turnbow drove to Hevut’s ranch on Blacks Fork. He greeted her methodically and took her to the pen in the lodgepole pines where the old he-wolf had tried to find a meal and failed. “Why, these are lion tracks, Hevut. This calf has been killed by a cougar.”

Hevut walked over and looked where the woman was pointing. He could find nothing to say for several minutes. Finally, he spoke. “Cougar. Vulf. They kill calf. Vhat you do about it?”

Do? I’m doing nothing at all Mr. Spilker. My jurisdiction is wolves. You’ll have to talk with Wyoming or Utah state authorities. I don’t think there’s a bounty on lions anymore in either state but I can’t say. All I know is I’ve come all the way out here for nothing. I asked Bob to make sure it was the work of wolves. And I can’t do anything to help you ranchers until I can get a little cooperation from someone who will help me track their movements and see exactly what they are doing.”

Hevut shrugged. “Try Sean. He seems in sympathy vith you.”

She turned to face the east. “He lives next ranch up the road? Yes, I just might do that.”

Half an hour later, Melanie’s silver U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service truck pulled into a narrow yard with a haystack in the middle. There were several holding pens for livestock but little in them. An A-frame cabin sat at the end of a shale stone walkway. Hevut sat on the back porch. Melanie hesitated. “I’ve come over to…ask for your help in locating the wolf pack that Bob has been complaining about. I’d like to know if I can borrow one of your horses to do some riding, look for some sign, so I’d know where to put out a trap. Those wolves may be pesky when you don’t want them, but when you do…”

Two hours later, they looked back across the chartreuse meadows of McKenzie Creek drainage to Lyman Lake and out onto the amber flat encompassing Wyoming. All the while, Melanie had kept her eye to the mud between conifer root systems, seeing little of the scenery. They had found no tracks and nothing alive save two mule deer does which broke into the Englemann spruce and vanished into silence above them.

“I’ve only lived here a few months,” Sean said to no one in particular “but I wonder at the vast distances of this country. We could ride another 15 miles and still be on the north slope of the Uintas. I’ve only begun to make contact with the Cataract Creek gorge. And somewhere off to the west is Lym Lake. Someday I’ll get up to Deadman Peak over there and the summit.’

Melanie pushed dark, wind-blown hair from her eyes. “It is so beautiful. It is…a wonderful place to look for timber wolves.” She took out her binoculars and peered to several high peaks southward. “But it is time to go for now. Keep your eyes open for me, you two, and let me know if you find any sign of those wolves.”

Two days later, Sean telephoned Melanie in Rock Springs. “I think Steve has found something,” Sean explained excitedly. “I’ve been busy myself rebuilding the north corral fence but Steve…well, he was out yesterday and said he found wolf tracks.”

“I’ve been through this before,” thought Melanie. “You don’t sound very excited.” Oh, I am, Sean but…but I’m tied down for now. Maybe you can make a plaster cast and send it to me. Do you know how to make a plaster cast?” “No, but I can read about it. Maybe in one of Steve’s outdoor books. We’ll see what we can do and send it you by parcel post next time we’re in Evanston or maybe Kamas.”

Two weeks later, Sean received a telephone call from Rock Springs. “Yes, Sean,” she said, excitement in her voice this time. “The cast came apart in the box but I can determine size and I think as large as it is…it does appear to be a canine of some species and not a coyote. I can’t tell for sure if there are only four toes… Do you have any domestic dogs running around loose up there?”

“None I know of. But I’ll have Steve try to find a new print and make a better cast this time. I know your time is valuable…” he hesitated for some reply but there was none, “Steve has really taken to this. When he gets the chores done tomorrow, maybe he can go back where he found the tracks the other day.”

Melanie studied the ground for several precious minutes and declared, “Yes, two wolves have been here.” She spent half an hour walking in circles from the two tracks until she finally found one more. “A pup,” she announced. “We have found a family of can’s.”

It was near day’s end when Melanie and Sean rode off the mountain, a beautiful sunset before their gaze. They stopped for several minutes to admire the crimson crescendo against the horizon. They were talking about it upon walking into the house. Hevut was there dropping off Steve.

“We’ll have to go up on the mountain and look at another sunset,” Sean said. “We have some great ones on Blacks Fork.”

“Yes, 1 need to get a collar on one of those wolves and monitor where they’re going,” Melanie agreed. “I’ll call and let you know when I can get back.”

But Melanie called the next day to say she couldn’t come over. She may never be able to come over again. “I’m being pulled off this study,” she said, her voice strained. “Something about, well, I don’t know. Something about not.., about you and me…1 don’t know what it is. My supervisor just said he’s checking out something someone said…”

Sean hung up the phone. “What a dirty trick. Bob! He didn’t want Melanie over here. The sunset ride between the two of them. Did Hevut get the wrong idea?”

Two weeks went by. Finally, Melanie called. “I’m back on the job. But I feel I’m being watched. I’m on probation. have to stick to business and we must have someone with us at all times.”

case.”

“Is there something wrong with us being…friends?”

“No. But Bob will make something of it if there is any way he can. He’s out to get me off this

“So what is next?”

“I’m coming over to see if we can catch and tag one or more of those wolves.”

Three days later Sean and Melanie and Steve rode across upper Blacks Fork until coming across a wolf track. Unknown to them, the wolf family, including the aggressive young male, now adult size, had rejoined the pack. Or rather, the pack had rejoined them. They now roamed the entire north slope of the Uintas and sooner or later, they were bound to turn to sheep in order to feed a dozen or so mouths.

But in time, Melanie got lucky, trapped one of the pack and radio collared it to monitor comings and goings. In doing so, she was able to track the entire pack, for they were traveling together. A few days later, Melanie returned with a device which recorded signals from the wolf. She didn’t like what she found.

“They’re not staying high,” she told Sean. “They’re skirting the edge of Bob’s sheep herd. That can only mean trouble.”

Two days later, she called Bob. “Melanie? What a surprise. What can I do for you?”

“I’m going to put some traps near your sheep, Bob…to see if the wolves are intent on doing any damage there. Will you help me put them in placer

The next day Melanie followed Bob to the bulk of his sheep on the divide between Bear River and Blacks Fork. It required more than two hours to get three traps, baited with ground squirrel meat, which Bob shot early that morning, alongside the south side of the herd. “That’s the direction they’d most likely show up,” Melanie explained. “If they do.”

Bob said nothing to her during the entire time other than to grunt when the devices were in place. And Melanie said nothing to Bob about the complaint made to her superior in Rock Springs. “Better not to mention it,” she told herself. “I’d like to resolve this but…did she have feelings for Sean? She must put it out of her mind. She had work to do.

Three days later Melanie received a call from Bob. “I’ve got two dead sheep here,” he said.

“And the traps…”

“Nothing. They never touched the squirrels. They have a fondness for my sheep. It’s.. .it’s time to get rid of them. And I want compensation. Now. ‘)

Melanie ignored the last comment. She wanted to explain how she had been careful to touch the bait with gloves only…but had Bob used gloves? The human scent would…well, these were cunning predators. She smiled softly to herself as she thought about the pack learning the skills of survival in a world which hated them. Deep in her heart, she knew she was rooting for them, yet…

“This is it!” she heard Bob yelling at her on the phone two days later. ‘They’ve come back and this time they’ve killed three more sheep. I got a glimpse of one large black wolf which seemed to be their leader. Now I’m going to be waiting for them with my deer rifle.”

Melanie knew Bob could now get away with killing any number of the pack. With five dead sheep, the law might back him up. He could annihilate them. It would mean an end of the pack and all her work. Neither Wyoming nor Utah had formulated a wolf management plan, although wildlife officers from both states had met with Melanie to discuss when they might take over. “Not until the packs are no longer endangered,” she reminded them. “Only then will the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service relinquish management to the states. We are close to five or six breeding packs in Wyoming but Utah…it could be years.”

“With Bob shooting them, it could be never,” said Melanie.

“Meantime,” said the Utah officer, “we have to put up with the ravings of one Bob Crittenden who runs his sheep on our side of the border and we can do nothing about solving his problem. You feds are going to have to appease him.”

“I’m trying,” said Melanie. “I’m trying.”

Two days later, Bob’s voice was livid on the phone. “I stayed up two nights in a row watching for them. My family never sees me any more. Jensen, the Utah Fish and Game officer says he can do nothing for me. What are you going to do?”

“Did you shoot a wolf, Bob?’

“I got a shot. But the big black one…with a tuft of white by the right ear…he seems to know at all times where I am. He headed for some lambs and suddenly, turned the pack around and vamoosed. All the time I was hidden behind a blind. How could he…?”

“How long had the blind been there?”

“I put it up two days before.”

“Well, you see…” Melanie heard herself saying, “those wolves know when they see something un…never mind. I’ll see if we need to transfer the pack away somewhere…please be patient.”

But not long thereafter an article appeared in the Rock Springs newspaper. “Ebony, a Black Wolf, Harasses North Slope Rancher.”

Melanie looked at the headline. “Ebony?” She must give Bob more credit for creativity. He had come up with a name for the alpha wolf to gain greater attention. Ebony. Well so be it.

But while she caught three other wolves through the next month, she did not see so much of a hair of the giant wolf. They all ran together, did they not? Had she met her match? Was this Ebony too clever to be trapped?

But what Bob and Melanie didn’t know was that the pack had grown and split up. Ebony’s father had been killed in a fight with another wolf and that wolf had taken seven other animals with him. Ebony, the young wolf which had been born only a few months before in the dank undergrowth near the Bear River had matured quickly and taken away several of the pack which previously followed his father. Ebony’s mother, aware that only one of her brood survived, remained with her son. He was the only remnant of her once proud family and she followed him now not certain of her own destiny. She had mated for life and now her companion was gone. The dreaded man enemy…she had always been afraid of him and yet, it was the rogue wolf which lurked at her den of young wafflings in the spring which she now most feared.

At the same time, she had a sense that his brashness would bring his end. He was the one which had led the recent attack on the sheep. Ebony, he was hopefully wise enough to remain in the pursuit of wild game, although it sometimes meant days between meals. Her son would keep them out of man’s harm. But if the two pack leaders ever fought… she knew it was inevitable as long as the two wolves were alive.

That night, Sean thought he heard a wolf howl. Was it a dream? No, he decided it carried from the timbered hill behind his house. It was a mournful sound, filled with intrigue and belying a certain mystery and wildness, a longing to be one with all that was grand and beautiful. It filled his body with thousands of goose bumps. Climbing into his clothes, he tried to hike toward the sound but it grew faint. It echoed to the west now, toward the Blacks/Bear River divide; then it faded into oblivion.

He wanted to call Melanie and share the feeling of inspiration that the sound had engendered within him; but she was a scientist. She must not give way to emotions that might get in the way of her work.

Sean could not have known what the mournful howl meant, or if it had any meaning at all…did wolves just howl at the moon as the story books say… yet, it was a moonless night.

Melanie might have suspected the sound for what it was: a longing, a deep yearning within the soul of a savage beast for a mate, a bonding as he had known his father and mother to share…a meshing together as long as they lived, a she-wolf to whom he could devote his life, she to him, loyal each to the other against all possible threats and dangers. He did not think it at the time; but it would be a desire to protect her at the peril of his own life if the need should arise.

Ebony liked it here. He saw little danger, if he remained away from the valley floor, fences, and the dreaded man-smell. He had no fear of the ambling bear or furtive cougar, and other than the gangly moose, he was the most formidable creature of the high country. But one day he came across several sheep in the high timber of Deadman Mountain, carefully leading his mother and the pack away from the helpless creatures. His stomach gnawed at him now but with the pack working together, they surrounded a doe mule deer and in short order had it hamstrung. Their pitiful victim bleated twice and it was over. The pack fed voraciously, then realized it was not enough. They must kill yet again. At nightfall they ran down a calf elk and sat satiated that evening to enjoy a brilliant sunset across the aspen hills overlooking the Bear River.

The time came when those aspens took on a golden hue. It was Ebony’s first autumn and he marveled at the change in colors. He did not know of the deep snows and cold to come which would make game scarce and his hunger grow more acute. Ebony then led his pack to the sheep; but an instinctive voice inside told him it was too dangerous with a full moon. He had not known Bob waited there until he half-circled the prey. Then, he picked up the scent, for Bob had made no effort to determine wind direction from his blind.

In her office, Melanie was apprehensive. There had been no reported sheep killings for days but severe weather was coming. The wolves would grow more desperate and bold, and she had not succeeded in capturing any more of them.

It was time to try again. She called Sean and Steve and asked if she could hire horses to set out more traps. Sean was happy to comply, for he wanted, he told himself, to learn more about the wolves if nothing else. A few days later, the three of them were riding into the dark lodgepole pine forest 9,000 feet above sea level, the two pack horses laden with the traps plodding along behind them.

In late afternoon, Melanie discovered tracks. They led east. When she was about to turn in that direction, she heard the crisp clack of horse’s hooves coming toward them from the west. It was Bob and Hevut. They glanced briefly at Steve. “We thought we’d help you look,” said Bob. “And we found wolf tracks headed this way. From the west down toward the Bear River.”

West? Were there two different wolf packs? Melanie kept this to herself. They were probably just expanding. There had been multiple births on the north slope this spring…it was encouraging and yet. ..more trouble with Bob and the other ranchers. They had their job to do raising mutton and beef. But she had hers to do. Was there no one save Sean who reveled in the ideal of wild creatures being restored to their native habitat? The wolves…they were, after all, here long before man.

“Let’s set up a trap in each place,” said Melanie, “one on that side of the divide and one on this side. I’ll check back in several days. Steve, can you fetch out some of the squirrel carcasses I brought along…”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Bob. “I brought along some of the real thing, mutton, to set the traps with.”

“But…” Melanie began to protest, “that will just fix their minds more on dining on sheep.. .oh well, go ahead. They’re already attuned to it. Get your mutton.” She set one trap and rode with her two helpers westward to set the second one. Then, she had a thought. “Bob, you cannot by law visit these traps. I am the only one authorized to come by to collar these animals. You must let them be. Understand? Just doing my job.”

“Sure,” said Bob. “I’ll report to the newspaper you’re doing your job.” But something in his voice made Melanie uneasy. Sean thought he should speak up but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Melanie must handle this on her own. He didn’t suspect Hevut of any foul play. But Bob, he had better not…

“Oh, one more thing,” said Bob. “I brought along a petition…signed by everyone across the North Slope.. .to git rid of th’ wolves.” He unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. On top of the list were the names of Bob Crittenden and Hevut Spilker.

It was not long before the Rock Springs Gazette carried these two sentences on the second page: “Fish and Wildlife biologist Melanie Turnbow has been busy trapping wolves. She says she will keep trapping until she has them all and then transfer them to some area where they pose less danger to North Slope ranchers.” Almost as she read it she was called in to the supervisor’s office. He was smiling behind the sign which read “John Markham, Wolf Project Leader.” He held a copy of the Gazette.

“I like what you said here,” he told her. “I think it would be a good idea to transfer them somewhere. What area did you have in mind?”

Melanie sat down and felt like crying. “I have no place in mind,” she told him. “I did not say that. They completely misquoted me. I feel we can work things out where they are.”

Markham was thoughtful. “Nevertheless, I think it is a good idea. What about moving all the wolves you can to the south Wind Rivers…in Wyoming. They’re beginning to jell with their wolf management plan. I think Wyoming will welcome them. At least they’re used to having wolves.”

“John, the ranchers in Farson and Big Sandy don’t want wolves either. No one wants wolves. Only a few romantics. ..and us. ..want wolves.”

“Then why are we trying to bring them back?” “I don’t know,” She heard herself say. It had just blurted out. The next day Bob called. “I moved my sheep down on the Hillard pasture. Off the mountain. But the wolves followed them. I shot one. A big black one.”

Melanie was there the next day. She sighed relief. The big black one had no white ear tuft. Unknown to Melanie, it was the rogue wolf which had tried so many times to kill Ebony. The pack which had been following this canis had turned to Ebony for leadership. Melanie was satisfied now that the wolf called Ebony would not likely bother sheep at all. He was too…savvy, too knowing. She was sure now. If the other wolves followed Ebony, there would always be a wolf pack on the Uinta North Slope.

A week later Melanie received written orders. She was to trap every wolf in the area for removal to south-central Wyoming. Or at least every one she might find.

She went about it stoically. And in the next month she managed to trap four wolves. Each time she looked first to see if one was the wolf they called Ebony. Why so? she asked herself. Because as long as he was alive, there was yet something wild and free in the world; something the all-encompassing but puny hand of man could not control. Was that it? The knowledge, deep down, that the wolf had outsmarted man? That Nature had gained some equality with the hum-drum world of Homo sapiens?

“Congratulations,” she heard her supervisor say. “Four more trapped wolves! We have taken the heart out of the pack. We should have no more trouble with the likes of Crittenden and Spilker. I think we can now turn our attention elsewhere.”

Melanie called Sean. She explained what her supervisor had said. “My heart has gone out of me,” she confided to him. “I might as well be transferred.”

“But Ebony is still there,” Sean said. “And hiking toward Blacks Fork yesterday I heard the howl of at least two wolves! There is something wild and mournful…and beautiful in the howl of a wolf. May their voice never be stilled throughout the West.”

“Yes. I have heard that howl many times,” said Melanie. “I have yet to hear it here. But it is enough that you have heard them.

After a pause, “Melanie.. .what about us?”

“I’m coming over,” she said. “I want to ride horseback with you once more across the Bear River Divide. Just the two of us. It doesn’t matter now what Bob says. Maybe we can get a glimpse of the black wolf.”

“And if we don’t?”

There was silence. “It is enough, Sean, just for me to know he is there.”

END

[box]This post is one of the winning entries in the Z-Arts 2013 Writing Contest and has been reprinted here with permission of the author, who retains the copyright. Opinions expressed in this piece are not necessarily those of the Zion Arts and Humanities Council.[/box]