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In death she was not reduced and I was greatly humbled. The arrow had taken her in the last rib of the right side and almost out the armpit on the left. The three blades were clear and the wounds seemed gigantic. Fat had covered the wound on the right, until the oak found it. All her blood that spilled came from the left. Kneeling there, trying to fix her some way on the slope, I skinned as best I could.

Even late in the day the shadowed potholes were skeined with ice, and I knew the night would be cold enough to keep the fur. I still had to get down the mountain to my pack, then back to camp. Tomorrow I would have to pack her out, over the nightmare ridge, heavier than I had ever been, trying to make town before the taxidermist quit for dinner.