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She cannot, of course, tell me anything of the sort. I’m concerned because her whine tells me she hasn’t just picked up Penny’s scent, which is all around.
I take out the scent markers. I open Bruno’s bag to ask if that’s what she smells—our other missing person—but she doesn’t lift her head even when I call her. She just whines another apology for disobeying.
I glance in the direction Dalton went and then over at Storm. She’s about fifteen feet away, and if I can see her from here, then he’ll be able to see me if I go to her.
I walk over and bend beside her. She lifts her nose and paws at the ground. A tree fell here, and the earth is covered with dead branches and moldering leaves. I dig with one hand, but only find dirt.
I straighten and look around. Then I take a step back for a better angle, trying to see what might be bothering her, and my foot slips.
I presume I’ve slid on those rotting leaves, so I’m only paying half attention as I adjust my balance, but my boot keeps sliding backward, and the next thing I know, I’m falling, arms windmilling as I topple.
I don’t hit the ground. I keep going, Storm giving a bark of alarm as I plummet, the earth disappearing above me.
CHAPTER THREE
I hit the ground hard, and as I scramble up, my ankle and wrist scream in protest, but I keep going until I’m upright… and looking at Storm eight feet overhead, woofing in alarm.
“I’m fine,” I say, and my voice comes out as a winded croak.
I peer around. It’s some kind of pit. It’s been dug into the permafrost, meaning it was dug out in summer, years ago by the looks of it. I’m standing at the bottom, looking up at the top covered with the branches of that dead tree. Intentionally covered? I try not to be paranoid about that. If there are people living out here—and there certainly will be, somewhere—they hunt for their dinner, and that’s what I’ve fallen into: a pit trap. Not exactly a common method of hunting in North America, but in the Yukon, we get all kinds.
I’m brushing myself off when Storm gives another deep woof. Then her head disappears.
“Don’t go far,” I say. “I—”
Paws thunder over the ground, brush crackling.
“Storm?” I say.
I try to shout it loud enough to bring her back, but I’m stillwinded. I’m also a little dazed, and it takes a moment to realize my query wasn’t a command.
“Storm!” I call. “Come!”
She’s too far away now to hear my hoarse shout. I don’t have Dalton’s piercing whistle, and I’d spent part of last year training her with a dog whistle. That would be so much more useful if it weren’t in my backpack… which is up top, after I removed it to get the scent markers.
I keep shouting, and my voice is clearer, but she’s long gone. Off to fetch Dalton to rescue me, which is very sweet, but I’d rather she let me try doing it for myself.
“What’s that, Lassie?” I mutter. “Timmy fell in the well. Again?”
I shake my head. At least I haven’t gotten myself in thisexactpredicament before. Sure, I’ve stumbled off a cliff and been left hanging on a ledge, but this is far less dire. I’m on the bottom, and the top is only a few feet overhead. There are plenty of roots, too, which means I should be able to get out.
I grab one thick root up over the permafrost level, dig the toe of my boot into the frozen ground of the side, swing up… and the root flies free.
Step one: make sure the damn root is actually attached to something.
I find another root and test it. Seems secure. Grab it. Dig in my toe. Heave myself up—
A branch cracks overhead. I freeze, suspended on the pit side like a rock climber.
I slide back down as I listen. Dead leaves whisper, as if under a bear’s paw. I take out my gun and peer up.
I can’t see beyond the spot where I fell through. The rest is covered by that dead tree and the leaf debris that’s fallen on top of it.
Fallen? No, the leaf debris that was placed on top of it to hide the pit.
I ease back into the darkness under that overhang. More crunching overhead. Then a grunt, and I tense and curse myself for leaving my backpack—with bear spray—up top. I should have had it on a utility belt. Too excited about being in our new forest home, I made the tourist mistake of stuffing it into a backpack pocket.
A shadow falls over the sunlight shining through that opening. I brace myself for the inevitable bear muzzle to poke into the hole. It’s just curious. Like Dalton said, this is the wrong time of the year for desperately hungry bears, and I can’t be threatening a cub down in this hole. Bears are curious. Just let it be a black bear rather than a brown, please.
