That was the first law of his breed, the primal warning which came to him through the red blood of many generations of wilderness forefathers.

So he listened, and he watched, and his blood pounded hot in his veins as he followed the footprints in the trail.

A bit of brush, swinging suddenly free from where it had been prisoned by the storm, drew a snarl from him as he faced the sound with the quickness of a cat.

A gray streak, passing swiftly over the trail ahead of him, stirred a low growl in his throat.

It was a lynx, and for a space Peter paused, and then sped soft-footed past the moon-lit spot where the stiletto-clawed menace of the woods had passed.
Now that he was alone, and no longer accompanied by a human presence whose footsteps and scent held the wild things aloof and still, Peter felt nearer and nearer to him the beat and stir of life.