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THE HUNT BEGINS

No wolves are present when Vida wakes. Perhaps there were never any resting in the soft green bedding nature provided, although she thought she had sensed them around her when she’d briefly drifted out of the depths of sleep and into the shallows.

From the broad shelf on which she’d passed the night, grassland rises for maybe a hundred yards, broken by low stone formations like toppled monuments, leading to a renewal of the forest. This broad swath of open land is prime hunting ground for raptors, and even as the sun ascends into its fullness, what might be a red-tailed hawk appears in the distance, while a larger ferruginous hawk kites overhead in a widening gyre.

After her ablutions, after stretching exercises to get limber for what the day will require, Vida sits with a view of the forest below the shelf where she slept. She makes a breakfast of two PowerBars and a bottle of water.

What if she is destined to be a defender of the natural world, as José Nochelobo was in his way? What if, as the fortuneteller implied, Vida’s life is somehow a reflection of the mythical life of the Roman deity Diana, goddess of the moon and of all the creatures that hunt or are hunted? What does that mean? What does it entail? For one thing, she will be hunted by those who believe the natural world exists only to fatten their wallets or serve their ideology, or to provide an excuse for them to rule others in the name of ecological virtue, and she will be justified in hunting them as they hunt her. A day of violence lies before her, whether she wants it or not, and she doesn’t want it.

Although she dreads what is coming, she has prepared for it. She might end up sprawled dead among blue wildflowers, although she won’t be the only corpse in that meadow. She has Nash Deacon’s gun, but rather than use it, she prefers to dispose of it in the wilds where it will never be found, never be associated with her. If she must kill those who are intent on killing her, if there is no law enforcement on which she can rely, she must not use guns that can be proved to have been in her possession.

At all costs, when this is finished, she must resume life in her uncle’s house from which they have harried her. The only future Vida desires is the past—the eighty acres, the small stone house, the books, the quiet, the patient processing of the placer mine gemstones, the visitation of wolves, the memories.

Dog voices. Not the howls of wolves. Sharp and eager. Quickly silenced.

Vida springs to her feet.

The search dogs are well disciplined. Although they must be hugely excited, she hears no sound from the pack after that brief spate of triumphant barking, which suggests they’re no more than two hundred yards below, screened from her by the ranks of conifers. She hasn’t expected dogs. But at the sound of them, she realizes they were inevitable.

She needs to move faster than she has intended; however, all things considered, the hounds are a positive development. Left to their own skills and instinct, the hunters are likely to lose track of her, requiring that she leave spoor so obvious that the men might suspect they are being lured into a trap, which they are. No matter how meager the signs of her passage might be, the dogs are certain to find them, know them, and never be distracted or misled.

She folds the wrappers of the PowerBars, inserts them in the empty water bottle, crushes the flimsy plastic, screws on the cap, and stows the condensed trash in a zippered pocket of her jacket.

She shrugs into her backpack, secures the strap at her waist, and stands listening. The dogs make no sound that she can hear, but they are still coming. She can feel them yearning toward her. They want her, but not to harm her, only to keep the promise they have made to whoever is their master. Dogs keep their promises, though the promises that people, in turn, make to them are less reliably fulfilled.

She turns away from her unseen pursuers and hurries up the grassy meadow toward the tree line.