Lone Wolf

What a pile of caribou poop!
    But she folded her front knees under her chest and began lowering herself, peeling her lips back in a grimace of total humility. Sinking her head, grinding her jaw into the ground, and then twisting it so her good eye looked at the chieftain, she flashed it white in the final sign of humility. The skittering eye was hopeless at this sort of thing.
    "Your question, Sark?"
    "I would humbly beg to ask the outflankers for a description of the marks of the toe digs."
    The chieftain nodded toward Finola. Cautiously, the wolf stepped forward. She was so frightened of the Sark that she trembled. "The toe digs were classic for a foaming-mouth creature. They dug deep into the ground, spaced perhaps twice or maybe even three times the normal width apart."
    "All of the toe digs were as you describe?" the Sark asked. It was very hard to speak with half her face screwed into the ground, but the chieftain had not given her the sign to rise up as yet. He probably didn't want the outflanker to see her skittering eye. The poor thing was nervous enough as it was, and there was nothing like an amber-colored eye rolling about like some spoiled egg yolk to set a stomach churning.
    "I am not sure what you mean by all the toes, uh ... uh."
    It was obvious that Finola was not certain how to address the Sark. The Sark held no rank. The Chieftain had called her Sark, but --
    The Sark spared her the pain of this decision by asking another question. "I mean were the toe digs all from  one paw? More precisely, we know that this wolf is on an easterly course. Which would mean that the splayed toe digs would flare south or north. Did you notice them all flaring in one direction?"
    There was a long pause before Finola answered. "Well, now that I think about it, yes, the most distinct marks seemed to flare slightly to the south."
    "None to the north?"
    "Uh ... uh ... I'm ..." she stammered. Finally, she said, "I cannot really say those marks were less distinct, but very possibly."
    "Might this suggest that we are dealing with ... well, not a clear-cut situation if only one paw seems to bear the symptoms of the foaming-mouth disease?"
    "One paw, two, three, or four!" Duffin MacDuff stepped forward. "What does it matter? This disease means doom."
    "Yes! Absolutely!" There was a chorus of huzzahs, cries of approval, and paw-pounding to signal the wolves' agreement with Duffin MacDuff.
    The Sark sensed it was a lost cause, but she felt compelled to give reason one more try. "The evidence does not suggest that. I ask you to reconsider --"
    Duffin MacDuff snarled and cut her off immediately.
    "There shall be no more argument. We must proceed to build the fire trap immediately! The coals are still hot?" Angus McAngus asked.
    "Yes, sir," the Sark answered grimly, peering down at the bucket which glowed orange-red with the hot embers.
    "Then rise up and go to the salt lagoon defile."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
    ***
    JUMP FOR THE SUN

    FAOLAN TROTTED UP A GENTLE incline to a promontory from which he could see two sparkling lakes. They twinkled like twin gemstones in the clear air. The sun, as luminous as the amber eye of an owl, was making its stately descent. Faolan was watching this spectacle when he had the sudden sensation that there was something on his trail. Oddly enough, the feeling was not unfamiliar. He realized that this sense of being followed had been with him for some time, perhaps since the sun had first risen.
    He made for the lakes, but the sensation stayed with him.
    Who could be tracking me? He crouched down to press his ear to the ground. The sound cut through him like fangs. This was not just a predator, nor was it a single animal. This was the sound of wolves, and not just a pack,  but several packs. He closed his eyes, not able to quite believe what he was hearing. The painted image from the Cave Before Time flashed in his mind. Those byrrgises that he had seen and longed to travel with -- that will never be!
    The words dropped into his mind like pebbles in still water, the ripples radiating with the terrible truth. I am the prey! This was the sound of a byrrgis, and they were on his trail.
    The sound was drawing closer. There was no time for anger, no time for regret. He had to use all his wits and all his muscle. Could he confuse wolves? Could he leave a false track somehow? But where? The landscape was barren. Could he circle back, loop around? Desperately he looked about and then he caught a glimpse of