The Loop

 
 
 

 
The Loop

 

 
NICHOLAS EVANS

 
 
Hachette Digital

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nicholas Evans was born and grew up in Worcestershire. Before writing his first novel,
The Horse Whisperer
– later made into a film directed by Robert Redford – he worked as a journalist, film producer and screenwriter. His latest novel is
The Divide
. Nicholas Evans lives in Devon.

‘Compelling . . . a love story . . . The issues raised in Nicholas Evans’s book are fascinating. Whenever men and wolves have met, the wolves have lost . . . the descriptions of the lupine way of life is fascinating’

Bernard Cornwell,
Daily Mail

 

‘The real power of the story lies in the details of lupine life, and in the scenes high up in the mountains where the wolves stalk, fight and mate. The silence and the cold nurture an existence older than ours and are described here with a passion that provides a touchstone’

Elizabeth Buchan,
The Times

 

‘
The Horse Whisperer
. . . conveyed a genuine and personal emotional charge which resonated with millions of readers.
The Loop
, Evans’s second novel, confirms that he is that rare phenomenon, a natural storyteller’

 

‘
The Loop
focuses on the brutality of men and the nobility of nature: emotive stuff’

The Horse Whisperer
The Smoke Jumper
The Divide

 
 
 

 
The Loop

 

 
NICHOLAS EVANS

 
 
Hachette Digital

 
Published by Hachette Digital 2009

 
Copyright © Nicholas Evans 1998

 

 
The moral right of the author has been asserted.

 

 
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any
form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

 
All characters and events in this publication, other than
those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, as is the
town of Hope, Montana, and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

 
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

 

eISBN : 978 0 7481 1238 8

 

 
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

 

 
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY

 

 
An Hachette Livre UK Company

Acknowledgements

Of the books that helped in my research, I am most indebted to:
Of Wolves and Men
by Barry Lopez,
War Against the Wolf
edited by Rick McIntyre,
Wolf Wars
by Hank Fischer,
The Wolf
by L. David Mech, and
The Company of Wolves
by Peter Steinhart.

Of the many people who helped, I would particularly like to thank Bob Ream, Doug Smith, Dan McNulty, Ralph Thisted, Sara Walsh, Rachel Wolstenholme, Tim and Terry Tew, Barbara and John Krause, J. T. Weisner, Ray Krone, Bob and Ernestine Neal, Richard Kenck, Jason Campbell, Chuck Jonkel, Jeremy Mossop, Huw Alban Davies, John Clayton, Dan Gibson, Ed Enos, Kim McCann and Sherry Heimgartner.

I am especially grateful to the Cobb family, Ed Bangs, Mike Jiminez, Carter Niemeyer, Bruce Weide, Pat Tucker and Koani, the only wolf I can plausibly call a friend.

Finally, for their patience, support, advice, acuity and friendship while I wrote this book, warmest thanks must go to the following: Linda Shaughnessy, Tracy Devine, Robert Bookman, Caradoc King and my wonderful editors, Carole Baron and Ursula Mackenzie.

 

BLACK ELK, Oglala Sioux
(1863-1950)

1

T
he scent of slaughter, some believe, can linger in a place for years. They say it lodges in the soil and is slowly sucked through coiling roots so that in time all that grows there, from the smallest lichen to the tallest tree, bears testimony.

Perhaps, as he moved silently down through the forest on that late afternoon, his summer-sleek back brushing lower limbs of pine and fir, the wolf sensed it. And perhaps this vestige of a rumor in his nostrils, that here a hundred years ago so many of his kind were killed, should have made him turn away.

Yet on and down he went.

He had set out the previous evening, leaving the others in the high country where even now, in July, there lingered spring flowers and patches of tired snow in gullies shy of the sun. He had headed north along a high ridge then turned east, following one of the winding rocky canyons that funneled the snowmelt down from the divide to the valleys and plains below. He had kept high, shunning the trails, especially those that ran along the water, where sometimes in this season there were humans. Even through the night, wherever it was possible, he had stayed below the timberline, edging the shadows, in a trot so effortless that his paws seemed to bounce without touching the ground. It was as though his journey had some special purpose.

When the sun rose, he stopped to drink, then found a shaded nook high among the sliprock and slept through the heat of the day.

Now, in this final descent to the valley, the going was more difficult. The forest floor was steep and tangled with blowdown, like tinder in some epic fireplace, and the wolf had to weave his way carefully among it. Sometimes he would double back and find a better route so as not to puncture the silence with the telltale snap of a dead branch. Here and there, the sun broke through the trees to make pools of vivid green foliage and these the wolf would always skirt.

He was a prime four-year-old, the alpha of the pack. He was long in the leg and almost a pure black, with just the faintest haze of gray along his flanks and at his throat and muzzle. Now and again he would pause and lower his head to sniff a bush or a tuft of grass, then lift his leg and make his mark, reclaiming this long-lost place as his own. At other times he would stop and tilt his nose to the air and his eyes would narrow and shine yellow as he read the scented messages that wafted on thermals from the valley below.

Once while doing this, he smelled something closer at hand and he turned his head and saw two white-tailed deer, mother and fawn, no more than a dozen yards away, frozen in a shaft of sunlight, watching him. He stared at them, connecting in an ancient communion that even the fawn understood. And for a long moment, all that moved were the spores and insects that spiraled and glinted above the deers’ heads. Then, as if deer and insect were of equal consequence to a wolf, he looked away and again assessed the air.

From a mile and a half away came the mingled smells of the valley. Of cattle, dogs, the acrid tang of man’s machines. And though he must have known, without ever being taught, the peril of such things, yet on again he went and down, the deer following him with inscrutable black eyes until he was lost among the trees.

The valley which the wolf was now entering ran some ten miles due east in a widening, glacial scoop toward the town of Hope. Its sides were ridged and thick with pine and, viewed from above, seemed to reach out like yearning arms to the great sunbleached plains that stretched from the town’s eastern edge to the horizon and countless more beyond.

At its widest, from ridge to ridge, the valley was almost four miles wide. It was hardly perfect grazing land, though many had made a living from it and one or two grown rich. There was too much sage and too much rock and whenever the pasture seemed about to roll, some coulee or creek, choked with scrub and boulders, would gouge through and cut it off. Halfway down the valley, several of these creeks converged and formed the river which wound its way through stands of cottonwood to Hope and on from there to the Missouri.

All of this could be surveyed from where the wolf now stood. He was on a limestone crag that jutted from the trees like the prow of a fossilized ship. Below it, the land fell away sharply in a wedge-shaped scar of tumbled rock and, below that, both mountain and forest gave way grudgingly to pasture. A straggle of black cows and calves were grazing lazily at their shadows and beyond them, at the foot of the meadow, stood a small ranch house.

It had been built on elevated ground above the bend of a creek whose banks bristled with willow and chokecherry. There were barns to one side and white-fenced corrals. The house itself was of clapboard, freshly painted a deep oxblood. Along its southern side ran a porch that now, as the sun elbowed into the mountains, was bathed in a last throw of golden light. The windows along the porch had been opened wide and net curtains stirred in what passed for a breeze.

From somewhere inside floated the babble of a radio and maybe it was this that made it hard for whoever was at home to hear the crying of the baby. The dark blue buggy on the porch rocked a little and a pair of pink arms stretched craving for attention from its rim. But no one came. And at last, distracted by the play of sunlight on his hands and forearms, the baby gave up and began to coo instead.

The only one who heard was the wolf.

 

Kathy and Clyde Hicks had lived out here in the red house for nearly two years now and, if Kathy were honest with herself (which, on the whole, she preferred not to be, because mostly you couldn’t do anything about it, so why give yourself a hard time?), she hated it.

Well, hate was maybe too big a word. The summers were okay. But even then, you always had the feeling that you were too far away from civilization; too exposed. The winters didn’t bear thinking about.

They’d moved up here two years ago, right after they got married. Kathy had hoped having the baby might change how she felt about the place and in a way it had. At least she had someone to talk to when Clyde was out working the ranch, even though the conversation, as yet, was kind of one-way.

She was twenty-three and sometimes she wished she’d waited a few years to get married, instead of doing it straight out of college. She had a degree in agri-business management from Montana State in Bozeman and the only use she’d ever made of it was the three days a week she spent shuffling her daddy’s paperwork around down at the main ranch house.

Kathy still thought of her parents’ place as home and often got into trouble with Clyde for calling it that. It was only a couple of miles down the road, but whenever she’d spent the day there and got in the car to come back up here, she would feel something turn inside her that wasn’t quite an ache, more a sort of dull regret. She would quickly push it aside by jabbering to the baby in the back or by finding some country music on the car radio, turning it up real loud and singing along.

She had her favorite station on now and as she stood at the sink shucking the corn and looking out at the dogs sleeping in the sun by the barns, she started to feel better. They were playing that number she liked, by the Canadian woman with the ball-breaker voice, telling her man how good it felt when he ‘cranked her tractor’. It always made Kathy laugh.