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worried?”
    “Yes. Here.” Dove Sings touched her bosom over her heart.
    “I will go look for him.”
    “No,” Dove Sings said. “You are probably right. The cat is gone and he is safe and I worry over nothing. I would rather you stay here with us.”
    “As you want.” But now Two Knives was worried. His wife often had feelings she could not account for that turned out to be right. He spent the rest of the afternoon constantly glancing at the forested slopes that rimmed their valley and were in turn capped by ramparts of stone or in the case of the highest peaks, by cones and spires of glistening snow.
    The sun was low on the horizon when Elk Running came to him and asked, “Shouldn’t Fox Tail have been back by now?”
    “It could be your brother found sign and followed it,” Two Knives suggested. He did not mention that Fox Tail knew better than to be abroad after dark. The Tukaduka were never abroad after dark.
    “Fox Tail is strong and brave. Maybe he will slay the cat and bring us the hide.”
    “Maybe,” Two Knives said.
    Dusk settled over their valley. They ate supper and sat around the fire, all of them quiet, and listened. Coyotes yipped and a wolf howled and near their lodge an owl hooted.
    “Fox Tail would never be gone this long.” Dove Sings voiced what was on all their minds.
    “I will look for him in the morning,” Two Knives said.
    He did not sleep well. Nor did his wife. Usually they slept cuddled together, but on this night they turned and tossed and for long stretches he lay on his back and stared at the empty air, worried. He was up much earlier than was his wont, and dressed and went out. The brisk chill made him shiver. He gazed at the stars and out over the valley, and frowned.
    A doeskin dress whispered, and Dove Sings was beside him. “Something has happened to him.”
    “I think so, yes,” Two Knives admitted.
    “You should not go alone. Take Elk Running.”
    “Bright Rainbow and you should not be alone.”
    “I can use a bow, and I have my knife.”
    “I want him to stay with you,” Two Knives insisted. He seldom forced his will on her, but in this he was firm.
    Dove Sings took his hand in hers. “We have lived many winters together. I would not like to live a winter alone.”
    Two Knives smiled. “I am not a Shoshone. I do not test my manhood with my courage.”
    “I will not sleep until you return.”
    His stomach was in no shape for breakfast. He left shortly after sunup armed with his small bow and short arrows and a pair of flint knives. Dove Sings filled a pouch with dried deer meat, and he slanted the strap across his chest. She and Elk Running and Bright Rainbow stood and watched him jog off. He looked back at them right before he entered the trees, and Dove Sings waved. He waved to them.
    The forest was eerily quiet. Normally birds warbled and squirrels chattered, but today not a single chirp or chitter broke the stillness. Even the wind had died and the trees were motionless and foreboding.
    Two Knives did not like to think what it might mean. The shriek the night before had come from the north, and it was to the north end of the valley that he bent his steps. His moccasins made little noise on the carpet of pine needles, but each sound they did make was like a thunderclap to his ears. He walked with an arrow notched to the sinew string.
    The higher Two Knives climbed, the steeper the slopes. He suspected that the cat had entered their valley through a pass in the north ring of peaks. If so, that was the smart place to start looking for sign. It was where his son would have looked.
    By midmorning Two Knives could see the pass, still a ways off. The next slope was mostly barren of vegetation. Years ago an avalanche had torn most of the growth away, and it was just starting to reclaimthe soil. He started up and there, in the dirt, was a footprint he knew as well as he did the wrinkles in his palm. “Fox Tail,” he said out loud. The footprints pointed up. He