Gril raced toward the tree line, silently cursing that he had not scouted the area last night when he first felt the sensation of being watched. He would not make that mistake again. His gut feelings had saved his life more than once.
He paused inside the tree line and pulled his pistol, scanning the area before he looked down at the ground. Squatting, he ran his fingers over the impression of a boot heel in the moist soil by the tree.
His eyes followed the impressions in the ground before he looked at the ferns a couple feet away. Rising to his feet, he stepped forward and fingered the clean cut. His eyes narrowed. The two shells, the distinctive three toed tracks leading into the forest, to where someone who wore small boots clearly had been watching him, and now ferns slashed by a wea
