Dust and Smiles
Thom was aggravated by the pack's lack of progress in finding a trail to follow. The rains had washed clear much chance they might have had of finding any tracks and the scents were apparently just as muddied. The hounds had taken to weaving in and out amongst the foliage, and the occasional bay between them only served to set his teeth on edge. He knew that if they did not find something in the next hour or so it would be time to call them all in as there was literally no chance they would find the two hounds he sought, given the time that had elapsed since he had taken the fresh meat on. He pulled off his hat, gripping the brim with his thumb and forefinger, and slicked his hand through his hair. Mairy, he thought. He could see her face rising up in front of his. Her beautiful smile, those trusting eyes. It was those eyes that would break him when they went from his face to the door behind him and saw nothing. He could see her now, her eyes traveling from joy in seeing him, to the empty door frame behind him, and back to his eyes, where the truth would be written. Conn was not coming home. Would it crush her? How attached had she become? He feared that she had come to love the hound as much as a child. He wiped his hand across his eyes to still the wet that was gathering there. It was a time for action. He would deal with sentiment later, if and when he had to. For now, there was still a small chance that he might not have to see her face crumble before him. He slapped his hat back on his head and broke into a long stride. He certainly intended to do everything he could to avoid hurting her.
As the day lagged on, his spirit waned. He was going to have to turn for home, but he hated the idea of it. Not going home, just giong home under these circumstances. Well, perhaps he might take down another good size deer on the way. Her heart might be empty but her stomach did not need to be, and perhaps come the spring she would be singing. His Mairy did not stay down for long. He smiled with that thought gripped hard in his mind and whistled to the hounds, turning with purpose on the path. It was time to head toward home.
They had been traveling for nigh on a half of an hour when the smallest of the pack broke and ran off to the right, silent as a whisper, but straight and sure. The other hounds stopped dead, sniffing the air, then began to spread out a bit. There must be a strong scent in the wind for them to be acting this way, mused the hunter. The pack circled out from him, fanning in an arc and moving off in the direction his smallest had gone. He waited for a signal from them, testing his patience on the path. Then he saw the nose of the small one break just ahead of him around the curve of a large oak. The hound turned in a circle, looked at him again, and circled once more. It appeared that he had been invited to the party. So be it, he smiled grimly and began to close in on the path. It was harder for him to travel as silently as the hounds, but he had practice and he found himself moving almost as quietly, close enough to be mistaken for wind in the boughs.
He followed the small reddish hide for what seemed an eternity, though it could not have been that long. He certainly had not waited that long on the path, or had he? Then he noticed a small bit of grey fur tangled on a bit of briar. It could have been one of the pack he traveled with, had they not all arced away from the small red's path. He plucked it from the briar gently, careful not to prick himself on the thorns. It was hound hide, wiry and soft all at the same time. He wondered at the possibility that this could be Coll's. Was it the right height? He eyed the bush. It seemed the spot where he had found the tiny sample was about the right height for the grey's haunch. Yes, it was possible. He could feel his pulse begin to quicken. Could it be that they were on the track again? Was there anyway for him to know for sure? He could only rely on the hounds for guidance.
He called out to the red, but he kept moving forward, some destination in mind. Thom followed, suddenly much lighter in step. Clearing the foil of briar bushes, he found himself near a very small slit of creek. A lone oak grew there, as if the creek sprouted from it. Along the base of the tree, just opposite the small jagged line of water, the leaves were crushed and rumpled. Some bones, recently chewed were splayed on the ground. The rest of the pack was circling in, and as they approached, they began to sniff and whimper, but they did not actually approach the spot full on. The red came back to Thom and sat at his feet. The warm liquid eyes looked up at him, then he gave one short almost quiet yip of a bay. They had done it, found the trail.
Thom's relief flooded him. His knees were actually weak. He scratched the hound between the ears and dug out a bit of biscuit from the sack at his hip. He did not usually give the hounds his own food, but this was worthy of a grander gesture. He fed the hound from the palm of his hand, enjoying the slip of the slightly rough tongue on his skin. Wiping his hand on his trousers, he moved to the rest of the pack. "Aye then, so we've a mite more to do here then. Find them for Mairy for me," he spoke low and even, catching them each with his eyes. Then he stood and waited, waited and watched as they each took a turn snooting through the leaves and the bones before they turned and went off in their weaving pattern to search for the hounds that had vanished and the promise of his wife's smile.
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