not seem to relish much--perhaps owl is an acquired taste--before he
turned a wild cat out of its lair--to the accompaniment of a whole
young riot of spitting and swearing--and curled up for the day.

He was hungry when he went to sleep. Also, it was snowing then. When
he woke up it was almost dark, and snowing worse than ever. If it
could have been colder, it was.

While he cleaned himself Gulo took stock of the outside prospect, so
far as the white curtain allowed to sight, and by scent a good deal
that it did not. This without appearing outside the den, you
understand. And if there had been any enemy in hiding, waiting for him
outside, he would have discovered the fact then. He had many enemies,
and no friends, had Gulo. All that he received from all whom he met
was hate, but he gave back more than he got. In the lucid terms of the
vernacular, he "was a hard un, if you like."

Nothing and nobody saw the wolverine leave that lair that was not his.
He must have chosen one blinding squall of snow for the purpose, and
was half a mile away, still on the track of the reindeer, before he
showed himself--shuffling along as usual, a ragged, hard-bitten
ruffian. And three hours later he came up with his prey.

Gulo knew it, but nobody else could have done. There were just the
straight trees ahead, and all around the eternal white, frozen silence,
and the snow falling softly over everything; but Gulo was as certain
that there was the herd close ahead as he was that he was ravenous.
And thereafter Gulo got to work, the peculiar work, a special devilish
genius for which appears to be given to the wolverine.