Some years ago, I hunted in northern British Columbia. A young man was my guide, and during a long first day we climbed into high, rugged country on horseback, trailing two pack horses.
The area was rife with moose, elk, wolves and grizzlies. Headquartering in an abandoned trapper's shack, we hunted all day, saddling the horses before sunup and riding out in the dark. At night we hobbled the horses' front feet and turned them out to graze, stringing cowbells around their necks so we could find them in the morning, and to keep bears away.
One day we spotted a moose from a distant ridge. We rode a while toward the animal from downwind before tying the horses and hiking. The moose wasn't a trophy, but was a legal target, bearing the required brow tines. When the big animal showed itself while ambling through tall willows, I braced my .270 against a tree and collapsed him.
Soon the guide and I convened alongside the moose.
"I'll take care of this," the young man said, pulling a knife from his pack. "You keep an eye out for wolves. If you see one coming, shoot it."
We had heard wolves howling, but hadn't seen any.
I said, "Are we expecting wolves?"
"They heard the shot," the guide said. "So maybe."