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White Paw follows after Mara and Birger
The old wolf-hound lay down once again on his pile of rags, his patchy-haired belly turned toward the warmth of the glowing embers. He was just about to doze off when a cold wet nose snuffled him on his ear, followed by a few quick grooming licks. He growled deep in his throat, then raised himself, taking a long sniff at the intruder.
‘White Paw! Leave me be, won’t you, pup. I’ve just gotten comfortable.’
White Paw was two years old, full grown. A big hound, larger than his sire had ever been. There was wolf in his background, though many sires back. His mother had been part wolf, also, and he seemed to have inherited those wolfish looks from them untempered by the hunting hound that had frolicked somewhere back in the family line. He was a great beast of a dog, wolf to the core in abilities and looks . . . but not in temperament. He had a sweet disposition and was especially fond of the boy, Birger, who played with him as often as he could and brought him special treats.
‘I just wanted to let you know, pops,’ White Paw said, wagging his tail as he yapped at his father. ‘That the boy’s gone off with the cart and saw. To the woods. I’m going after him. Might need me I was thinking. There’s been some strange howling from the trees.’
The dog moved like a swift, dark shadow over the crusted snow. He made his way to the top of the wall and flew off in the direction that the woman and Birger had taken. His stride ate up the distance and soon he was close behind them. He yelped and barked as he drew near, announcing his presence on the adventure.
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