Alaska

A large black one seemed to be making his way to the top of the hill. Old Three Toes sensed the impending struggle. The hair from the base of his battle-scarred skull to the tip of his tail stood on end. Old Three Toes maneuvered among the mass of milling wolves to counter the charge of the challenger. It came like a flash of lightning, swift and devastating. Fang met fang in the head-on assault, ripping noses and muzzles in passing. Old Three Toes turned quickly to meet the big black one before he had a chance at his flank. The black one was quicker, striking Old Three Toes’ shoulder with two hundred pounds of fury. Now it had happened to him, losing one’s feet in a wolf fight was the end. Old Three Toes watched his feet thrashing against the gray sky and saw the black hulk come down with flashing fangs. Numbness covered his throat instantly, and he rolled instinctively to regain his feet. The black one skidded on over as he rolled and fought to regain his feet also. By now lacerations on both animals were spilling crimson on white snow. Upright again, the contestants faced each other, two savage fighting machines intent on destruction. The others watched from the fringes, waiting for one to lose his footing long enough for them to dive in and make the kill. It would then be only a matter of seconds before there would be a new leader. That was the way that nature resolved its conflicts, swiftly. Then as swiftly as they had killed, they would devour the vanquished. Old Three Toes felt a stinging sensation replace the numbness where his opponent’s big canines had sliced to the bone. His anger increased with the pain and his fury with the anger. He charged, gashing the black one’s throat from muzzle to shoulder. They rolled on the snow, each fighting for quarter and struggling for footing. They were up glaring at each other in a split second. Now both combatants had throat wounds that trickled blood. Each thinking the other weakened, charged for the finish. Each raked the other across the rib cage leaving crimson welts behind. Then they stood glaring at each other again. Old Three Toes watched intently as the big black one threatened again. Then the big black one was suddenly bigger and bigger. There was no space around the edges; everything was black. Old Three Toes stumbled and fell in darkness. The black one was on top ripping at the soft throat. Then others were there, knocking the big black one away, ripping and tearing the skin away, and the sound of cracking bones was heard above the gnashing of teeth. Old Three Toes was gone. The big black one stood off and watched the melee. He was now the leader of the pack. He wanted his share of the spoils but something was wrong. Things were spinning, and dark spots darted among the snarling pack. The spots were getting larger. He stumbled. They came for him. The one who stood at the top of the hill was snow white. The others milled about him and whined, they did not approach the big white one. Now he was the leader of the pack. They would follow him to the river where the caribou browsed. He would rule them and exact his toll. Even in the glare of the noonday sun, it was thirty-five below zero. Don Madison felt an empty place where his stomach was supposed to be. He looked down the line to see if anyone was on his way to the truck for lunch. Ron Franks was looking back the other way. Red Dog leaped at him playfully and got a Korean boot for his trouble. Through the frost on the windshield, Don could see the outline of the boxer’s head. He was glad that his dog was safe inside the cab with the heater running. With that short hair he would surely freeze in short order. There was no sign of anyone going to the truck, so he reckoned that it was not time for lunch. He thought about his watch, tucked away beneath the parka, but decided it was too difficult to get to it. If he opened the parka to peer at it, then he’d have to remove the mittens and fish for the gold chain with numbing fingers. It wasn’t worth it. He’d just wait until Ron called them to chow. It had to soon anyway. Across the road to the east, Don could see the frozen lake that lay adjacent to the highway. There were tufts of white here and there where grass grew in shallow places. For the most part, the lake surface was smooth and white to the edges where dark spruce curtained the wilderness beyond, one of those many scenes Don wanted to remember. He wished for a camera to record it, but there wasn’t one in the crew. Then the haze lifted momentarily and the peaks of Mount Sanford and Mount Drum appeared above the lake. He forgot his hunger. At the top of the next pole, Don threw his transpositions with ease and tied the copperweld to the insulators. Down the line, the others were moving toward the line truck. Lunch time at last. Now he remembered his hunger. He saw Franks open the cab door and Bozo make a dash for the outside. At the edge of the road, the boxer paused to answer nature’s call. Don saw a blur of white near the boxer and his immediate response, the chase. The snowshoe made for the middle of the lake, dodging tufts of snow-laden grass with the brindle dog in hot pursuit. The boys at the truck watched and cheered him on. The snowshoe made for the far curtain of spruce, hoping to find cover somewhere in the tangle of willows that hugged the shore.