Chutar
It had been a very hard winter. To survive, the ibex had gone down to the weedy grass of the ledges, between the pond and the creek: impossible to approach them among those cliffs. Chutar had decided to throw some time and a lot of precious salt into their hunt.
The basin on the large bench under the crags was ideal for an ambush: scattered with erratic boulders, covered with evergreen patches, in the summer it hid a pool of greenish water; in the winter nothing more than an ice crust that the thaw would melt and feed, making it overflow onto the ravines.
He had scattered salt on the ice at the edges and, just above, on the ochreous ring marking the summer water level. In March, or even before, if favonian wind would blow, the saltiness would drip down the gorges. The herd would
