Rick stepped back and watched the gun burn. The three stared into the flames, lost in their private thoughts. When the fire died down, Rick went over to the remaining travois, grabbed its poles, and started off. Without a word, Con and Joe followed.
FOR A TIME, the nightstalker was governed only by fright and pain. She hid in a gully and licked the stump that had been her left hand until the blood flow was stanched. Then, in the stoicism of wild things, she turned her at-tention away from her injury and back to the needs of survival. She must eat to live. That fundamental imper-ative overwhelmed her fright and her pain. The animal left the gully and warily returned to the place of the big things.
When she arrived, the big things were gone. A wide expanse of cold whiteness was stained pink and held the aroma of food. Frantic with hunger, she licked the pink-ness that promised nourishment, yet yielded none. Her tongue went numb with cold before she stopped. Even-tually, she left the pinkness and approached the spot where the big things had slept. She sniffed it. There was the scent of food there also. It was not the burnt flesh smell, but, rather, an old familiar one—the blood smell of mammals. The nightstalker had sensed it for the first time yesterday. About the sleeping place, the aroma was strong and tantalizing. It also hung about the trail the big things made when they had departed. Logic was alien to the nightstalker's brain. It made no reasoned arguments. The big things looked strange and smelled strange, but they had the blood smell of food. Hence, they were prey. The creature knew instinctively that it must follow the trail. The empty expanse of cold whiteness held no other opportunities. The prey was large, and it carried the ter-rible black stick, but the nightstalker was desperate. At the end of the trail were warm meat and a chance to live.
THE WORLD WAS eerily quiet. As Rick, Con, and Joe si-lently trudged through the falling snow, the only sound was their muffled footsteps.
As Rick walked, he considered the many unknowns in his calculations—the weather, the distance to the sea, the wounded nightstalker, and, foremost, the human spirit. He had read tales of hardship where seemingly healthy persons surrendered and died while others, suffering more grievously, endured. That intangible, the will to live, had made the difference. Their wills would soon be put to the test. There was no way to tell how each would fare in the hard times ahead. Rick wondered,
'It's out there,' he said grimly. 'I know it's coming.'
'Better that it wear itself out tracking us than the other way around,' said Rick, repeating his earlier argument.
Joe did not reply. Instead, he paused and stared back into the distance, looking for his enemy. The falling snow drew a gray curtain over the landscape. He saw nothing. Joe turned and caught up with Rick and Con.
Throughout the day, Joe and Rick took turns pulling the travois. It was laden with kindling and firewood, all covered by the tent. Con carried the remaining supplies in a bag rigged as a pack. It was a light load, and she realized it.
Growing hunger and exhaustion silenced the three. Talking required too much effort. Their dreary, monot-onous march was no longer interrupted by meals, but Rick insisted they rest frequently. He was concerned that they might push themselves beyond the point of recovery. Accordingly, he called a halt for the day as soon as the slate gray sky began to grow darker.
They set about the routine of making camp. Con set up the tent and swept the snow from its interior with her sock-covered hands. There was no bedding to lay upon the frozen ground, so she maneuvered the travois plat-form inside the tent and covered it with the few items of clothing they were not wearing. With that task accom-plished, she grabbed her spear and her soiled rags and headed for the river. Joe and Rick had already left camp to search the riverbank for driftwood.
THE NIGHTSTALKER HAD smelled the nearness of the big things long before a pause in the snowfall made them visible. She was about to retreat when she noticed the herd had broken up. Instinct told her this was an oppor-tunity. The smallest of the big things, the one fragrant with blood, was alone by the river. The terrible black stick was nowhere to be seen. She looked for the other big things and saw they were far away. The desperate need of hunger overcame her remaining wariness. Ingrained skill, inherited from thousands of genera- tions of successful hunters, guided the animal. Surely and stealthily, she approached the prey. The closer she came, the more its aroma excited her. Soon .. . soon . .. soon she would eat.
CON SAW A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. She grabbed her spear and whirled in that direction. Her forgotten rags drifted away. The nightstalker froze. It was only twelve feet from her. Con stared into its large yellow-brown eyes and tried to read its intentions. They were inscrutable, but the sickle-shaped toe claws rose.
The spear seemed to puzzle the carnivore. Con feigned lunges, hoping to scare it off. The nightstalker held its ground while its head tracked the spearpoint with rapid, precise movements, the way a bird might.
'Rick! Joe!' she cried. 'Help! The nightstalker! It's here!' Con heard the sound of distant running feet, but she dared not take her eyes from her foe. Only a slight tens-ing in its haunches foretold its spring. With dazzling speed, the
