"Yeah." He points, and I see that some scavenger has rooted through the dirt, looking for the source of the blood.
"Harper came from . . ." I turn. "This direction."
Dalton nods.
I walk that way and find a spot where vegetation has been crushed. "She watched us from here. Which means . . ." I look around.
"She came that way," Dalton says, pointing. "That's what you're looking for, right?"
"It is. Thanks."
"The path where she saw Brady is over there. We can follow it, but if I thought that would do any good, we'd have tracked him from there right away."
"I know."
A soft growl of frustration. "So what the hell are you looking for, Casey?"
"I don't know exactly."
Three beats of silence a
s I backtrack on Harper's trail. Then he follows. He wants to demand answers, but he knows that's not how I work. My ego needs proof before I'll voice any outlandish theories.
Harper's trail doesn't lead directly to the path. She meandered, and when Dalton sees that, he says, "She was trying to decide what to do. Follow Brady or go back to the camp."
I'm nodding when I spot something on the ground. I walk over and bend. It looks like the shredded remains of an animal. I prod it with a stick, expecting to see a head or leg or tail. I don't. It's just hide.
"A food pouch," Dalton says.
A hide pouch that must have held food, now ripped apart, with no trace of what it once contained.
He lifts and turns it over in his hand, examining the craftsmanship.
"First Settlement." He peers into the forest, both toward the camp and out in the direction of the path. "So Harper saw Brady on the path and then followed his trail back to the camp. That's why it meanders. He was making his way in the direction of the path but didn't quite know where it was. He dropped this." He shakes the pouch. "So . . ."
He peers up and down the path. Then he goes still. His head jerks up. Storm's muzzle does the same, her nose wriggling madly.
"Back up," Dalton says.
"Wha--?"
His hand wraps around my wrist as he starts propelling us backward. I take each step with care, rolling it, but Storm's paws crunch down on dead leaves. Dalton whispers a curse just as she starts to whine. Loudly whine, while straining at the lead.
Dalton stops. His gaze swings across the landscape. Storm dances and whines.
"What did you see?" I whisper.
"Movement. Something big."
Something big that Storm desperately wants to get to. Dalton has the leash wrapped around his hand, but he's distracted, looking about. When I see Storm hunker down, I know what's coming.
"Eric!" I say, and I lunge to grab the lead.
Storm leaps. A powerful leap that catches Dalton off guard, and he stumbles, the leash whipping free, my fingers grazing it, wrapping around it, only to feel the leather burn through my hand as the dog takes off.
"Storm!"
I run after her. I am aware, even before Dalton shouts, that I'm making the exact same mistake I made when she went after the cougar. But that doesn't mean I stop. I can't.