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Updated: May 24, 2025
The stamp to the safe was in Brule's billfold. There were three of them, about the size of mice, starfish-shaped lumps of translucent, hard, colorless jelly. They didn't move. Trigger laid them in a row on the polished surface of a small table, and blinked at them for a moment from a streaming left eye. The right eye was swelling shut. Brule had got in one wild wallop somewhere along the line.
On peeping out from behind the last pine, I found I had calculated pretty well, for there was the hollow, the big windfall, with its round, starfish-shaped roots exposed to the bright sun, and near that, the carcass. Sure enough, pulling hard at it, was the gray-white wolf I recognized as my "lofer." But he presented an exceedingly difficult shot.
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