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out of the work, neither,” Dougal told him. “Here. Take this. Fresh and uncontaminated. The doctor opened the health centre especially for us. Least he could do under the circumstances.”  He passed over a small plastic container with a white lid and a long wooden stick that looked like a coffee stirrer. “Take as much as you can get on the stick and put it in the tube and label where you got it from, that’s a good boy. Me and Martin, we’ll crack on.”  
         There was no way around it for Sam. He set down his crutches, knelt down by the pile and gently moved the stick forward. As it penetrated the surface, Sam pulled his head away and half-closed his eyes. He lifted the stick and pulled it towards the container. “Gross, man,” he said, and scraped the sample into the jar.  
         As he screwed on the lid, Martin shouted that he’d found something too. “Would you look at the size of that?”  He squatted and reached down to the ground. “It’s bigger than my hand.”  
         There was a print in the mud. They could clearly make out a large pad at the back, with four round toes around it.  
          “ I’m no expert,” Dougal said, “but I reckon you were right mate. There’s something huge out there alright.”  
          “ Big enough to be eating our dogs?”  Martin pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave his glasses a wipe.  
          “ Aye. Big enough for that.”  
    Sam hobbled over for a look. “You think it could be a panther?”
          “ Haven’t got a Scooby, but I’m sure we’ll be finding out soon enough.”  
          “ How so?”  
          “ See that poop you just scooped. Smells to high heaven. Which means it’s fresh.”  
          “ Which means?”  
         Dougal rubbed at his brow. Sam was a good bloke, but when it came to giving out the brains, he’d been too busy searching for the best waves to collect his. “Which means it’s not far away, no?”  
         As if it had been counted in, there was a low growl from somewhere close.  
         Sam froze where he was, as if cursed by some magic spell.  
         Martin stepped back and stood behind Sam.  
         Dougal pulled the gun from his back and leant the stock against his shoulder.  
         The three pairs of eyes scoured the brush under the trees. There was another growl, more vicious than the one before and definitely closer to them.  
          “ It’s coming for us,” Martin said, his voice being a full octave higher than the one he was used to.  
          “ Don’t be daft,” Dougal said. “We’ll have it, no problem. Eh Sam?”  
         Sam looked down as if someone had clicked their fingers to break the spell. He seemed to realise what was going on and had his gun ready within seconds, the strap tangled with a crutch and both barrels trained straight in front of him.  
         A large, black shape appeared in between bramble bushes.  
          “ Shoot,” Martin shouted.  
          “ Wait!”  Dougal had seen it straight away, the red collar and the rough, matted hair. Knew it was Thumper. The Murphy’s dog. The enormous Irish Wolfhound. Dougal leaped over. Put his hand on Sam’s barrels and pushed just as the shot was fired. Managed to tilt the aim by a few degrees.  
         A pitiful whimper filled the ears of the hunters as they looked at the dog before them, the muscle of his hind leg tattered and bloody.  
         Thumper tried to get away from the threat, dragging his wounded limb behind him, but it was no good. Instead of escaping, he collapsed to the floor and licked his wounds.  
          “ Oh no, man.”  Sam had realised his mistake. He fell to the ground and dropped his head between his knees.  
         Dougal and Martin acted quickly.  
         They were over to cushion Thumper’s head and to stop the licking.  
         Martin had his belt off right away.