The kitten that had been bitten staggered and fell onto its side. She licked it and nosed it and then stood helpless as it convulsed and twitched and finally went limp.
The dark one did something else new. He walked up to his fallen brother and stared at the still form until she coughed to signal they should move on.
In due course the trees lost their leaves and the nights and days grew colder. Her small ones lost their kittenish traits and were more like her in appearance and acts. The dark one grew twice as fast as his siblings. He could run faster, leap farther. When they hunted, he stayed at her side and didn’t trail behind as the others did.
The patterns of the other animals were changing. The deer and the elk drifted lower. The squirrels and chipmunks scurried about gathering stores. Bears sought to put as much fat on their bodies as they could.
On a cold, brisk morning she led the kittens farther down the mountain than they had ever gone, to a larger meadow where elk congregated in rutting season. The males bugled and fought over the females. They were not as alert as they normally were, and sometimes she could sneak close enough to bring one down. She always chose a female. The males were too big, their antlers formidable.
On this particular day she reached the meadow when the sun was directly overhead. She lay in a thicket with her young around her. No elk were there yet. It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon that a few cows drifted from cover. By late afternoon a herd of over fifty had gathered and the males commenced to fight. Their battles were spectacular; they would lower their heads and paw and charge, and the crash of their antlers was like the crash of a falling tree. Then they would dig in their hooves and push and strain until one or the other proved stronger. Sometimes their antlers locked and they become almost frantic in their efforts to break apart. The females huddled and watched, and it was then they were easiest to stalk.
The female crept to the meadow’s edge, the dark one at her side. The other three—two males and a female—were behind her. She flattened and waited, and presently a cow drifted near. Coiling her legs, she launched in long leaps and vaulted high onto the cow’s back. Her weight was enough to bring down a deer, but elk were a lot bigger and although this one staggered, it stayed upright and bawled in fright and tried to shake her off. She churned her claws, threshing hide and flesh, even as she sank her fangs deep. She was aware of the dark one clinging to the cow’s neck and the other kittens attacking its legs. With a loud cry, the cow toppled. The other female elk and most of the bulls scattered.
Most, but not all.
She didn’t see the one until it was almost on top of them. With her lightning reflexes, she sprang clear. The bull hooked his antlers at the dark one, and the dark one jumped higher than she ever saw a male its age jump, and avoided being impaled. The bull slashed at another male, but it wasn’t as quick. It shrieked as the sharp tines drove into its body. The bull tossed it a good distance and the instant it fell hard to the earth it was up and running. She did the same, the rest on her flanks. The bull came after them but stopped at the end of the meadow and snorted and stamped.
She did not like being driven from her prey. She could see the cow, still down and bleeding badly, its legs moving feebly. Then she heard a mew and turned to find the male kitten the bull had attacked was down, too, and bleeding as badly as the cow, if not worse. She went to him. There were holes in his body and another in his neck. He raised his head and mewed at her and she licked him, but that was all she could do. His eyes closed and he convulsed a few times and then he lay limp.
She had lost another. It was always thus. Out of every litter, it was rare if two survived.
The bull continued to stamp and snort and was joined by others. Their rut was temporarily forgotten in their united effort against a common enemy.
She started back up the mountain. Their bellies were empty, and she was in an angry mood. She was almost glad when they startled a doe into flight. The dark one was on it before she was, but together they brought the doe down and it was the dark one whose fangs dealt the kill. Afterward, they feasted and then retired to a sunny clearing to rest.
The other male and the young female still had kittenish streaks, and played and wrestled. Not the dark one. He lay watching everything around them, and missed nothing. She went over and licked him, and he licked her and she lay at his side.
The hunting was good until the first heavy snow. She had seen snow many times and was accustomed to it, but to her young it was wondrous. They frol-icked and gamboled, even the dark one, swatting and rolling and acting as if they were one moon old again.
Game became scarce. Many of the smaller animals stayed in their burrows and dens. Bears were in hibernation. Most of the birds so common in the summer were gone. Ravens and jays stayed, but they were too wary to be caught. Grouse went deeper into the thickets and were harder to find. Rabbits changed color and were harder to spot. The deer were not abroad as much.
Where before she and her brood might have gone three or four days between kills, now it was sometimes five or six. They were often hungry. The temperature fell, so they were often cold, too. They spent much of their time at the den, resting and gazing down over their domain.
This winter was worse than most, and in the coldest of the moons she was pressed to find prey. She roved far and wide without success.
They had been four and a half days without anything to eat when she caught the scent of a doe, mixed with blood. Her belly brushing the snow, she stalked through the undergrowth until she saw it. Puzzled, she stopped.
The doe hung by its neck from a tree. A thin snakelike thing that was not alive had been wrapped around the doe’s neck and head and around a low limb.
The female had never seen anything like this, and she was wary.
Beside her, the dark one crouched silent and still. The other two were famished and eager to eat. They kept shifting their weight and flicking their tails, and finally the male snarled and moved toward the doe.
She tried to move in front of him, but he went around her and kept going, his paws sinking into the soft snow. She was uneasy. Something was wrong. She sensed danger.
The dark one growled. He was looking at a snowbank near the doe. She looked but could not account for his growl.
The other male came to the doe. He walked in a small circle around her, looking up and growling. She was well out of reach. Crouching, he prepared to leap.
The female went to rise. She had been wrong about the danger. They could all feed.
That was when the snowbank broke apart and a two-legged creature with a feather in its black hair reared up.
Chapter Three
There was a
Other two-legged creatures rushed from behind snow-covered trees and burst from hiding places.
The female whirled and ran. The dark one was her shadow. Behind them loped the smaller female. A feathered shaft sought them but missed. She did not stop to look back until she was on a rise well out of reach of the feathered shafts. The two-legged creatures had surrounded the fallen male and were poking him with a stick.
Now only the two were left.
The dark one and the young female grew in size and strength. The young female was not yet as big as the mother, but the dark one had surpassed her size and was still growing.
On a sunny day when the snow had melted away and the promise of warm weather was in the air, she was leading them along a ridge when the dark one suddenly broke away and loped down the other side. His nose was close to the ground and when she lowered hers she caught the same scent. She ran faster to catch up, but he was going full out and he increased his lead. She burst out of the trees, and ahead he was a black blur streaking toward the source of the scent.
