He placed another stick on the fire and began toremember his past. He had been a great chief， too. He hadseen days of much food and laughter； fat stomachs whenfood was left to rot and spoil； times when they left animalsalone， unkilled； days when women had many children. Andhe had seen days of no food and empty stomachs， days whenthe fish did not come， and the animals were hard to find.
For seven years the animals did not come. Then， heremembered when as a small boy how he watched thewolves kill a moose. He was with his friend Zing-ha， whowas killed later in the Yukon River.
Ah， but the moose. Zing-ha and he had gone out toplay that day. Down by the river they saw fresh steps ofa big， heavy moose. “He’s an old one，” Zing-ha had said.
“He cannot run like the others. He has fallen behind. Thewolves have separated him from the others. They willnever leave him.”
And so it was. By day and night， never stopping， bitingat his nose， biting at his feet， the wolves stayed with himuntil the end.
Zing-ha and he had felt the blood quicken in theirbodies. The end would be a sight to see.
They had followed the steps of the moose and thewolves. Each step told a different story. They could seethe tragedy as it happened： here was the place the moosestopped to fight. The snow was packed down for manyfeet. One wolf had been caught by the heavy feet of themoose and kicked to death. Further on， they saw how themoose had struggled to escape up a hill. But the wolveshad attacked from behind. The moose had fallen downand crushed two wolves. Yet， it was clear the end was near.
The snow was red ahead of them. Then they heard thesounds of battle. He and Zing-ha moved closer， on theirstomachs， so the wolves would not see them. They saw theend. The picture was so strong it had stayed with him allhis life. His dull， blind eyes saw the end again as they hadin the far off past.
For long， his mind saw his past. The fire began to dieout， and the cold entered his body. He placed two moresticks on it， just two more left. This would be how long hewould live.
It was very lonely. He placed one of the last pieces ofwood on the fire. Listen， what a strange noise for wood tomake in the fire. No， it wasn’t wood. His body shook as herecognized the sound... wolves.
The cry of a wolf brought the picture of the old mooseback to him again. He saw the body torn to pieces， withfresh blood running on the snow. He saw the clean boneslying gray against the frozen blood. He saw the rushingforms of the gray wolves， their shinning eyes， their longwet tongues and sharp teeth. And he saw them form acircle and move ever slowly closer and closer.
A cold， wet nose touched his face. At the touch， his souljumped forward to awaken him. His hand went to the fireand he pulled a burning stick from it. The wolf saw thefire， but was not afraid. It turned and howled into the airto his brother wolves. They answered with hunger in theirthroats， and came running.
The old Indian listened to the hungry wolves. He heardthem form a circle around him and his small fire. Hewaved his burning stick at them， but they did not moveaway. Now， one of them moved closer， slowly， as if to testthe old man’s strength. Another and another followed. Thecircle grew smaller and smaller. Not one wolf stayed behind.
Why should he fight？ Why cling to life？ And he droppedhis stick with the fire on the end of it. It fell in the snowand the light went out.
The circle of wolves moved closer. Once again the oldIndian saw the picture of the moose as it struggled beforethe end came. He dropped his head to his knees. Whatdid it matter after all？ Isn’t this the law of life？