"I thought dinosaurs were stupid," said Joe.
"They're as smart as birds," said Rick, "and some birds are pretty smart. Crows understand about guns."
"So I'm walking farther and farther to plug the igno-rant ones who haven't figured it out."
"That sounds like the case."
"Well that's great!" said Joe. "Those sneaky bastards are still around, and we can't even eat them."
"Did someone say 'eat'?" asked Con, as she brought some wood up to the ledge. Joe smiled. "I was saying the nightstalkers are getting scarce."
"Scarce?" said Con incredulously. "I had to scare off three from the canyon this morning."
"What!" said Rick.
"Yeah, right after Joe left," said Con. "I was cutting firewood, and they walked right in, bold as anything. Threw rocks at them, and they ran off. Hit one."
"I don't like the sound of that," said Rick. "Not at all." THE NEXT DAY, sleet fell. The three of them hunkered on the ledge, leaving it only to get wood for the fire. Joe did not hunt, and they dipped into the store of smoked meat for the first time. The fire was a meager one, and they retreated to the sleeping area while it was still light. There, they huddled together for warmth and tried to sleep and forget the cold.
They awoke to find snow on the ground. There was only an inch, but they knew it would not melt. The pall of ash over the sky stopped the sun's warmth. Every snowfall would remain to form an ever-deepening blan-ket.
"Now that it's stopped raining," said Rick, "we should think about heading to the island."
"Yeah," said Joe without enthusiasm. "I'd feel better if we had more rations to take with us."
"So would I," said Rick. "We can put off leaving a day or two." As soon as he finished eating, Joe left to hunt. He did not return until it was almost pitch-black. He was empty-handed and discouraged. Con built up the fire while Rick got some dried meat to make broth.
"I found tracks," said Joe after he warmed up a bit, "but I didn't see a damned one."
"Couldn't you follow their trail?" asked Con.
"I tried that without luck. They avoid me now." Joe shook his head. "I never thought I'd want to see a night-stalker."
"They seem to be particularly adaptable animals," said Rick. "I can't think of a paleontologist that would have predicted it."
"Rick, why don't you go out tomorrow?" said Joe. "You're the guide, I'm only an engineer. Maybe you'll have better luck."
Rick agreed to Joe's suggestion and went hunting early the next day. New snow had fallen, and he was surprised to find his first evidence of nightstalkers right below the ledge. The tracks of three animals were plain in the snow. They were obviously fresh, for a light snow was still fall-ing. They probably smell our smoked meat, he surmised. Rick followed the trail for several miles without getting a glimpse of the animals that had made it.
Rick abandoned his pursuit and headed for the river. The flood was over, and the river was returning to its original size. To reach it, Rick had to travel over the muddy ruin of the valley. It was not yet cold enough for the mud to freeze, and he sank up to his ankles in cold muck while walking to the shrunken river's bank. He was looking for carrion, nightstalker food. All that he found had been picked clean. The snow hid the tracks of the scavengers, but he assumed they were nightstalkers. Rick followed the river for miles, but the only living thing he saw was a single bird, pecking at some bones on a mud bar in the middle of the river. The desolate landscape looked caught in the midst of winter, not late spring. The brown water provided the only color; everything else was black, gray, or white. When the light began to wane, Rick headed back to-ward camp. He avoided the muddy floodplain, to make better time and investigate new territory. He was still over a mile from camp when he spied blood on the snow. He hurried to the site and found the remains of night-stalkers. It was impossible to tell how many, because they had been so thoroughly torn apart. Blood, feathers, and scattered bits of gnawed bone were all that was left. Tracks made it clear they had been slaughtered by their own kind. Rick knew that cannibalism among adult pred-ators was high-risk behavior, an indicator of desperate times. They're definitely running out of food, he thought. The memory of the tracks by the ledge became more om-inous.
There was no sun to set, so only the darkening of an already dark sky marked the onset of night. Rick began to jog toward the canyon, knowing once night fell, it was impossible to see anything. He thought of the warm fire and of Con waiting for him. The little shelter, meager as it was, had acquired some of the feelings of home. He looked forward to returning to it.
Con scampered down from the ledge as soon as Rick entered the canyon. Joe began to build up the fire. A brief look of disappointment came to her face when she saw he was empty-handed, but she quickly covered it up. "Joe and I spent the whole day getting wood," she said. "We can have a nice big fire tonight."
Rick smiled and gave her a kiss. "That sounds won-derful."
"Any luck?" called Joe.
"Nope," said Rick.
"So it's not just me," said Joe.
"These are cagey animals," said Rick. "Did you see the tracks beneath the ledge?"
"Yeah," said Joe. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I," said Rick.
"What can we do?" asked Con.
"They adapt, we adapt," said Rick. "Joe, could you dig out the flashlights and see if they have any juice?" Joe disappeared into the sleeping area. Two pale beams shone briefly. "There's some life in them yet."
"Good," said Rick. "Tonight we'll slay home and hunt."
Rick warmed himself by the fire as he explained his plan. "Joe and I will stay up with the flashlights and the gun to wait for our visitors."
"How's that going to work?" asked Joe. "They only come around when it's pitch-black."
"We'll rig the pot like a bell and attach a piece of dried meat to it. If we hear the bell ring, we'll turn on the flashlight and zap whatever we see."
Joe grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Sounds like fun!"
Two sticks were crossed and lashed over the opening of the pot, and pebbles were tied to threads suspended from them. When the pot was moved, the pebbles clinked against its interior. They tied a piece of meat beneath the pot and hung it from a tree. Once the alarm was set up, Joe and Rick returned to the ledge to wait.
Con found it was too cold to sleep alone, so all three of them stayed up and silently ensured no one dozed off. The night wore on without a sound, not even wind. Many hours passed before they heard a soft clinking sound. Three short rows of tiny colored lights glowed as Rick turned on the gun and placed his eye to the targeting scope. Joe switched on the flashlight and a nightstalker was caught in its pale beam. Rick pulled the targeting trigger, then the firing trigger, as the gun tracked the flee-ing animal. A single crack downed the beast.
Con screamed as a pair of large yellow-brown eyes rose and peered over the ledge. Sharp claws grasped the stone just inches from where she sat. Joe swung the flash-light at the feathered head, striking its toothy snout. The light went out. Rick fired blindly into the darkness while Con groped for the second flashlight. When she turned it on, its beam revealed a single nightstalker lying dead in the snow and two sets of tracks heading from the canyon into the night.
THE NIGHTSTALKER RAN with her child from the place of strange smells. She ran with surety, for her eyes could distinguish the black trees from the slightly less black ground. She saw the dawn behind the clouds and used it to her advantage. It was easier to hunt when the prey was blind. As she ran, she did not grieve for the child left behind. Grief was something she could not understand. Pain, she understood—hunger, too. Hunger governed her life and directed her thoughts. When the pain left, she would re-member the place of strange smells. One of those smells was food. Maybe more than one.