Kinomo, my protégé, had scanned the trail ahead and, at length, signaled all clear. Before he’d gone half a step, my insistent hand gesture settled him on his haunches. Grasping his chin none too gently, I turned his head.
There…nestled in the tree was clear sign of the Big Horn people. They were never a large clan, yet they brooked no trespass on that which was theirs. Though we had many game bags yet to fill today, they would not be filled down this path. Like our timber wolf namesakes, we flowed silently back the way we’d come.
This story was written for the Friday Fictioneers weekly prompt. A variety of stories from an exceptionally talented group of fellow writers (all based on this same photo prompt) can be found by following the link button: