Ashton Daigle

Jesse and Rakov rode in silence for about the first hour of the journey, acclimating themselves to the cold and checking their gear. It was a pretty straightforward trip, but in below-zero weather, one could never be too careful.

Jesse spent a good part of that time just taking in the landscape. It was amazing to him, the difference between what one saw when riding a trail on horse and what one saw as a passenger in a wagon. He saw and noted many minute details about the landscape he’d missed before.

At the top of the hour, like clockwork, Rakov pulled out the bottle of vodka, took a sip and handed it to Jesse. Jesse sipped it and handed it back to the Russian.

The Russian grinned, scratched his chin and then glanced at Jesse and asked, “So, tell me about your first hunt. What did you kill?”

The question, which seemed to come out of nowhere, took Jesse aback and he had to stop and pause to consider the answer.

“I don’t know if I can rightly say,” Jesse admitted. “I grew up, for the most part, right on the Alabama and Georgia border. We weren’t farmers, so almost all the meat we got we hunted or fished for ourselves. I guess you could almost say I was practically born hunting. I reckon the first animal I ever killed was probably a rabbit or squirrel.”

Rakov nodded.

“I think I understand,” Rakov said. “The village where I grew up in, in Russia, is a farming community now. But when I was a boy it was much the same as what you describe. What was the first large animal you killed?”

“A deer,” Jesse said. “It was a big buck. I was probably around nine or ten years old.”

“We hunted some deer in Russia when I was young,” Rakov said, his accent seeming even thicker after the sip of vodka. “It is not quite the rite of passage in Russia as it seems to be here in America.”

“That’s interesting,” Jesse said. “If not deer, what animal is over there, a rite of passage?”

“Bear,” Rakov said.

Jesse chuckled and said, “I guess that would make a man out of you, especially if the first shot didn’t kill it.”

“You laugh, but that is almost exactly what happened to me the first time I killed a bear,” Rakov said. “I’d been on several bear hunts with my father, other men from the village and a few other boys my age, probably around the same age as you the first time you killed your deer, around ten or eleven.”

Jesse nodded and listened intently. There was a sing-song quality to the Russian’s accent, which made even the most everyday tale seem interesting. Jesse could listen to Rakov speak for hours.

“Never found our quarry during those hunts,” Rakov said. “In hindsight, I suspect my father, and the other men, led us on purpose to areas where there wasn’t many bears. Bear hunting is very dangerous for a man, much less a ten-year-old boy.”

“Yeah, I imagine it is,” Jesse said. “First dangerous animal, predator, I ever killed was a bobcat. I was rabbit hunting with my dog. The bobcat jumped down on us out of a tree, attacked and killed my dog. I shot it three times, trying to get it off the dog. I was too late though. The bobcat had opened my dog up from throat to belly.”

“There is nothing worse than losing a good hunting dog,” Rakov said with a heavy sigh. “I suppose there is consolation knowing though, that the dog died doing what it was trained to do, what it was happy doing.”

“I never thought about it like that, but I reckon you do have a good point there,” Jesse said. “So, go on. Tell me about your bear. Please excuse me for interrupting.”

“That is not necessary,” Rakov said. “I was older, probably thirteen. There had been talk among people who had seen several bear cubs near a popular river near our village, where most of us got our water from. My father was away. He was a professor at the University, about a hundred miles away from our village. It wasn’t until I was older that our family moved closer to the University.

“But back then, he lived there for months at a time and then would come home during breaks,” Rakov explained. “The entire village was up in arms over the sightings of the cubs, because it meant a mother bear was around. Because it was cold where I lived almost year round, the bears there did not have the same hibernation patterns as they have here in America. And because so many of the villagers depended on the water from that river, we were all very afraid that the mother bear, because they are so protective of their young, might attack one of us with little provocation.”

Jesse continued to listen intently.

“So I woke one morning before dawn, grabbed our rifle and set off with my dog, a large Mastiff,” Rakov said. “It was just turning light when I got to the river. I found a spot and sat and waited. About an hour later, the two cubs showed up, unaccompanied, or so I thought, by an adult. My dog, he was a good dog, but not very patient. I quieted him and had him leashed, but he broke from my grasp and ran towards the cubs.

“Only he wasn’t running towards the cubs. He was running away from the mother, who had very silently crept up behind us. I rose to take chase. It was fortunate that I did right at that second because the mother bear was standing upright not a foot behind me and took a giant swipe at me. I could feel the wind, from the force of the swipe as it brushed past the side of my face. I spun around quickly and fired two shots. The bear roared in pain, but did not fall backwards as I hoped it would. Instead it landed forward, onto all fours and just stared at me.

“I knew it was going to charge me and quickly as soon as it got its bearings after the shots,” Rakov said. “There were no trees close enough for me to run to. My plan, at that second was to charge the bear myself, and try to whack it in its muzzle with the butt of my rifle and then run once it was stunned. I’d grown up listening to men talk about how sensitive a bear’s muzzle is. Supposedly, a quick hard blow to a bear’s muzzle has the same effect a hard blow to the testicles has on a man.”

“I never heard that before,” Jesse said.

“Again, in hindsight its probably as you Americans like to say, bullshit,” Rakov said. “But as a boy, being stared down by an angry wounded mother bear, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Fortunately, though, it didn’t come to that. My dog re-appeared out of nowhere and attacked the bear head-on. Believe me, I did now want my dog to die. But I also knew this was the only distraction I was going to get, so I ran like the wind to a group of small trees about forty feet to our right.

“The bear eventually took my dog’s head off with one swipe,” Rakov continued. “And then it rushed the tree I was perched in. I fired off three more rounds. The first two missed, but the third caught it in the shoulder. It barely slowed the bear down though, and she crashed into the tree, nearly knocking me out. In a way, she did worse though. My pouch with all my rounds came loose from my belt and dropped right there on the ground next to her.

“I only had two bullets left,” Rakov continued. “The bear was upright again pushing the tree. I could feel the tree starting to give, so I fired one of the rounds. I hit her, but not fatally. Finally, I felt the tree going. I couldn’t jump, I couldn’t move. At this point, I was nearly paralyzed with fear. It was a hard fall and it knocked the wind out of me. I might have even been unconscious for a moment, but the bear was relentless. She swiped and swiped away at the braches I was covered by. The claws were so long and so sharp. I could hear the rip of my jacket and then my flesh. My rifle was pinned under my back, but I worked it out and was able to pull it up before she delivered a fatal blow. I shot her point-blank in the face. She was so close I could smell her breath. When her face exploded, I was covered in blood and shards of her skull were embedded in my forehead and had to be removed by the village doctor.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Jesse said.

“Needless to say, I didn’t do much bear hunting after that,” Rakov said.

“I had a bear try to come up on me from behind once,” said Jesse. “He was a stupid bear though. I heard him and was able to adjust quickly though. Still, come to think of it, it took a lot to finally put him down. Dangerous animal, a bear is. But almost any animal can be under the right conditions; like our wolf.”

“Ah yes, the wolf,” Rakov said. “That is another story altogether. Wolves are very intelligent animals; not like a bear or your wild cougars here.”

“I’ve heard tell of a wolf, up in Minnesota country, that it took damn near 15 years to kill,” Jesse said. “It supposedly dug up traps, without snapping them. It drug poisoned meat, meant for them, up to barns where the dogs would eat it and die. I sure as hell hope it doesn’t take us that long to get ours. Course, I don’t know how much of that stuff is true and how much are tall tales.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if those stories were true,” Rakov said. “Wolves are very intelligent and very resourceful. Foxes have the reputation for being so sly, but they do not compare to a wolf.”

“In my experience, foxes are greedy and arrogant,” Jesse said.

“Yes, they do tend to get, how is it you Americans put it, too big for their britches,” Rakov said. “That’s why they usually end up dead. They are never afraid to take things one more step beyond. A wolf though, again, is a totally different animal. They’re patient hunters, more patient than man. They are also deceptively strong for their size. Because of their size and appearance, their likenesses to certain breeds of dogs, like Alaskan Huskies and German Shepherds, man continuously underestimates wolves. I’ve seen a single she wolf, small by wolf standards, rip apart an entire group of hunting dogs. They are very fierce fighters and can even ward off animals as big as bear by themselves. No, wolves are very underestimated by man. That is why we must be very careful.”

“They’re also stupid enough to try to breed wolves and dogs,” Jesse said. “That’s bad business.”

“You are very right, that is very dangerous,” Rakov said. “And I can tell you why. First, you don’t know what kind of offspring its going produce. Will it be docile or will it be wild? But, in the grand scheme of things, its even more dangerous. The breeding and domestication of dogs has taken thousands of years. The average dog, even now, is still close to being wild. By breeding wolves with dogs, you are actually reversing evolution. Species, I dare say all species, are meant to evolve, to move forward for the better. Wolf and dog hybrids go against that.”

“You know, I’ve considered the possibility that our wolf might be a hybrid,” Jesse said.

“I’ve considered this too,” Rakov said. “But I don’t think that to be the case. I believe our wolf is an anomaly, unique, if you will, but I do not think it is a hybrid. The damage inflicted on the victims in town is too great. And the bite marks are consistent with that of a wolf, not a hybrid.”

“There’s a difference?” Jesse asked.

“Slight, but yes, different,” Rakov replied. “In hybrids, it seems the animal retains more dog traits in jaw and tooth structure, than it does wolf.”

“Can I ask you something?” Jesse said.

“Sure,” Rakov answered.

“Well, with the exception of our wolf possibly having hands, how else is our wolf unique?” Jesse asked.

“I said before that was not conclusive,” Rakov said. “Apparently, some dog breeds can use their paws almost like hands. German Shepherds, for example, have been known to be able to turn door knobs. But to answer your question, I will say this. The uniqueness of our wolf lies in its victims.”

“Come again,” Jesse said.

“Wolf attacks on humans almost exclusively happen to children, which makes sense, because they are almost at an eye to eye level,” Rakov said. “It as if, somehow, the wolf perceives the child as an equal of sorts. Next in order, are women.”

Jesse nodded.

“There are practically no known records of any wolf attacks, though, on full grown adult human males,” Rakov said. “Nowhere, I’ve looked. I’m still looking, in fact. The few I have come across have happened only when a grown man has somehow provoked an injured or dying wolf.”

“Are you sure of this?” Jesse asked.

“Absolutely,” Rakov said. “Almost all of those attacked in town have been adult males.”

“What does that mean?” Jesse asked.

“I do not know,” Rakov said. “That, my friend, is what I hope to find out.”

The horses sensed it before the wagon even pulled up to the scene. They nearly stopped and brayed nervously, as the wagon drew closer. The area was closer to town than Jesse remembered it to be.

And even though fresh snow had fallen, the scene was every bit as violent and gruesome as Jesse remembered it to be. So much, in fact, he almost vomited. Rakov’s normally red cheeks also had turned deathly white and he looked like he was going to be sick as well.

He pulled out the bottle of vodka. But instead of sipping it, he guzzled several large mouthfuls and handed the bottle to Jesse.

“What in God’s name has happened here,” Rakov said.

“That’s what we need to figure out,” Jesse said. “It ain’t easy to look at, but I think it would be wise if we could try to piece this together.”

“We will try,” Rakov said. “We will try.”