Buccari momentarily forgot the cold. Commander Quinn, the senior officer, was dead. The decisions were now hers to make. She was responsible; she was speechless. She stared at her feet.

"Tatum' s the one we need to worry about, Lieutenant," Shannon yelled against the wind thrashing through the trees. "He's in bad shape—infection, maybe blood poisoning. Lee says it's only a matter of time before gangrene takes over."

"We need to get him to the cliff dweller colony," Buccari said, shaking off her thoughts. "At first light tomorrow we're heading for the cliffs. The cliff dwellers have given us permission to stay there."

"Aye," Shannon said, looking up. "Best news in a long time."

"We'll have the wind at our back," Hudson shouted.

"Don't count on it," Buccari replied. "Look at those clouds. A front's coming. Bad weather and a wind shift. Let's get moving before the storm hits."

Large downy flakes sifted gracefully from an amorphous ceiling. The snows would last until the full moon, maybe longer. Old Kuudor, wearing black otter fur, slogged between posts through the delicate shroud of snow. The guard had been doubled, and he was checking sentry stations for vigilance. The pointillistic forms of two other hunters materialized from the textured curtain of snowflakes—Craag and Braan, in white growler skins and nearly invisible.

Braan spoke first, as was fitting. "Tidings, Kuudor, captainof-the-sentry."

"Hail and well met, Braan-our-leader. Greetings, brave warrior Craag," returned the sentry commandant, using ancient forms.

"All is in order," Craag said. "Thy sentries are well-taught and serious."

The old warrior swelled with pride. "But this storm is ominous," he responded. "It will last many days."

"No, and the long-legs are not yet within hail," Braan replied. "Daylight endures but one more hour. After dark the growlers will have their way."

"Perhaps they are not coming," Craag offered. "To wait would be wise."

"Perhaps," Braan replied. "But I think not. Short-one-wholeads said they would return this day. That creature seems sure-minded."

"I am told Short-one-who-leads is a female of the race," Kuudor said.

"It would be true," Braan stated.

"Strange beings, allowing smaller and weaker females to lead," Craag ventured.

"Perhaps their females are the more intelligent, as with guilders and hunters," Braan responded.

"We would never allow a guilder to lead us into battle!" Kuudor exclaimed. "Guilders have neither the will nor the means to fight, and they lack courage."

"Evidently female long-legs have the necessary attributes," Braan answered. "I doubt not their courage."

"Most curious. You will pardon me, warriors, for I must complete my rounds," Kuudor said. He saluted and stepped away and was immediately swallowed in a white matte curtain of snow.

MacArthur checked his compass and refigured his reckoning. The snow masked all directional references. He looked about, his anxiety rising. Goldberg was done—Mendoza was bodily carrying her. Lee and Fenstermacher tried to help, but it was all they could do to help each other. Shannon had his hands full with Dawson, but at least he was keeping her moving. Tatum was the problem; too heavy to carry, he fainted with disturbing frequency. It took two men to keep him moving. MacArthur, recalling the delirium and fever of his own infected shoulder, knew how his friend felt. The dwellers would heal Tatum—if only they could get there in time.

"How's Tatum doing?" MacArthur asked. Chastain, carrying an enormous backpack, also supported Tatum' s lanky weight. Hudson attempted to help, but Tatum's sagging body and the absence of a left arm made it awkward.

"Dunno, Mac," the big man gasped. "He ain't stirring." "How're you doing, Jocko?" MacArthur asked. "You need a relief?"

"I'm okay," Chastain wheezed, plowing through the yielding whiteness.

"I'll take a break," Hudson gasped.

"Sure thing, Mr. Hudson. I'll tag O'Toole," MacArthur said. He hated to take O'Toole off guard detail; he wanted his best guns on the line. MacArthur walked toward the rear of the refugee column. The column was stringing out dangerously.

There was movement to his right! Something vague and without definable shape. MacArthur halted and stared into the downy precipitation, straining to distinguish what his peripheral vision had discerned; but he could see nothing. He shook his head to clear his tired brain, and he pulled his face protector away from his eyes, giving him a wider field of vision, but to no avail. His five senses could tell him nothing, and yet he was certain something was lurking in the drifts, only paces away. Buccari, walking on snowshoes alongside the column, came up to him.

"I don't like you staring like that," she said. "What'd you see?"

"Something…maybe," MacArthur responded. He looked at her. She looked away.

"The last time we made this trip was more fun," he said, smiling behind his scarf. "I only had you to worry about.""Thanks a bunch," she replied sarcastically, turning face him.

"Don't get me wrong," he protested. "I worried about you at first, a lot! But after the first night, I worried more for the nightmares."

"Flattery!" she said. "I accept your praise, fierce warrior." "Praise easily given, fair damsel."

They touched shoulders as they turned and walked together, trudging along the column to where Tookmanian and Schmidt, struggling under their large backpacks, kicked through the snow. Petit and Gordon followed, also heavily burdened, wallowing in the whiteness.

"How much farther?" Buccari asked.

"Can't be far. Maybe a kilometer." MacArthur glanced sideways into the falling snow. The nagging feeling would not leave.

"We're too spread out," he said. "I want the rear closed up. Let's take over the rear guard from O'Toole. I'm putting O'Toole with Chastain. Tatum's really slowing us down."

A single rifle shot sounded from the head of the column. Burping automatic fire followed, shattering the cottony stillness. MacArthur turned and lunged ahead with Buccari in his wake. Growls reverberated in the air. As he came even with Tatum, he saw five wraithlike apparitions, their paws throwing up a furious churning of snow, charging the column from the opposite side. Tatum and his attendants blocked his line of fire. MacArthur dove behind the men, plunging into the dry snow, and fired a burst into the black-rimmed maw of the closest beast. Buccari's carbine stuttered over his head. Another nightmare fell. Chastain stumbled, dropping Tatum facedown in the snow. Someone screamed! Hudson drew his pistol as two ferocious animals rammed into him, jaws snapping for flesh. MacArthur rose to a knee and fired a round into the closest beast, knocking it squealing and whimpering. Chastain stepped forward and grabbed the other growler by its thick scruff and heaved it into the air. The agile, twisting beast landed on its feet and withdrew.

The other growlers swerved at the rifle reports but maintained their attack. Snarling animals leapt for Chastain's hamstrings. A burst from Buccari's carbine hit one growler in the shoulder, knocking it down, but the remaining beast struck at Chastain's buttocks and drew blood. Chastain went to his knees. Hudson, already on the ground, put his pistol behind the growler's ear and squeezed off two rounds. The growler fell dead.

MacArthur leapt to his feet. Hudson, clothing torn and bloodied, attended to Chastain, helping the big man stagger to his feet. As Buccari rolled Tatum' s snow-covered form face up, more rifle fire exploded from the rear of the column.

Explosions of death sticks reverberated along the cliffs. Braan and Craag, bows drawn, rushed into the snow. Kuudor deployed two sections of archers and called up the next watch. With nothing further to do, he drew his bow and marched forward, confident his sentries would stand their ground.