Time passed, and the white cub was no longer a cub but a grown wolf, unexcelled for fleetness of foot and strength of muscle. His mother and the other cub had long since joined the pack, but for some reason the white wolf kept to himself. When the rallying call reached his ears on a still winter night, it ran like fire through his veins; yet he did not answer the call and morning invariably found him curled up in the old den, high on the shoulder of Scarface. Occasionally he was sighted by a lone hunter who returned to the settlements with tales of the great white wolf of the mountain, tales which grew from lip to lip until the animal had attained gigantic proportions. And still the white wolf traveled alone. Then one night, when the wilderness lay in the merciless grip of winter, and famine stalked the trails, the white wolf joined the pack. It came about in this wise. Gray Wolf, leader of the pack, had taken up the trail of a lynx. In an encounter between the two, the latter would scarcely have been a match for the big wolf; but it chanced that soon after Gray Wolf sprang to the attack, the mate of the lynx appeared and joined the fray. Thus the wolf became the victim of a double set of raking claws and sharp teeth. He fought savagely but the claws of the male lynx gashed him horribly from beneath, while its mate bit and tore from above. The double punishment was too much for the wolf. Exhausted and bleeding, he raised his voice in the rallying call of the pack. As the call rang out over the silent wood the lynxes, knowing that they would soon be hopelessly outnumbered, sprang clear. With great leaps they vanished among the shadows of the forest, lost to sight even before the foremost wolf appeared. Thus when the members of the pack had gathered, they found, not the game which they had anticipated, but only their leader, sorely wounded. The winter had been a hard one, with food unusually scarce. The gaunt bodies of the wolves gave evidence of their fast and their tempers had become very uncertain. Accordingly the sight and smell of blood, though that of one of their own number, almost drove them to a frenzy. Gray Wolf, quickly perceiving the attitude of the pack, drew himself painfully to a sitting posture on a large flat rock and from this vantage point glared at his followers who had hitherto been obedient to his will. And though he was old and wounded, the pack quailed for a time before his glance. His advantage could not last, however. The others soon grew restless, the circle of dark forms tightening in a menacing way about the rock upon which the old leader crouched. Then a young wolf who had long chafed under the leadership of Gray Wolf, sprang for a throat hold.