Runt Read Free Page A

the rest of the day.
    The next day Sniffer sorted out the rich smell of a deer hidden in the trees on the other side of the lake and sent the hunters off in pursuit. The buck was strong and healthy and escaped easily, but Sniffer had her name back, nonetheless.
    Runt, however, remained Runt. None of the other pups ever tried to steal
his
name.
    Leader, Runner, Sniffer, Thinker. These were gifts to bring to the pack. But being a runt was no gift.
    Runt refused to worry, though. He would find his gift one day. He knew he would. And with it would come a new name.

4
    "It's time!" King called to the hunters.
    The pack circled around the black wolf. Silver and Bider and the two yearlings sniffed his face, touched his muzzle, raised their voices in reply. "It's time. It's time," they echoed.
    King tipped his head back and began a howl. The other adults and the yearlings joined in. They sang, their voices lifting and falling, twining around one another and separating again, until five wolves sounded like ten, like twenty.
    The pups hadn't yet learned how to howl, but they joined the song as they could. They bunched their faces together, lifted their small muzzles to the sky, and yipped and
kay-yied
fervently.
    "It's time," King said again, and he moved
out toward the surrounding forest in an easy lope.
    Helper stayed behind, as usual. Since the pups had arrived, his job in the pack was to baby-sit. But the rest of the hunters fell in behind their leader, single file. Silver, Bider, Hunter—each one stepped in the footprints of the one before, so the tracks they left were nearly those of one wolf. Their big paws splayed as they touched the earth and curled as they lifted. Their entire bodies whipped forward in an easy, bouncing rhythm. They could keep such a pace, about five miles per hour, for half a day without pausing.
    Once the hunters had moved out, Helper picked up a stick in his mouth, held it up in a teasing way, then ran to the middle of the clearing. All the pups except Runt tumbled after him. Runt remained where he was, gazing after the departing hunters.
    To be able to hunt was a gift. It was, perhaps, the most important gift of all. If he was going to learn to be a good hunter, he needed to begin. And without a glance toward Helper and his littermates, Runt set off after the hunters.
    The small black pup followed along the edge of the lake. He followed into the hushed pines. And even when he could no longer glimpse the tip of Hunter's tail ahead, just disappearing among the trees, he continued to follow, nose down, pursuing his family's warm and familiar scent.
    The first time he stopped—or even hesitated—was when a grosbeak called down to him from a tall pine. "You must be King's son," he said. "You look just like him. You're small, though. Very small."
    "I'm part of the hunt," Runt replied, deciding to ignore the rude remark about his size. He studied the bird's smoky red head and breast.
    "I beg to differ," the grosbeak replied. "You aren't part of the hunt at all. The hunters are far ahead."
    "Where have they—" Runt started to ask, but the bird had already spread his wings and risen into undulating flight.
    Runt gave his shoulder a lick to wash away the insult of the bird's sudden departure. He didn't need anyone to tell him how to locate his family, anyway. He put his nose
to the pine duff again and set off once more on their trail.
    The scent was growing fainter, though, and as the force that pulled him along grew less strong, Runt began making various stops and detours. First he paused to listen to a chorus of peepers. Then he zigged after a swallowtail butterfly. A stream, dashing along at its own busy pace, called him for a long drink.
    Runt sat back on his haunches, his muzzle dripping. Had the hunters crossed here? Snuffing along the bank, both up and down, he found no trace of their scent. Maybe it would take up again on the other side. But when Runt splashed across to the other bank, he