Free Medicine Road by Will Henry Page B

probably panicked and fled into
the little valley of no return. All Loki had to do now
was cut down the moose and finish off the rearguard stags. After that, the way to the inner valley
and the big kill would be wide open.

    As the king wolf allowed himself one last conquering howl, the big moose started to move. Loki
narrowed his one good eye suspiciously. As he
watched, Awklet looked across at him and bellowed
defiantly. Then, surprisingly, the moose turned,
forced his way through the old stags and fled up the
canon.
    Instantly Loki snarled the signal to attack. The
waiting wolves leaped forward. Snapping with
rage, their king led his combined packs down upon
the nine old stags.
    Awklet, stumbling with exhaustion, caught up
with the herd in mid-valley. As he did, the howling
and yelping of Loki's attacking wolves rose to a sudden climax in the canon behind him. Forging to the
head of the slowing herd, Awklet led it out and
across the rocky ground toward the sheer north wall
and his last goal-the brawling, rushing course of
Lost River. Gallantly the tiring caribou lumbered after him, struggling to keep up with his giant strides.
None of them questioned why the young moose was
leading them in this direction.
    The strange, deep stream of Lost River drained
the tiny glacial lake at the widened end of Blind
Canon. From the lake the stream ran a short distance across the mile-wide inner valley, then disappeared abruptly and mysteriously into the perpendicular face of the northern cliffs. Thence it
raced in a silent, black flood underground beneath a
high spur of the Boulder Hills to issue forth again in
the outer spaces of Half Moon Valley. It ran open
and unfrozen all year, for the little lake that was its
source was fed by the same great subterranean hot
springs that underlay the Rotten Lakes Swamp.

    Long before, Neetcha had brought Awklet into
Blind Canon. To a wobbly-kneed calf, the purpose
of the visit was far from clear. The gentle caribou
doe led him to the eerie place where the roaring waters of Lost River smashed into the rock of the north
wall and disappeared. Here she paused on a granite
ledge high above the stream, urging him to join her
and look down. As he did so, she had deliberately
shouldered him over the edge, sending him sprawling into the racing waters. His single piteous bleat of
terror had been lost in the roar of the churning
flood.
    Short minutes later, wet and bewildered but unharmed, he had been shot forth from the Half Moon
Valley side of the cliff, to come to a floundering stop
in a quiet, broad pool from which he easily struggled to shore. The next moment he had been joined
by Neetcha herself, who came bobbing out of the apparently solid rock as magically as had he.
    Awklet alone knew that the friendly, warm current of Lost River would carry any animal from the
apparently hopeless trap of Blind Canon back out to
the freedom of Half Moon Valley-and do it in less
than three minutes! It was something that he had
never forgotten, and he was remembering it now as
he urged the tiring caribou toward the spraysplashed rock from which his foster mother had
pushed him those long years before.

    Horsa and Kajak and the other old stags in the
canon's throat fought to the last. But no such small
band could stand before Loki's fury. Shortly the last
of the brave oldsters went down, and the wolf pack
poured over them into the inner valley. Instantly
they saw Awklet and the main caribou herd making
for the north wall and Lost River. Loki threw back
his huge head, howling deeply and hoarsely. Like
mad things, the white wolves streamed off after
their quarry, their wide red mouths hanging open,
their slobbering jaws chopping furiously. By some
dark instinct bred in their killer kind, they knew
that they had to catch those desperately racing caribou before they reached the river.
    But Horsa's stubborn stags had done their work
well. They had given Awklet a few