For two days, the she-wolf and One Eye lingered near the Indian camp. While One Eye remained anxious and apprehensive, the camp seemed to exert a strange pull on his mate, and she was loath to depart. However, when a rifle shot suddenly rang out and a bullet smashed into a tree just inches from One Eye’s head, they hesitated no longer. They fled at a steady pace, putting many miles between themselves and the danger.
They did not travel far—only a two-day journey. The she-wolf’s need to find a shelter had become imperative. She was growing heavy and slow; once, while pursuing a rabbit she would normally have caught with ease, she simply gave up and lay down to rest. One Eye approached her gently, but when he touched her neck with his muzzle, she snapped at him with such ferocity that he tumbled backward, looking quite ridiculous in his hurried attempt to escape her teeth. Her temper had grown shorter, yet he remained more patient and solicitous than ever.
Eventually, she found exactly what she was searching for. A few miles up a frozen stream, she discovered an overhanging clay bank. The erosion from spring storms had carved a small cave out of a narrow fissure in the earth. After inspecting the base of the wall, she entered the narrow opening. Inside, the walls widened into a cozy, dry chamber about six feet wide. Satisfied, she circled the spot several times before curling into a ball with a tired sigh, her head facing the entrance. One Eye watched her from the opening, his tail waving good-naturedly.
One Eye was hungry, and his sleep was fitful. He kept waking to observe the bright April sun blazing across the snow. The Northland was awakening; he could hear the faint whisper of hidden trickles of water and feel the stirrings of spring. When a lone mosquito, thawed out by the sun, buzzed past his nose, he could no longer resist the call of the world. He tried to persuade his mate to join him, but she only snarled, so he ventured out alone.
The hunting was difficult. The snow surface was soft, and while the snowshoe rabbits skimmed easily across the top, One Eye frequently broke through the crust and struggled. He returned eight hours later, through the darkness, hungrier than when he had started.
As he reached the mouth of the cave, he froze with suspicion. Strange, faint sounds were coming from within—muffled whimpering and tiny sobbings. He crawled cautiously inside, only to be met by a warning snarl from the she-wolf. There was a new, jealous note in her voice, and he wisely kept his distance. Nevertheless, he could see five tiny bundles of life huddling against her body. They were feeble and helpless, their eyes not yet open to the light.
Though One Eye had experienced this many times before, it always seemed like a fresh surprise. His mate watched him anxiously. Her instinct, passed down through generations of wolves, warned her that fathers sometimes devoured their own young. This fear made her fiercely protective, preventing One Eye from approaching his offspring. However, One Eye felt no such urge; instead, he felt the pressure of a different instinct: the need to provide. Without questioning it, he turned his back on his new family and trotted out onto the meat-trail.
Several miles from the lair, One Eye encountered a fresh track. It belonged to a large female lynx, and since she was heading in one direction, he deliberately chose another. Shortly after, he discovered a porcupine gnawing on the bark of a tree. He approached cautiously. He knew the danger of those quills; years ago, he had carried a painful needle in his muzzle for weeks.
The porcupine rolled into an impenetrable ball of sharp needles. One Eye sat down a safe distance away and waited. He knew that in the Wild, things rarely stayed the same—perhaps the creature would unroll. But after half an hour of motionless silence, he growled in frustration and moved on.
Later that afternoon, he managed to ambush a slow-witted bird called a ptarmigan. He smashed it down with his paw and killed it instantly. His first impulse was to eat it himself, but he remembered his family. Holding the bird in his mouth, he began the journey back.
On his way home, he came across the lynx again. She was crouching in front of the same porcupine One Eye had seen earlier. He moved like a ghost, circling until he was downwind, and watched the scene from behind a spruce tree. For an hour, neither animal moved. They were locked in a tense battle of patience.
Finally, believing the danger had passed, the porcupine began to unroll. In a flash, the lynx struck, her claws ripping into the porcupine's tender belly. But the porcupine reacted just as quickly, flicking its tail and driving dozens of quills into the lynx's paw and nose. The feline let out a scream of agony and astonishment. In a frenzy of pain, she tried to dislodge the fiery darts, sneezing and rubbing her face against the snow, before finally fleeing into the woods, wailing with every leap.
Only when the forest was silent did One Eye approach. The porcupine was badly wounded and bleeding profusely. One Eye waited patiently, watching as the creature's strength faded. When it finally stopped moving, he carefully dragged the carcass back to the cave.
When he arrived, the she-wolf inspected the prize. She turned to One Eye and lightly licked his neck—a rare sign of affection. Although she still gave a low, apologetic snarl when he got too close to the cubs, her fear was diminishing. He was proving to be a worthy provider, fulfilling his role as a father in the harsh, unforgiving North.