It was not so much Kazan and Gray Wolf that he missed now--not so much motherhood and home as it was companionship.

Now that he had fought the wolfish rage out of him in his battle with Oohoomisew, the dog part of him had come into its own again--the lovable half of him, the part that wanted to snuggle up near something that was alive and friendly, small odds whether it wore feathers or fur, was clawed or hoofed.
He was sore from the Willow's bullet, and he was sore from battle, and toward dawn he lay down under a shelter of some alders at the edge of a second small lake and rested until midday.

Then he began questing in the reeds and close to the pond lilies for food.

He found a dead jackfish, partly eaten by a mink, and finished it.
His wound was much less painful this afternoon, and by nightfall he scarcely noticed it at all.

Since his almost tragic end at the hands of Nepeese, he had been traveling in a general northeasterly direction, following instinctively the run of the waterways.