Just as Chen Zhen fixed his gaze on the cannon, inside the hideout they had dug in the snow, he saw the steel eyes of a gray wolf. He immediately shivered with fear, as if those eyes had the power to pierce his soul. Only old Biltzi was beside him. This time, Chen Zhen did not feel his soul leaving his body, but sweat was pouring like a river from every pore of his body. He had been living in the grazing lands for two years, but he still hadn't shed his fear of the wolves of Mongolia, especially if they were in a pack. He was facing a large herd, high up in the mountains, far from the camp. His breath was trembling in the air. Neither Chen nor Biltzi had weapons – a shotgun, a knife, a lasso, or even metal reinforcements. They only had two sticks, like those shepherds carry, and if the wolves scented them, their heavenly burial wouldn't be long in coming.
Chen heaved a fearful sigh and turned to look at old Biltzi, who was watching the wolves through his binoculars. "You need more courage," the old man said softly. "You look like a sheep. You have the wolf's fear in your blood. That's why you Chinese haven't won any battles out here." Seeing that he received no answer, he leaned close and whispered: "You must keep your composure. One wrong move and we're finished." Chen nodded affirmatively, took a handful of snow, and clenched it so tightly that it turned into an icy ball. A herd of gazelles was grazing on a nearby slope, unaware of the pack tightening the noose around them. The wolves had come very close to the cavity that the two men had dug in the snow. Not daring to move, Chen Zhen froze in place, like an ice statue.