For three days, the pack followed him in bitter silence. Some grumbled. One young hunter named Threetoe tried to turn back, but Hunstu simply said, “The river ice is thin where you’re going. You’ll fall through before nightfall.” Threetoe tested the ice anyway. He fell through. Hunstu pulled him out.
Old Moss, the healer, shook her head. “Fighting takes strength we do not have. We need a different way.” hunstu
The alphas held a council. Scarback, the lead hunter, argued for a desperate push into the territory of the River Stone Pack. “We fight them for their herds or we die,” he snarled. For three days, the pack followed him in bitter silence
“You’ll kill two,” said Hunstu. “The rest will scatter into the high passes, and we’ll never catch them. We have one chance. We have to make them want to run the right way.” You’ll fall through before nightfall
Hunstsu led them not east toward the rival pack’s territory, but north—into the White Hollow, a place even the bravest wolves avoided. The snow was deeper there. The wind cut like claws. But Hunstu had watched the clouds. He knew a warm front was moving in from the mountains, and with it, the elk would seek the low ground where the snow softened.
Hunstu dipped his muzzle. “You saw what I didn’t do. Not what I did.”
Every head turned. Hunstu stood with his tail low, his ears flat, but his eyes were clear.