Ahead of him, by contrast, Old Sam ambled forward with all the air of a man taking a walk down a country lane on a mild Sunday morning. He didn‘t trip or stumble, he didn‘t sweat or swear, he didn‘t swat or slap, no, he simply slid through the brush as if it had been greased specifically for his passage, while the bugs kept a respectful distance.

It felt as if hours and miles had passed before Old Sam said at long last, Here, and Jim emerged into a clearing, blinking in the rediscovered sun that had been there all the time and that beamed down on them now like an old friend. He stood there for a moment to let his eyes adjust to daylight again. A raven croaked from the top of a tree, and a couple of crows cawed from another. Even the birds had attitude today. He pulled out a bottle of water, uncapped it, and drank it down in one long continual swallow.

Old Sam stood to one side, one hand hooked on the sling of his rifle, the other in the pocket of his jacket, watching with a quizzical expression on his seamed face. Fucker wasn‘t even sweating.

Jim crushed the bottle, replaced the cap, and put it back in his pocket. Okay, let‘s take a look around.

You want help, or you want me to stay out of the way?

Help, definitely. We‘ll walk it in a straight line, side by side about six feet apart. Walk slow and watch where you put your feet.

Old Sam surveyed the area. You really expecting to find anything?

He had a point. When they‘d been there the month before, Old Sam said, the grass had just been beginning to green up. Now it was four feet high and under the influence of twenty hours of daylight leaping even farther skyward with boundless enthusiasm. Jim could wish it were a little less healthy.

The raven croaked again and then changed dialects like they sometimes did, producing a series of clicks and taps and claps. Two more ravens arrived and joined in the chorus.

Great, we‘ve got an audience, Jim said.

Old Sam said nothing, eying the ravens with a narrow stare.

Okay, let‘s get it done, Jim said.

It took them a full fifteen minutes to wade slowly the length of the clearing. About halfway across on the return trip Jim tripped over something. He rooted around until he found whatever it was, and froze in a bent-over position, his eyes wide. What? Old Sam came up to stand next to him and peer into the grass. Oh, he said. Yeah, that‘ll be the bones left from that griz Kate shot. We skinned ‘em and left the rest. He admired the pile of bones, stripped clean of any shred of flesh or gristle, leaving nothing behind but tooth marks in varying sizes. Got to admire the efficiency.

Jim straightened up and passed a shirtsleeve over a sweaty forehead. Right. Sure. Of course. He would never have admitted it, especially not to Old Sam, but he didn‘t like the tall grass any better than he‘d liked the impenetrable forest. A clear view in every direction was the best defense against predators, whether they had two feet or four.