"He would run away, too, Jondalar, if we'd run with him. He gets defensive because he's protecting us. And, yes, he's a meat eater, and he could kill a man, but he doesn't. I don't think he would unless he thought one of us was threatened. Animals can learn, just like people can. It's not his natural inclination to think of people and horses as his 'pack.' Even Whinney has learned things that she would not have if she lived with other horses. How natural is it for a horse to think of a wolf as a friend? She even had a cave lion for a friend. Is that a natural inclination?"

"Maybe not," Jondalar said, "but I can't tell you how worried I was when Baby showed up at the Summer Meeting and you rode straight up to him on Whinney. How did you know he'd remember you? Or Whinney? Or that Whinney would remember him?"

"They grew up together. Baby… I mean Baby…"

The word she used meant "baby" but it had an odd sound and inflection, unlike any language she and Jondalar usually spoke, a rough, guttural quality, as though spoken from the throat. Jondalar could not reproduce it, could hardly even approximate the sound; it was one of the relatively few spoken words from the language of the Clan. Though she had said it often enough that he recognized it, Ayla had formed the habit of immediately translating any Clan word she happened to use to make it easier. When Jondalar referred to the lion Ayla had raised from a cub, he used the translated form of the name she had given him, but it always struck him as incongruous that a gigantic male cave lion should have the name "Baby."

"… Baby was… a cub when I found him, a baby. He hadn't even been weaned. He'd been kicked in the head, by a running deer, I think, and was almost dead. That's why his mother left him. He was like a baby to Whinney, too. She helped me take care of him – it was so funny when they started playing with each other, especially when Baby would sneak up and try to get Whinney's tail. I know there were times when she waved it at him on purpose. Or they'd each grab an end of a hide and try to pull it away from each other. I lost so many hides that year, but they made me laugh."

Ayla's expression turned pensive. "I never really learned to laugh until then. The people of the Clan didn't laugh out loud. They didn't like unnecessary noises, and loud sounds were usually meant for warnings. And that look you like, with teeth showing, that we call a smile? They made it to mean they were nervous, or feeling protective and defensive, or with a certain hand sign as implying a threatening gesture. It wasn't a happy look to them. They didn't like it when I was little if I smiled or laughed, so I learned not to do it very much."

They rode along the river's edge for a distance, on a flat, wide stretch of gravel. "Many people smile when they're nervous, and when they meet strangers," Jondalar said. "It's not meant to be defensive or threatening, though. I think a smile is meant to show that you're not afraid."

Going ahead in single file, Ayla leaned to the side to guide her horse around some brush growing beside a streamlet that was making its way to the river. After Jondalar had developed the halter device that he used to guide Racer, Ayla also started using one to help lead Whinney occasionally, or to tie her to something to keep her in one location, but even when the horse was wearing it, Ayla never used it when she was riding. She had never intended to train the animal when she first got on the mare's back, and the mutual learning process had been gradual and, in the beginning, unconscious. Though once she realized what was happening, the woman did purposely train the horse to do certain things, it was always within the framework of the deep understanding that had grown between them.

"But if a smile is meant to show that you are not afraid, doesn't that mean you think you have nothing to be afraid of? That you feel strong and have nothing to fear?" Ayla said, when they rode abreast again.

"I never really thought about it before. Thonolan always smiled and seemed so confident when he met new people, but he wasn't always as sure as he seemed. He tried to make people think that he wasn't afraid, so I suppose you could say it was a defensive gesture, a way of saying I'm so strong I have nothing to fear from you."

"And isn't showing your strength a way of threatening? When Wolf shows his teeth to strangers, isn't he showing them his strength?" Ayla pressed.

"There may be something about them that is the same, but there is a big difference between a smile of greeting and Wolf baring his teeth and growling."

"Yes, that's true," Ayla conceded. "A smile makes you feel happy."

"Or at least relieved. If you've met a stranger and he smiles back at you, that usually means you've been welcomed, so you know where you stand. Not all smiles are necessarily meant to make you happy."

"Maybe feeling relieved is the beginning of feeling happy," Ayla said. They rode together in silence for a while; then the woman continued. "I think there is something similar about a person smiling in greeting when he is feeling nervous around strangers, and people of the Clan having a gesture in their language of showing their teeth that means they're nervous or implying a threat. And when Wolf shows his teeth to strangers, he's threatening them because he's feeling nervous and protective."

"Then when he shows his teeth to us, to his own pack, it's his smile," Jondalar said. "There are times when I'm convinced he's smiling, and I know he teases you. I'm sure he loves you, too, but the trouble is, it's natural for him to show his teeth and threaten people he doesn't know. If he's protecting you, how are you going to train him to stay where you tell him, if you're not there? How can you teach him not to attack strangers if he decides he wants to?" Jondalar's concern was serious. He wasn't sure that taking the animal with them was such a good idea. Wolf could create a lot of problems. "Remember, wolves attack to get their food; that's the way the Mother made them. Wolf is a hunter. You can teach him many things, but how can you teach a hunter not to be a hunter? Not to attack strangers?"

"You were a stranger when you came to my valley, Jondalar. Do you remember when Baby came back to visit me and found you there?" Ayla asked, as they again separated into single file to start up a gully leading away from the river toward the highland.

Jondalar felt a flush of heat, not exactly embarrassment, but a recollection of the strong emotions of that encounter. He had never been so scared in his life; he had been sure he was going to die.

It took some time to pick their way up the shallow ravine, around rocks that washed down during spring floods, and black-stemmed artemisia brush that burst into life when the rains came and retreated into dry stalks that appeared dead when they stopped. He thought about the time Baby came back to the place where Ayla had raised him and found a stranger on the broad ledge in front of her small cave.

None of them were small, but Baby was the biggest cave lion he'd ever seen, nearly as tall as Whinney, and more massive. Jondalar was still recovering from the mauling that same lion, or his mate, had given him earlier when he and his brother had foolishly broached their den. It was the last thing Thonolan was ever to do. Jondalar was sure he was seeing his last moments when the cave lion roared and gathered himself to spring. Suddenly Ayla was between them, holding up her hand in a motion to stop, and the lion stopped! It would have been comical the way that huge beast pulled himself up short and twisted around to avoid her, if he hadn't been so petrified. The next thing he knew, she was scratching the gigantic cat and playing with him.

"Yes, I remember," he said, when they reached the highland and again rode side by side. "I still don't know how you made him stop in the middle of that attack on me."