"Well," I say, capping the thermos. "Let's get you good data."
We turn back to the basin, the mood lighter. Hope is a dangerous thing, Granddad used to say. It's the only thing that can kill you faster than cold. But sitting here, hearing that she might not be disappearing forever … it feels like the sun coming out.
"Nash," Aris says sharply. "Look at the cows."
I bring my binoculars up instantly.
The three females have stopped feeding. They've formed a tight triangle, their backs to the center, heads outward. Their ears are swiveling like radar dishes.
"They're bunching," I say. "Defensive formation."
"Waldo is moving," Aris reports. "He's pushing the young bull into the center. He's … Nash, he's facing the tree line."
I follow the bull's gaze. He's standing rigid, head high, staring fixedly at a patch of dense timber on the far side of the basin.
"What does he see?" Aris whispers.
I scan the tree line and find nothing, just shadows and snow.
And then a shape peels away from the darkness.
It's gray, massive, and moves with a fluid, predatory lope that chills my blood.
"Wolf," I say.
"One?" Aris asks. "May said there was a pack."
"One visible," I correct. "That's the scout. He shows himself to get their attention, to make them panic and run."
"Run where?"
"Into the trap," I say grimly. "If they run, they'll head for the open ground in the valley floor. Deep snow. Hard running."
"And the rest of the pack is waiting there," Aris finishes.
"Exactly."
The wolf stops at the edge of the clearing and sits down in the snow, watching the caribou with a calm, arrogant patience that makes my skin crawl.
"He's huge," Aris breathes.
"And confident. He's not hiding. He wants them to know he's there."
Waldo isn't running. The big bull stands his ground, snorting vapor, shaking his antlers. He takes a step toward the wolf, a challenge.
The wolf doesn't flinch. He yawns.
"This isn't right," I mutter. "Wolves don't engage a healthy bull unless they have the numbers to back it up. This pack is either desperate or incredibly organized. Probably both. It's been a starvation winter, and they're shadowing the only herd still worth following."
"Should we … do something?" Aris asks. "Fire a warning shot? Scare them off?"
"Interfering with predation isn't the job, Aris," I say, gentle but firm. "We're observers. Remember?"
"But if they kill him …"
"Then the study is over. And nature takes its course."
She grips the camera, her knuckles white. I know what she's feeling: the urge to save him, the urge to protect the thing she loves.
