"I'm okay, Corporal," she said between deep breaths. She looked at him and smiled, perceiving his deep look of concern. She knew the steepest, hardest part of the hike still lay ahead. "I'll make it."

"You're a helluva Marine, Lieutenant," MacArthur said quietly.

"Thanks. I guess." She averted her face, her smile turning into a grimace, but she felt better for his compliment.

"Crap! It's starting to snow!" Jones exclaimed, looking into a vague sky. A wind-driven flurry of dry snow dusted the forested hillside, the chilly breeze whispering through evergreen boughs.

"We're in for a good one," MacArthur said evenly. "Keep the pace up. We have to make the cliff trail before the snow gets too deep. It'll be a sumbitch to climb now."

"How much further?" Buccari asked.

"Don't know," MacArthur replied. "We may be in trouble." The patrol put their heads down and trudged up the mountain.

The blizzard descended in its full fury. Braan took the lead, kicking through burgeoning snowdrifts, his visible world reduced to a fuzzy white hemisphere extending but a few paces from his uncertain position. The salt bearers stumbled along in his wake, plowing the dry and powdery snow aside. The hunter leader stopped and tried to sense his position, feeling deep within his instincts. The valley head was near, but even Braan was losing confidence.

The hunter leader heard a dim and faraway whistle. His sagging shoulders lifted with hope—the relief column! Braan vigorously returned the signal call and repeated it in the direction of his expedition. Muted screams pierced the storm. Another whistle! Braan oriented himself to the signal and pressed through the blizzard. Shadowy figures materialized from the whiteness.

"Return in health, Braan, leader-of-hunters," whistled Kuudor. Snow covered his fur-shrouded form. Two sentries, cold and excited, flanked the sentry captain.

"Greetings, Kuudor, captain-of-sentries," chirped Braan. "Thy presence is heartwarming. A difficult expedition, but successful. Thy students have been faithful to thy teaching. All performed well, and all return as warriors. Good fortune but for the loss of a faithful warrior. Brave Tinn'a, clan of Botto, has joined his ancestors."

Kuudor' s shoulders sagged in relief, but he also mourned the loss of the indomitable Tinn'a. Kuudor turned to a sentry and dispatched him to deliver the news to the elders.

"Sentries stationed to mark the trail await thee," Kuudor said with ritual. "Thy burden is now theirs." The old warrior stepped forward. He handed Braan a growlerskin cape and lifted the salt bag from Braan' s shoulders, settling it on his own. Braan thankfully relinquished his burden and covered his raw shoulders with the fur. Braan whistled and the columns surged forward. Another dim whistle sounded ahead, and as the columns arrived at the next sentry's position that hunter moved into the column, relieved one of its exhausted members of his heavy salt bag, and marched alongside. Onward the salt bearers marched, listening for the sentry beacons ahead, waiting for fresh backs to relieve them of their loads. The bone-weary cliff dwellers gave up their onerous burdens as if being reborn. Many cried, overwhelmed by the succor. And thus they were guided down the narrow and steep valley and across the ice-encrusted bridge. An agonizing uphill journey remained, but their numbers and energies were expanded to the task.

The forest ended. The patrol was abruptly in the open, above the tree line. The clouds lifted momentarily, revealing their precipitous ascent. MacArthur stopped and stared upwards.

"Why don't we start climbing?" Buccari asked. "We have to go up."

"We could, I guess," MacArthur replied, turning to face her. "That path cuts along the edge of the cliff, and it switches back over those higher ridges to the left. If we blindly head up, we may find ourselves boxed in on one of those steep cuts, dead-ended."

"So what are you saying?" Buccari asked.

"I'm scared," MacArthur said, looking her in the eyes, "…sir."

Buccari looked up the steep ascent, but the clouds filled in; the ceiling descended, enshrouding them in foggy flurries.

Hunter scouts detected the long-legs camped near the trail and stalked them from the edge of the blown snow's limits.

"Long-legs command the trail, Braan-our-leader," reported the scout. The scouting party leaned against the flurries, the wind lifting the plush fur of their capes.

"It is true, Braan-our-leader," Bott'a said. "They are positioned so that we cannot pass, but they are not vigilant. We could easily overwhelm them."

The others acknowledged Bott'a's assessment. Kuudor also advocated direct action. The storm was in full sway. The footing would only get more treacherous.

"Wait here," Braan commanded.

"The snow is only going to get deeper. Now's the time to move."

"Move where, Lieutenant?" MacArthur asked. "Where's the trail?"

Buccari's anger eclipsed her exhaustion; her fatigue overwhelmed her good sense. She stared into the swirling snows, frustration blossoming like a weed.

"MacArthur! Lieutenant!" O'Toole whispered urgently. "Behind you."

Buccari turned to see a cliff dweller ten paces away, its hands raised with empty palms. Buccari regained her composure and emulated the creature's actions.

"He looks familiar," Buccari remarked quietly. "Look at the scars."

"Yeah, we've seen him before," MacArthur replied, also bowing. "When we returned Tonto, he was there. He must be their leader—their captain. Look! He has Tatum's knife."

The cliff dweller stepped forward, looking agitated and frightened. Brandishing the man-knife, the animal pointed up the mountain and then to its own chest. It sheathed the knife and flashed the spindly fingers of both hands many times. The creature moved slowly toward them, palms forward, as if to push the humans backward, but it did not come too close. It pivoted its body up the slope and walked in place. The bewildered humans looked at each other trying to find meaning in the charade. Buccari approached the creature and pointed to herself and then to the rest of her patrol, and then turned uphill and marched in place, just as the hunter had done. The hunter looked around at the humans and impatiently repeated the pushing-back gesture.

"He wants us to move back, Lieutenant," MacArthur said. "I concur," Buccari replied. "Let's do it."

The humans collected their gear and moved back into the thin line of fir trees. The creature whistled into the deadening snow; a muted answer sounded, and then several more whistles, each further away, diminishing in the distance. Moments later the first scouts hiked nervously by. After the scouts came the rest of the expedition, slowly, in single file, many bent grotesquely with huge bags on their backs. Dozens of cliff dwellers filed by—scores of them. They kept coming as the snow fell harder and the temperature dropped. And coming.

"Anyone been counting?" Jones asked.

"Somewhere around a hundred fifty," Buccari said.

"Hundred and sixty-two," MacArthur said. "About a third carrying bags."

"They look tired," O'Toole said. "Wonder what's in the bags?"

"Food, I guess," Buccari said. "Probably stocking up for the winter."

The long file of cliff dwellers came to an end. The last few, without bags, walked alertly past and disappeared into the vague whiteness. Three cliff dwellers, including their captain, remained stationary, dim forms in the falling snow. Buccari picked up her pack and struggled painfully into the straps. MacArthur supported its weight.

"Ooph! Thanks," she said, looking at his feet. She raised her head and ordered, "Let's move! They're waiting for us!" She turned and trudged up the steep hillside toward the waiting animals. When she had closed half the distance the cliff dwellers turned and started climbing.