Firstborn by Tor Seidler Page B

the color of the wheat fields in Montana. When they went off into the A-frame, I spoke to the wolf, but he was ailing and wasn’t in a chatty mood.
    â€œDo you know which way the Lamar Valley is?” I asked.
    Perking up a bit at this, he pointed his snout to the northeast. I headed in that direction, but by then it was almost nightfall, so I settled down for the night in a pine—a “lodgepole pine,” according to a resident woodpecker. His hammering woke me earlier than I would have liked, but this turned out to be a good thing, for shortly thereafter I glided over a ridge in time to catch the sunrise over the Lamar Valley. A more beautiful sight I’d never seen. Trees lining a meandering river blazed gold in that first touch of sunlight, making a gilt frame for the deep-blue water. Stretching to the hills on either side of the river were lush grasslands where herds of amazing beasts were grazing.
    I landed on the bank of a pond and struck up a conversation with a duck.
    â€œActually, I’m a lesser scaup,” she told me. “Though the ‘lesser’ is misleading.”
    She knew the names of all the valley dwellers. I recognized the pronghorns, but I learned from her that the deer with the big ears were mule deer, and the even bigger ones with the huge antlers were elk, and that the biggest, shaggiest creatures of all were the bison Raze had mentioned.
    â€œI knew Raze hadn’t tasted one,” I said.
    â€œWho’s Raze?” said the scaup.
    â€œA wolf from hereabouts.”
    â€œOh, we love wolves,” said a warbler from one of the gold-leafed trees.
    â€œThey’re excellent providers,” I agreed.
    The warbler didn’t know about that, but he claimed that conditions had improved for birds since the wolves’ return.
    â€œThe deer and elk used to eat all the grasses we use for our nests, but the wolves keep them in check. This aspen I’m in right now would have been trampled by the buffalo if the wolves weren’t here to chase them back.”
    â€œBuffalo?” I said.
    â€œAnother word for bison.”
    â€œThis pond is thanks to the wolves,” the scaup commented, pointing out the dam that had formed it.
    â€œWolves made that?” I said, surprised.
    â€œNo, beavers,” she said.
    She explained that when the trees made a comeback, so did the tree-loving beavers.
    â€œI wonder if Raze is the young wolf who liked to look at himself,” she said. “Is he black as a raven?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œProbably him. Summer before last, he’d hang out right over there.” She pointed her squashed-looking bill at a place where the bank overhung the water. “He liked to look at his reflection.”
    â€œIt must have impressed him,” said the warbler, “because one day he went back to his pack and challenged his father. His father gave him a good smackdown and sent him packing. Haven’t seen him since.”
    So this was what Raze meant by “dispersing.”
    â€œHave the wolves divvied up the whole valley?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t know, but I saw a battle between two of the packs,” said the warbler. “The leaders had a vicious fight, and afterward the winning pack slaughtered the other one down to the last wolf.”
    â€œBut they don’t bother us,” said the scaup. “My name’s Sabrina, by the way.”
    â€œI’m Audubon,” said the warbler.
    Sabrina and Audubon! How could I tell them my drab name? But if my pack moved here, which seemed quite possible, lying would get me in trouble, so I divulged my name and lit out before they could make any snide comments.
    The flight back to Idaho was nearly a hundred miles. There was a headwind most of the way, and late in the afternoon, when I arrived back at the rendezvous site, I was worn out. The wolves must have feasted on a kill that morning, for they were all napping—except