The pony had taken less than fifty steps when Eagle Talon again stopped the horse. He heard something else—an almost imperceptible sigh, out of place in the air currents amongst the cottonwoods. The mustang’s ears remain pricked, his eyes fastened on some point still upstream and slightly off the creek to their left. Eagle Talon raised the bow to the ready, its long alder body held with an almost rigid left arm diagonally across his chest. He slipped his fore and second fingers over the arrow notch just behind the fletching of duck feathers.
The mustang took two more careful steps. Suddenly, Eagle Talon caught a movement from the left corner of his eyes. His pulse raced. The battle with the Pawnee was still fresh in his memory and he was high strung by the events of the last two suns. He brought the bow to full draw instinctively, without thought, sighting down the arrow shaft.
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