the little shrieking of pikas on the sliderock, even the murmur of the pines are filled with the ancient sadness of existence, the old complaint of the pain of living with only Fear and Death at the end. But none of these voices contain the utter despair, the incomprehensible sadness of the twilight cries of the coyotes. Thus wise men know that they—because of some offense of long ago—have been accursed among beasts.
They have been exiled to the rocky hills, they are afflicted with madness in Indian summer, their pride has been taken from them, and all of the greater forest creatures treat them with contempt. They are driven from the game trails, and thus they have to do their hunting at any time that offers, early or late. All of the larger beasts of prey had now gone to their lairs and to sleep, but these gray skulkers still lingered about the flock.
Once Hugh caught a glimpse of a gray figure in a distant thicket; but it was too far to shoot. An expert marksman would have felled him in an instant; and Hugh began to regret that he had not—by taking to the hunting trails in some of his wasted days—learned this art. Try as he might he couldn't see that he was in the least equipped for taking care of the flocks until another herder could be secured. And for the first hour he was deeply troubled as to the success of his undertaking.
No man, he considered—not even the Innuits
