Near the head of the canyon, the trail turned left and carved a winding course up the 
steep north wall toward the ridge. Travis rounded a bend, saw a log lying across the 
path, jumped but caught one foot on the rotting wood. He fell forward, flat on his chest. 
Stunned, he could not get his breath, could not move.
  He expected something to pounce on him and tear out his throat.
  The retriever dashed back down the trail and leaped over Travis, landing sure-footedly 
on the path behind him. It barked fiercely at whatever was chasing them, much more 
threateningly than when it had challenged Travis in the clearing.
  Travis rolled over and sat up, gasping. He saw nothing on the trail below. Then he 
realized the retriever was not concerned about anything in that direction but was 
standing sideways on the trail, facing the underbrush in the forest to the east of them. 
Spraying saliva, it barked stridently, so hard and loud that each explosive sound hurt 
Travis's ears. The tone of savage fury in its voice was daunting. The dog was warning the 
unseen enemy to stay back.
  "Easy boy," Travis said softly. "Easy."
  The retriever stopped barking but did not glance at Travis. It stared intently into the 
brush, peeling its pebbly black lips off its teeth and growling deep in its throat.
  Still breathing hard, Travis got to his feet and looked east into the woods. 
Evergreens, sycamores, a few larches. Shadows like swatches of dark cloth were fastened 
here and there by golden pins and needles of light. Brush. Briars. Climbing vines. A few 
well-worn toothlike formations of rock. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.
  When he reached down and put a hand upon the retriever's head, the dog stopped 
growling, as if it understood his intention. Travis drew a breath, held it, and listened 
for movement in the brush.
  The cicadas remained silent. No birds sang in the trees. The woods were as still as if 
the vast, elaborate clockwork mechanism of the universe had ceased ticking.
  He was sure that he was not the cause of the abrupt silence. His passage through the 
canyon had not previously disturbed either birds or cicadas.
  Something was out there. An intruder of which the ordinary forest creatures clearly did 
not approve.
  He took a deep breath and held it again, straining to hear the slightest movement in 
the woods. This time he detected the rustle of brush, a snapping twig, the soft crunch of 
dry leaves-and the unnervingly peculiar, heavy, ragged breathing of something big. It 
sounded about forty feet away, but he could not pinpoint its location.
  At his side, the retriever had gone rigid. Its floppy ears were slightly pricked, 
straining forward.
  The unknown adversary's raspy breathing was so creepy-whether because of the echo 
effect of the forest and canyon, or because it was just creepy to begin with-that Travis 
quickly took off his backpack, unsnapped the flap, and withdrew the loaded .38.
  The dog stared at the gun. Travis had the weird feeling that the animal knew what the 
revolver was-and approved of the weapon.
  Wondering if the thing in the woods was a man, Travis called out: "Who's there? Come on 
out where I can see you."
  The hoarse breathing in the brush was now underlaid with a thick menacing gnarl. The 
eerie guttural resonance electrified Travis. His heart beat even harder, and he went as 
rigid as the retriever beside him. For interminable ticking seconds, he could not 
understand why the noise itself had sent such a powerful current of fear through him. 
Then he realized that what frightened him was the noise's ambiguity: the beast's growl 
was definitely that of an animal . . . yet there was also an indescribable quality that 
bespoke intelligence, a tone and modulation almost like the sound that an enraged man 
might make. The more he listened, the more Travis decided it was neither strictly an 
animal nor human sound. But if neither . . . then what the hell was it?
  He saw the high brush stirring. Straight ahead. Something was coming toward him.
  "Stop," he said sharply. "No closer."
  It kept coming.
  Now just thirty feet away.
  Moving slower than it had been. A bit wary perhaps. But closing in nevertheless.
  The golden retriever began to growl threateningly, again warning off the creature that 
stalked them. But tremors were visible in its flanks, and its head shook. Though it was 
challenging the thing in the brush, it was profoundly frightened of a confrontation.
  The dog's fear unnerved Travis. Retrievers were renowned for boldness and courage. They 
were bred to be the companions of hunters, and were frequently used in dangerous rescue 
operations. What peril or foe could provoke such dread in a strong, proud dog like this?
  The thing in the brush continued toward them, hardly more than twenty feet away now.
  Though he had as yet seen nothing extraordinary, he was filled with superstitious 
terror, a perception of indefinable but uncanny presences. He kept telling himself he had 
chanced upon a cougar, just a cougar, that was probably more frightened than he was. But 
the icy prickling that began at the base of his spine and extended up across his scalp 
now intensified. His hand was so slick with sweat that he was afraid the gun would slip 
out of his grasp.
  Fifteen feet.
  Travis pointed the .38 in the air and squeezed off a single warning shot. The blast 
crashed through the forest and echoed down the long canyon.
  The retriever did not even flinch, but the thing in the brush immediately turned away 
from them and ran north, upslope, toward the canyon rim. Travis could not see it, but he 
could clearly mark its swift progress by the waist-high weeds and bushes that shook and 
parted under its assault.
  For a second or two, he was relieved because he thought he had frightened it off. Then 
he saw it was not actually running away. It was heading north-northwest on a curve that 
would bring it to the deer trail above them. Travis sensed that the creature was trying 
to cut them off and force them to go out of the canyon by the lower route, where it would 
have more and better opportunities to attack. He did not understand how he knew such a 
thing, just that he did know it.
  His primordial survival instinct drove him into action without the need to think about 
each move he made; he automatically did what was required. He had not felt that animal 
surety since he had seen military action almost a decade ago.
  Trying to keep his eye on the telltale tremble of the brush to his right, abandoning 
his backpack and keeping only the gun, Travis raced up the steep trail, and the retriever 
ran behind him. Fast as he was, however, he was not fast enough to overtake the unknown 
enemy. When he realized that it was going to reach the path well above him, he fired 
another warning shot, which did not startle or deflect the adversary this time. He fired 
twice into the brush itself, toward the indications of movement, not caring if it was a 
man out
  there, and that worked. He did not believe he hit the stalker, but he scared it at 
last, and it turned away.
  He kept running. He was eager to reach the canyon rim, where the trees were thin along 
the ridge top, where the brush was sparse, and where a brighter fall of sunlight did not 
permit concealing shadows.
  When he arrived at the crest a couple of minutes later, he was badly winded. The 
muscles of his calves and thighs were hot with pain. His heart thumped so hard in his