The Worry of Wolves
Shiloh stood on the rocky outcropping, overlooking the canyon below, its cliffs and jagged stones cast in deep relief by the setting sun. A warm breeze off the desert ruffled his fur, but he ignored it. His mind was far away.
“The Pack trusts you, Shiloh,” said Skie. She nuzzled his flank with her cold wet nose.
He didn’t look at her, but his stance changed — an almost imperceptible movement; a slight relaxation of the muscles in his back.
“I can smell their fear,” said Shiloh.
“You’ve led us through worse situations, my love. We will survive this one. I trust you. You’ll find water soon.” Skie settled herself on her haunches, her long tongue moving out with the beat of her lungs.
Shiloh did not sit. He looked back to the scrag brush near the canyon mouth where his pack lounged. It had been their only protection from the blazing sun and heat during the long, dry day. Ahead, further west, the terrain looked even more inhospitable.
For the first time in his long seven years of life, Shiloh was lost.
“If I could only catch scent of the herd,” he said. “We could follow them to water, catch out their weak for food. Where are they, Skie?”
Shiloh’s life mate moved forward and rested her white-furred head on his back. She had never seen this mood in him. It was frightening, painful.
After some moments listening to the restless wind and the sound of their joined hearts, Shiloh turned to the pack.
“On your feet, wolves. Night is falling’ it’s our time!”