'They're damned,' Wolf replied simply.
Jack had thought at first that Wolf was speaking of kidnapping - the verb Wolf had used in connection with his litter-sister, after all, was the Territories version of take. He began to see now that kidnapping wasn't what was going on at all - unless Wolf, with unconscious poetry, had been trying to say that Morgan had kidnapped the minds of some of the Wolf family. Jack now thought that Wolf was really talking about werewolves who had thrown over their ancient allegiance to the Crown and the herd and had given it to Morgan instead . . . Morgan Sloat and Morgan of Orris.
Which led naturally enough to thoughts of Elroy.
A Wolf who eats of his herd must be put to death.
To thoughts of the men in the green car who had stopped to ask him directions, and offered him a Tootsie Roll, and who had then tried to pull him into their car. The eyes. The eyes had changed.
They're damned.
He made himself a place in this world.
Until now he had felt both safe and delighted: delighted to be back in the Territories where there was a nip in the air but nothing like the dull, cold gray bite of western Ohio, safe with big, friendly Wolf beside him, way out in the country, miles from anything or anyone.
Made himself a place in this world.
He asked Wolf about his father - Philip Sawtelle in this world - but Wolf only shook his head. He had been a God-pounding good guy, and a Twinner - thus obviously a Stranger - but that was all Wolf seemed to know. Twinners, he said, was something that had something to do with litters of people, and about such business he could not presume to say. Nor could he describe Philip Sawtelle - he didn't remember. He only remembered the smell. All he knew, he told Jack, was that, while both of the Strangers had seemed nice, only Phil Sawyer had really been nice. Once he had brought presents for Wolf and his litter-sisters and litter-brothers. One of the presents, unchanged from the world of the Strangers, had been a set of bib overalls for Wolf.
'I wore em all the time,' Wolf said. 'My mother wanted to throw em away after I'd wore em for five years or so. Said they were worn out! Said I was too big for them! Wolf! Said they were only patches holding more patches together. I wouldn't give em up, though. Finally, she bought some cloth from a drummer headed out toward the Outposts. I don't know how much she paid, and Wolf! I'll tell you the truth, Jack, I'm afraid to ask. She dyed it blue and made me six pairs. The ones your father brought me, I sleep on them now. Wolf! Wolf! It's my God-pounding pillow, I guess.' Wolf smiled so openly - and yet so wistfully - that Jack was moved to take his hand. It was something he never could have done in his old life, no matter what the circumstances, but that now seemed like his loss. He was glad to take Wolf's warm, strong hand.
'I'm glad you liked my dad, Wolf,' he said.
'I did! I did! Wolf! Wolf!'
And then all hell broke loose.
2
Wolf stopped talking and looked around, startled.
'Wolf ? What's wr - '
'Shhhh!'
Then Jack heard it. Wolf's more sensitive ears had picked the sound up first, but it swelled quickly; before long, a deaf man would have heard it, Jack thought. The cattle looked around and then began to move away from the source of the sound in a rough, uneasy clot. It was like a radio sound-effect where someone is supposed to be ripping a bedsheet down the middle, very slowly. Only the volume kept going up and up and up until Jack thought he was going to go crazy.
Wolf leaped to his feet, looking stunned and confused and frightened. That ripping sound, a low, ragged purr, continued to grow. The bleating of the cattle became louder. Some were backing into the stream, and as Jack looked that way he saw one go down with a splash and a clumsy flailing of legs. It had been pushed over by its milling, retreating comrades. It let out a shrill, baaa-ing cry. Another cow-sheep stumbled over it and was likewise trampled into the water by the slow retreat. The far side of the stream was low and wet, green with reeds, muddy-marshy. The cow-sheep who first reached this muck quickly became mired in it.
'Oh you God-pounding good-for-nothing cattle!' Wolf bellowed, and charged down the hill toward the stream, where the first animal to fall over now looked as if it were in its death-throes.
'Wolf!' Jack shouted, but Wolf couldn't hear him. Jack could barely hear himself over that ragged ripping sound. He looked a little to the right, on this side of the stream, and gaped with amazement. Something was happening to the air. A patch of it about three feet off the ground was rippling and blistering, seeming to twist and pull at itself. Jack could see the Western Road through this patch of air, but the road seemed blurry and shimmery, as if seen through the heated, rippling air over an incinerator.