“That’s good,” whispered Mickey. “Now we need to be very quiet and very still.” He took the lead, scrambling beneath a bush, flattening himself on the forest floor. “Come close,” he added. Lick did as she was told, squeezing her body next to Mickey’s, little Wiggle at her side.

Grunt made no move to lie down. “I’m not hiding from any dog,” he snarled. He started to walk away from the bush, toward the low hill with its gateway of thin-trunked trees.

“Where’s go cubs?”

“Close, cohorts. Smell cubs . . .”

Lucky choked back a whimper of fear, lunging toward Grunt and shoving him into the undergrowth. The pup struggled and Lucky threw his weight against him, feeling Grunt’s muscles rippling and flexing beneath his fur. He was already a very strong dog.

“Your bravery is admirable, Grunt,” Lucky murmured, his muzzle at the pup’s ear. “But this isn’t the time. These aren’t dogs; they’re coyotes looking for a fight. We have to stay silent. This is serious.”

Lucky felt the pup shudder. “Coyotes? What are they?” he asked, as the beasts drew nearer, rounding the low hill.

“I eats the cubs. Starts with the tender snouts!” hissed one of the coyotes in its raspy voice.

“I crunch the tails!” added another.

Grunt started trembling. Lucky felt a wave of compassion for him—the tiny Fierce Dog acted tough, but he was just a pup, feeling a pup’s fear.

Please, wise Forest-Dog, thought Lucky. These pups have already lost their Mother-Dog. Let them get through this night. . . .

The coyotes gathered at the top of the hill among the tall trees, sniffing and circling. They had thickly furred bodies like wolves, and their legs were long and narrow. Their large pointed ears cut jagged outlines on the dark horizon and their sharp smell turned Lucky’s stomach. He remembered Old Hunter telling him about coyotes as they rested by the Food House in the city—how they were sneaky, opportunistic killers, known to eat sharpclaws and snatch pups from their Mother-Dogs. Well, they weren’t getting these pups!

“They’re heres . . . Smells young dogs.”

“Not heres . . . Escapes. Escapes, Mangles, how?”

“This ways; they gone. Cohorts, follow!”

The last coyote that spoke—the one called Mangles—was particularly tall. Its shape was lithe and wiry as it spun on its paws. Its tail was a stump of fur, as though it’d lost the end of it somehow. It started running back through the thin-trunked trees, down the hill toward the path.

If they hold the scent, Lucky thought hopefully, they will eventually be taken all the way to the Dog-Garden. . . .

Soon the coyote Pack had disappeared from sight and finally even their sharp, peaty odors had faded on the night air.

When he was certain that the danger had passed, Lucky rose to his paws.

“They’ve gone,” he said, panting with relief.