The reverse of that is to move in ways that are in harmony with the natural world. If you don’t want to be seen, move in the way the forest moves. Walk no faster than the breeze and when it stops, you stop. Find places to step that won’t easily take a footprint. Look for things on the ground that will crack under your weight. Consider how well your clothing and face and equipment will blend into the existing landscape.

I knew how to do this. It’s kept me alive, allowed me to hunt, kept the dead ones from spotting me, and brought grief to people I don’t like.

The four men watching Happy Valley did not hear me. They didn’t see me. I stood beside a tree ten feet from them and they had no idea. Baskerville lay in the tall weeds eighteen feet behind me, and they had no idea. The wind was blowing the wrong way for them to hear us approach or smell us.

I watched them. Learning them.

Two of them were twenty-somethings with lots of colorful tattoos. Naked women, monsters, cartoon characters. One guy was in his thirties and was obviously a hardass biker type. Less expensive tattoos, including some amateur shit. Symbolic more than decorative. Scars and hard hands. But it was the fourth guy who interested me most. He was late forties and had a body that looked like it was made from bundles of piano cable and roughly smoothed rock. His face was like an eroded wall. Some Native American blood, I think. Or Russian. Mongol eyes in either case. A long beard that was prematurely white. Prison tats everywhere, and tear drops on his cheek. I could only see him in profile when he turned to talk to the others. That was enough to let me know a few things. He was the leader of this crew and he was the most dangerous. If it came to a fight, I’d kill him first, and kill him quick, because guys like that are dangerous as long as they can still draw breath.

Not that the others were sissies. Even the younger guys looked like they knew how to dance.

What troubled me most was what they were wearing. Not the clothes, which were somewhere between de rigueur biker gear and retro Mad Max stuff. That was fine. When so many things want to bite you, leather was a smart choice. No, what drew my eye were the necklaces they wore. The younger guys each wore human fingers strung on leather. The thirty-something had noses on his. And the older guy had scalps on his. Yeah. Actual scalps. Maybe fifteen or twenty of them. Strung with beads and a few feathers.

Holy shit.

They spoke together in low tones. The younger guys whispered, which is stupid. Whispers carry because of the sibilant “ess” sounds. The older guy was smarter and spoke quietly.