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jump down from rocks, and up from fallen trees to charge at us.
    Huge shapes ram the wolves broadside at avalanche speed.
    “Bears, oh my!”
    Nearly a score of big bears swipe the wolves one way or another in an unstoppable fury. They continue after the pack without a look at us.
    “Come on, y’all, let’s follow after ‘em!”
    “RARRRR!”
    “I say, that one tremendous old fellow indicates that we may not be welcome, eh hem?”
    “No Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. Let’s just kind of back off and let ‘em alone.”
    “This looked like an outside influence affecting the wolves, but I think a natural resistance to this un-natural act spurred the bears to act, not so much save us, but to dispel the unwanted control.”
    “I say, this confirms in my mind our earlier suspicions. Something unusual would appear to be afoot, eh, hem?”

Chapter Three.
North by NorthHex.
    P.O.V. Ichabod
     
    “Alvarado City on the San Francisco Bay! Oh my Goodness, ain’t she grand?”
    “I say, the gangs of cut-throats, pirates and Shanghai recruitment efforts aside, I suppose this busy harbour does have a certain, if pungent, charm, eh hem? Why, this little city is nearly as cosmopolitan as London, with her abundance of coal-powered steam-carriages and tractors.”
    “I’m just happy we made it here. You sure did a swell job of getting us back to civilization, Miss GoldenBear, Ma’am.”
    “Thanks, Ichabod, but if this is your idea of civilization, you can keep it. I liked it back in the woods.”
    I smell fresh grass.
    I shake my head.
    I should not have smelled that.
    “Do you ladies smell grass?”
    “I say, I find myself under assault by many scents, Mr. Temperance. Horse manure, coal smoke, sea air, fish, and rotting refuse suffuse the atmosphere with an array of scents, but sadly, fresh cut grass is not one of them.”
    “Yeah, Ichabod, all I’m getting is horse poop, coal smoke, stale steam, and cheap perfume from those willing girls on the corner.”
    “Yes, Ma’ams, that’s all I’m getting too. I only smelled it for a moment; I reckon it was just my imagination.”
    I get a brief whiff of hay, cut grass, and honeysuckle.
    My companions hold handkerchiefs splashed with an essence of petunias to protect them from the foul smells in our vicinity.
    Now all I smell are the normal stinks, but for a moment, that honeysuckle smelled so real! It was distinctive, and at odds with my surroundings, but then, just as quickly, it was gone.
    The sun warms my fur, relieving the itchiness.
    “What!”
    “Are you in distress, Mr. Temperance?”
    “Um, oh, uh, no Ma’am, I don’t think so, Ma’am.”
    “You look suspicious, Ichabod.”
    “Hunh? What? Who? Me? Um, No, I’m all right, it’s nothing, really. Never mind. Sorry, ladies.”
    Miss Plumtartt gives me a suspicious look.
    For a few seconds, I felt as if I were covered in a scratchy, wiry, pelt of fur, and was warming myself in the sunshine, as opposed to this freezing port after dark.
    I cast about. We stand upon a busy dock facing the San Francisco Bay. It is early evening and in a quest to secure passage to Alaska we find ourselves on the quay amongst the detritus of the sea.
    Chinamen rattle away at an incomprehensible speed in a language I cannot begin to understand. Dangerously overloaded wagons fight for the right of way on crowded streets. A few gas street lights and store front kerosene lanterns dimly illuminate our way along fog enshrouded avenues. Barricades of barrels, castles of crates, and stacks of sacks await their transport. Horse, oxen, and steamer-trams do the pulling. The universal presence of dogs is in evidence. One homely mutt looks at me with sad eyes. Fine feathered fowl fetched for foreign fare fill fragile frames. Cats and rats play hide and seek amongst the food vendors.
    “Good news, Ichabod and Persephone, I have managed to book passage on a schooner headed North. ‘The Cow’s Song’ is bound for Kuetinpeenk, of the Alaskan