September Winds

By Tom Peters

Living on land that had once been the territory of the Kalapuya Indians, Tom researched the tribe, discovering that there was little in the way of historical writings about the people. The book is a fictional tale about a small mountain community surrounded by huge tracts of corporate timberland. Sam McKenzie, the last full-blooded Kalapuya, and Laura Morgan, an attractive widow, become drawn together amid a group of colorful characters and unexpected events. The small hamlet of Falon, although insulated from most of the nation's big-city dilemmas, becomes entwined in a sinister plot to disrupt the American way of life. Through the chapters, the reader is taken on an amazingly entertaining adventure into the lives of small-town people going through big time experiences. September Winds is the type of story that many readers will want to experience more than once.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684564194

Book preview

Chapter 1

He was an admitted killer. The act of ending a life was something that the man did with accuracy, speed, and deliberate intent. His methods sometimes varied, but the result was always predictable—death. There was no pleasure in the killing; instead, there was always a feeling of sadness. However, the killing had long ago become advanced knowledge and most always avoided undue suffering. The act itself wasn’t due to anger or for revenge. It wasn’t directed by others. His sole reason for the taking of life was logical and justifiable. He was hungry.

The hunter sat near the edge of a narrow mountain stream with his back to a tree. The water beside him was clear and as cold as the ice from which it had melted high up in the Cascade mountains to the east. The flowing liquid made a relaxing sound, almost melodic, as it passed around large rocks and thick branches. There was the smell of damp moss and rich soil carried along as the air drifted above the stream. The only movement evident on his lean, unclothed body was the opening and closing of his nostrils as he slowly breathed in and out. Cushioned by a few soft cedar branches, he had his knees pulled up almost to his chest. His left arm, supported by his knees, held a long bow. It had been fashioned from the branch of a Pacific yew tree, then carefully scraped with the sharp edges of mussel shells until the thickness and shape were perfect. Next, it was heated near an open fire to temper the wood and add the proper bend at both ends. This was followed by the smoothing of the weapon using river stones, first coarse, then finer until the finish was as flawless as human skin. His right hand held an arrow tipped with a small quartz point, attached with thin strips of rawhide that were applied wet so as to tighten when dried. Three black crow feathers made the fletching. A bowstring carefully woven from deer sinew, held the arrow by its notched end.

The bow, as well as the man, seemed at rest but focused. There was an alertness in the dark eyes, which stayed fixed upon a single spot several yards along the trail in front of him. Around his waist was a thin leather strap that supported a buckskin loin cloth, front and back. The strap also held a short obsidian knife sheathed in leather. Its razor sharp jet-black blade was as effective a cutting tool as modern steel. On his left hip hung a pouch about the size of two hands, also made of tanned animal skins and closed with a flap overlapping the top. This held some of his stone tools and trail necessities like lacing, folded leather for moccasin repair, and a little food. His feet were wrapped in soft elk skin moccasins secured above both ankles with leather strips.

Here sat a man who was long and lean like a highly trained athlete. His skin was smooth, naturally tanned and without hair except for the dark eyebrows and a full, thick head of it that was shiny, black, long, and tied into two braids that rested on his shoulders. A single feather hung from the right braid. It was red, and he had worn one for many years.

The tree he leaned against was an alder, and as the sun began to disappear to his right, signaling the end of day, the last rays filtered through the overhanging leaves dancing across his skin in a softly moving pattern of sun and shade. There was something about the man’s face that hinted at an approaching smile, yet his features were set in no expression. Perhaps it was the corners of his mouth that were just slightly upturned, not by effort but by nature. His eyes also seemed to reflect happiness over any other emotion. The description of his face could accurately be called pleasant while overall he was an impressive specimen.

It was early summer in western Oregon, and this man occupied one of the world’s most beautiful places. Bathed in deep green forests carpeted with ferns and soft moss, this land had been blessed with an abundance of moisture during mild winters and warm, dry summers, which provided all that a human being could want.

This was a land of plenty that presented substantially fewer hardships to the region’s Native Americans than most other areas throughout the continent. The ocean’s fertility produced salmon in great abundance. These fish, upon reaching adulthood in the sea, returned to the freshwater places of their birth to spawn. Species like coho, Chinook, and king came twice each year, spring and fall, by the millions. Steelhead, which are large ocean going trout, filled the waterways at various times of the year, as did other fishes and eels. Elk, deer, mountain lion, bear, coyote and numerous small game were plentiful both on the mountains and in the valleys.

This abundance provided not only food but tools and clothing as well. Very little of what was taken was ever wasted. The plants and trees also furnished food, shelter, and materials for various human needs. Of course, to the American Indian, the necessities and even luxuries of life were quite simple: food, shelter, clothing, and companionship. They needed fulfillment of the basic needs and little more. This simple life existed and flourished, virtually unchanged for thousands of years.

He was a Kalapuya Indian and his band was called the Santiam. Kalapuya were mostly on the eastern side of the Willamette River from present day Salem, Oregon, south to Brownsville and east into the Cascades. These were predominantly friendly Indians with very few enemies. They traded with their neighbors throughout the Pacific Northwest and only went to war when forced to do so. Most of their time during the spring, summer, and fall was spent hunting, fishing, gathering, preparing, and preserving food. The rainy winters were devoted to domestic, indoor activities. That was a time for togetherness, storytelling, and tribal unity.

It was now a day in early summer. He was alone, surrounded only by the dense, seemingly endless forest. His bow and arrow were set, his keen senses were focused, and his body was ready. Much of the history of his people was etched in his mind. The lessons learned from countless braves who had come and gone before him were now instinctive actions or reactions to the dangers or opportunities presented daily to the hunter/warrior living off the land with only crude tools and weapons fashioned from wood and stone. His hearing, sense of smell, eyesight, and ability to understand the nature of all living things around him were a part of his genetic makeup, and he used them all very well.

A small bit of tan fur moved between thick brush along a narrow path ahead of him. There were only a few inches beyond the path to the stream where a rabbit was cautiously inching toward the green grass growing in the moist soil along the stream bank. The animal paused for a moment before leaving the protection of the bush. In a land filled with predators, survival depended upon recognizing danger before it killed you. After a long pause, the creature pushed off with its hind legs toward the succulent grass just ahead.

In a rapid, yet fluid motion, the bow string was pulled and then released. The arrow made a swift flight to, and then through, the unsuspecting animal. With seemingly no effort, the brave rose to his feet and moved swiftly to the rabbit. He picked it up without breaking stride, retrieved his spent arrow and headed down the path toward the small valley ahead. His pace was steady and quiet. His soft moccasins left no tracks behind him, and his direction was into the slight breeze. The approaching dusk was darkening the sky ahead of him while the last glow of day dimmed behind him. The stream narrowed as it wound its way further up into the valley. Soon the Douglas fir gave way to oaks and alder. He put the rabbit, his bow, and leather quiver down at the foot of an old oak that leaned at an angle over the stream. Using his strong arms, he leaped to the lowest limb, and in a few seconds climbed up almost to the top. From there he could see the surrounding hills that encompassed the valley. To the east about a mile away and at the far end was the rugged peak known as Bald Top. This mountain was not high enough to soar above the tree line, but its peak was made up of solid rock, and no trees could grow there. On the north and south sides of the half mile wide valley were steep, rolling hills that climbed to about five or six hundred feet above the forest floor. The only way into this area was to the west, directly behind him along the stream. Closing his eyes, he listened for a few moments while his nose tested the slight breeze. Then he opened his eyes and surveyed the entire region in a slow, focused sweep. He stopped at the sight of a twitching movement on a rock to his left, just above the tops of the trees. There, several hundred yards away perched on an overhanging boulder was a bobcat. It was crouched, waiting for its dinner to show itself below. The young male would hunt all night or until it killed. The cat didn’t see the Indian, and they were no threat to each other. He looked down the trail from where he had just come and listened for a while. His attention was suddenly drawn to an object directly overhead. Soaring above him, riding the last of the days warm air currents with wings spread and sailing without exertion was a red-tailed hawk. The brave lifted his arm into the air toward the beautiful bird of prey, and he smiled. This bird was his spirit sign and his own given Indian name. He was Red Hawk. He was a Santiam Kalapuya. A man who was as free as the predator that now flew overhead and as much a part of the cycle of life as every other creature living in the Oregon country that they all called home.

Red Hawk scrambled down the tree collecting his bow, arrows, and rabbit. Daylight was fading fast as he continued along the stream in the direction of Bald Top. He came to the end of the more open hardwood meadow and was almost back into the thick conifer forest when he stopped to look intently at the ground around him. Bending down his eyes searched the grassy area at his feet, then he reached out and broke off a few blades from a small plant that he knew well. As he lifted the slim greenery to his nose, he deeply inhaled the pungent smell of wild onion. P erfect for seasoning fresh game, he thought as he entered the dark woods. He followed the narrow stream for a few more minutes then came to a more open area that had scattered patches of young cedar trees. Red Hawk kept his eyes to the path looking for signs of any activity since he had left early that morning. There was nothing to arouse his suspicion, so he continued walking the narrow trail. Less than one hundred yards further along, he came to a wall of jagged boulders that towered about twelve feet above him. The stream was pouring from a smooth three-foot-wide split in the rocks. It was only a foot or so high, but time and the continuous flow of water had smoothed the coarse volcanic rock as it narrowed on its way to the top of the wall. These rugged stones formed an uneven circle, which was a little more than two hundred yards wide. Red Hawk climbed to the top and looked into the interior of the natural fortress. There were cedar trees and some oaks scattered throughout, plus alder and maple, and many open grassy areas. At the far end, there was a grove of willow surrounding a small pond that was the birthplace of the stream. A very active spring originating from a rock outcropping poured a continuous flow of pristine glacial water into the hollowed out pond area, which was no more than thirty feet across and slightly longer. Next to the pond in front of a U-shaped grove of cedar trees, a little wisp of smoke lifted into the air. This was from the hot coals saved from the mornings fire now offering the promise of a cooked meal within the hour. Red Hawk was home. His natural walled encampment had been created thousands of years earlier when a new volcano had erupted. The cone had barely had a chance to grow before a violent, explosive release of fire and ash had emptied the shallow reservoir of molten magma below. The activity promptly died, leaving the present cone wall and a deep crater. Gradually, over the centuries, the hole was filled with the soft ash of other eruptions originating higher up in the volcanically expanding mountains to the east.

Removing a long piece of bark from where the smoke had escaped earlier, Red Hawk lifted a few flat stones to reveal a small charred piece of wood. Blowing softly on the side of the blackened log, a red glow soon greeted his effort. Placing some cedar twigs onto the hot embers, a new fire was ignited, and in just a short time was blazing brightly. Adding dried branches from a nearby stack, he built the blaze to a comfortable level. Taking out his knife, the brave skinned and quickly cleaned the rabbit, saving the hide for later stretching on a willow branch where it would dry. He crushed some of the wild onion between his fingers, then rubbed the aromatic juice onto the meat. Suspending it over the fire on a green branch for cooking, Red Hawk moved to his summer shelter. This was built in the shape of an igloo, using thick Douglas fir branches for the frame. The structure was about eight feet in diameter. The outside was covered with cedar fronds, placed in and around the frame. Woven mats made from dried cattail leaves, finished the covering and kept the occasional rain shower from seeping through to the inside. Another mat framed with stiff branches served as a door while the floor had fragrant cedar boughs laid down then covered with additional soft matting. Just inside his shelter, Red Hawk reached for a robe made from rabbit skins. It was lightweight, yet plenty warm for cool summer nights. Covering himself against the approaching chill in the air, he sat upon a mat against a log with his legs crossed in front of him. Reaching for his quiver, he examined the arrow that had killed the rabbit. The stone point was unbroken and still securely attached to the shaft. One of the feathers was missing, but with a little repair, the arrow would hunt with him another day. He turned the roasting meat over and breathed in the appetizing aroma. Hunger was upon him, and he would eat well tonight. Moving to the opposite side of the fire, the brave grasped a palm-sized flat rock that he used to scrape away a layer of moist soil from an area on the ground about two-feet square. This exposed several pieces of alder bark that he removed. Carefully he peeled off a covering of green maple leaves. A warm, sweet smell drifted up to meet him as he looked down upon several layers of roasted camas bulbs. This food had been a staple of the diet of Northwest Indians for untold centuries. Growing in meadows throughout the region, these plants produced beautiful bluish purple flowers each spring on grasslike stems. Under these stems were the bulbs that averaged one to two inches in diameter. These starchy gems of nutrition were dug by the women using special sticks and pieces of deer horn. They would devote many days to gathering a large supply of camas that could be eaten raw, steamed, or boiled. However, the preferred method of preparation was to slow-bake them in an underground pit using hot coals covered with smooth rocks, then layers of camas covered with leaves, bark, or some other material to help seal the bulbs and keep them clean. Finally, sand or soil would be heaped on top to seal the oven. After two or three days, the pit was opened. The resulting product was brownish black in color with a pleasant sweet smell. The women would remove the dark outer skin from each bulb, leaving a brown and sticky pleasant-tasting food. This was then dried in the sun and finally packed into loaves for later use. Bursting with sugary energy, these were one of the most important and favorite stores of food for winter. Camas loaves were also one of the primary trading items used when tribal members would journey to the coast to trade with beach-dwelling Indians for shells, dried fish, salt, and other things of value to the Kalapuya’s. Camas was one of the most important food items to these people.

Red Hawk loved camas. He removed a half dozen bulbs and placed them on a bark platter. Covering the oven, he settled down with the perfectly cooked rabbit and camas with a nibble of wild onion every few bites. While the man ate, his mind wandered back to some of the stories he remembered from his youth. Smiling, he pictured his grandfather sitting around a fire telling him of the legend of the devious coyotes who, long ago, went out into the camas fields of the Kalapuya to steal all the bulbs for themselves. This was late at night when all the people were sleeping. The owl, which never trusted the coyote, saw with his sharp eyes what they were doing and flew to the house of the shaman. The owl told the shaman what the coyote was up to, and the shaman became angry. He awakened all the women and told them that coyote was stealing their precious camas. The women cut willow sticks from the trees then ran out into the fields to swat the coyotes. As the women swatted at them, the animals yelled, Ow! Ow! Owwwww! And to this day, the only sound the stealing coyote makes is from the pain of the women’s sticks.

Just then, off in the surrounding hills, the nightly conversation of the coyotes echoed, Ow! Ow! Owwwww! Red Hawk chuckled to himself, thanking his grandfather for such a good story. Having eaten his fill, he placed the rest of the meat inside the shelter. The cleaned bones were thrown into the dying fire, and the campsite was cleaned for the night. The moon, about half full, was just showing itself above the eastern wall of the old volcanic rim. Hurriedly stretching the rabbit skin onto a willow branch, which was then suspended above his shelter to dry, he walked over to the bubbling spring drinking deeply of the refreshing water.

The desire for sleep made his eyes heavy, but he first moved quietly to the east wall where the moon was casting a soft glow and climbed up to the rim to sit and listen for a while. His bow was across his lap, and the forest below was alive with the sounds of night creatures. The deer and elk would stay closer to the edges of the woods so as to stay hidden from the moonlight. The coyotes, having howled their greetings to each other earlier, were out looking for mice or anything alive that might provide a meal. To the south a deer whistled its alarm. At almost the same moment he heard the bobcat’s high pitched growl. The deer had probably scented the cat, and they both sounded their warnings. Overhead small bats darted through the night air chasing unseen bugs while from far off came the qu-qu-qu-qu-qu-qu of the small owl. Red Hawk stood to go back to his shelter. The small owl had two calls—one was a short sound and to the Indians it just meant that the owl was talking. Then there was the call just now heard that gave the Indian an unsettled feeling. The Kalapuya believed that when the owl called like it had tonight, that someone would die. The man shivered as he turned from the sound. I hope that I heard the small owl wrong, he thought to himself. However, like all his senses, his hearing was excellent.

Back at camp, he banked the remainder of the fire so as to keep it slowly burning all night, then entered his shelter crawling under his blankets. Sleep came almost instantly. The mat door was open just enough to let sounds from the outside in while his spear was propped against it inside to hold the door in place or be ready to defend against any unwelcome intruder.

His dreams were filled with images of his people in a large camp alongside a swiftly moving stream. Here stood their permanent lodges made out of thick fir bark and split-wood planks. The floors were dug down several feet into the earth, and the walls were straight on four sides. The roof was also made of bark with dirt spread on top to keep it warm in the winter. The walls also had soil built up around the outside. There was one entrance with a pole ladder inside that allowed the people to climb down into the single, large room. Mats covered the floors. In the very center of the room, a fire burned. The smoke found its way out through the cracks in the upper walls. At times, twenty or more family members lived in a lodge. They would make partitions out of mats, and sleeping was done on ledges carved into the outside lower dirt walls. These were comfortably covered with cedar branches and mats.

In his dream, he listened to the soft cooing sound of mothers as they talked to their nursing babies, and the gentle laughter of older children playing nearby. The men would be showing young boys how to smooth a new bow or attach hunting points to arrows. Older girls and women without children were making baskets, or laughing as they fashioned dolls from hides stuffed with dry grass. They would paint faces on the heads and give them names. Around the fire old men were telling stories to some of the braves, and there was the smell of food cooking in bark baskets. Red Hawk couldn’t recognize the people in his dream, but he knew that they were his people, and that the feeling in the lodge was warm and secure.

His eyes opened at a sound from outside his door. He immediately reached for the shaft of his spear. Rolling to his knees he peered out through the narrow opening. His muscles were taut, and his heart was beating rapidly as he searched for the source of the sound. A dark shadow moved behind the smoldering fire and came slowly toward the door to his shelter.

The Indian lowered his spear and whispered, Ah, it is you my little beggar friend. Here for your free meal? He opened the doorway, and there, perched on his sitting log, was a very large raccoon. The moon had already set in the west while the eastern sky was showing the beginning of dawn. I thought I would see you last night, but here, I saved you a nice piece of rabbit. His hand held out a small portion of cold meat. The masked creature walked over to eagerly accept it. This was a frequent event. These two had become friends long ago, and although the raccoon found plenty of food on her own, an occasional visit to this human was now a routine that they both seemed to enjoy. She was probably feeding a litter of young at this time of year. When they were old enough to move safely with her at night, she would bring them to his camp and parade them around. Although he had never touched Beggar, as he called her, the little ones would soon be crawling all over him. They might seem nervous at first, but Beggar would lie down near Red Hawk’s feet, and after a few cautious approaches, the little rascals would accept their mother’s friend without question. He seldom fed the babies because he knew that when they were old enough, Beggar would chase them away from her territory, and they would have to fend for themselves. He had seen the bobcat with one of last years’ offspring in its mouth not long ago, and another had been killed by coyotes. That some creatures lived because of the death of others was not disturbing to the Indian. He also relied upon the flesh of various animals for much of his food supply here in the forest. Neither was it his nature to befriend a wild creature. However, Beggar had been just too trusting from the beginning, and Red Hawk could not release his arrow upon the talkative critter when she had first invaded his camp. After reluctantly deciding to refrain from killing the masked intruder, he had tried in vain to scare the creature away by waving his arms wildly over his head and growling like a wolf. But Beggar had just lay down in front of him and stared back with unblinking dark eyes until Red Hawk found himself chuckling at the situation, quietly at first, then growing into uncontrolled laughter, so forcefully that tears rolled down his cheeks. That first night, three years earlier, he had eaten his meal by the fire while the raccoon watched from the overhang of one of the cedar trees. It was puzzling that the animal was not fearful of the fire, and at first he thought it might be sick.

The next morning, the raccoon was gone, and Red Hawk thought that he had perhaps seen an animal spirit. These revelations were not unusual for a brave. But he had already found his personal creature spirit long ago when he was just fourteen years old. The visit of the night before had bothered him all day. When the next evening fell upon his camp, he told himself that if the raccoon returned, he would talk to it. He would try to see if it had a message for him. There had been stories from his grandfather about animal spirits giving warnings or omens to the people. In Indian lore, animals often took on human characteristics and spoke in the language of the tribe, but these events were reserved mostly for the medicine men or shamans. Red Hawk was neither medicine man nor holy man. He had been in close contact with the animals of the forest all his life, and every one of them had shown fear of him. It was true that, at times, he had encountered the unafraid young of various species, and youth in animals, just like in humans, precluded acquired knowledge. It was, after all, knowledge learned from adults that instilled fear. A bear cub just out of the den, and without the guidance of its mother, could be playful and totally innocent of potential danger. However, a little maturing and guidance from the sow would soon turn the same animal into a creature that would avoid all contact with humans during its entire life. This was true for every animal and bird in Red Hawk’s life. Why then, he worried, did the raccoon, clearly fully grown, not fear him? And what would he do if he talked to the animal…and it talked back?

He was much too apprehensive to eat a meal that night. He sat near his fire and waited, using all his keen senses to foretell the approach of the mysterious little beast. There were no outward signs of nervousness or anxiety about the man. The Indian way generally dictated pride over emotion in the face of danger or uncertainty. On the other hand, his ancestry also included plenty of superstition, and it was this fear of the unknown that now lay just beneath the calm demeanor of a warrior battling with fear.

A subtle movement of twigs from under a nearby cedar tree attracted his searching eyes. Straining against the flicker of the low fire, he soon made out the small, rounded shape of a mouse looking for seeds. He closed his eyes tight and concentrated on listening. Time passed, and the campfire dwindled to a subtle glow of embers. The air became cooler, making Red Hawk hunch down further into his robe. His mind had wandered back to his quest to find his animal spirit near the top of Bald Top when he was fourteen years old. His grandfather had instructed him regarding the Kalapuya ritual of maturity for a young man. It was understood that most every young braves experience would be different. The key was to wait, to fast, to pray to the gods, and to be patient. It had taken him five nights and four long days, but finally, it had been revealed to him just as the fifth morning was breaking in the east.

Without warning or sound, a magnificent red-tailed hawk had landed on a rock outcropping directly in front of the boy, not more than five feet from his head. For several magical moments, boy and bird had looked at each other. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes, and communication transferred without sound. Finally, the boy said softly, You have come, and the bird spread its wide wings like a fine statue carved in stone. It stood still for a few moments, then with a powerful beating of feathered might, it lifted up into the morning sky and with a familiar screeching cry departed into the valley below. The boy stood up, shaking, tears flowing down his cheeks. On the ledge where the bird had perched was a single red tail feather, which the boy placed into the braid of his hair. Looking after the wonderful bird that had just left him, he raised his arms and proclaimed loudly, I am a man. I am now a man of the Kalapuya! He was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted but filled with more exhilaration than he had ever known. The proud young brave headed home to tell his grandfather the wonderful story. The old man had listened with deep interest and with pride. At the finish of the young man’s tale of adventure and discovery, the aging chief instructed him to sit by the fire as he lit his ceremonial clay pipe, then passed it to his grandson. As the surprised lad took his first puff and released the smoke into the air, his grandfather looked deep into his eyes for what seemed a long pause, then announced, The Red Hawk is a good, strong spirit sign. It would be good for you to choose it as your adult name.

The boy smiled and answered, I like that name grandfather.

Then, said the old man, from this moment until your own spirit leaves this world, you will be called Red Hawk.

The Kalapuya believed that once an animal spirit is revealed, that person would never kill one of those creatures. He himself had never killed a red-tailed hawk in his life. The feather he wore in his hair had been left by the majestic bird when it had flown away all those years ago.

Just then, the sound of water being disturbed behind him caused the Indian to turn toward the pond. There was movement and vague outlines at the water’s edge. It looked like more than one creature was heading his way as his hand moved toward the knife at his waist. Just as the line of moving shadows entered the dim light of the fire, the familiar clucking of a raccoon fell upon his ears. She had her seven young with her. She neared his seat and promptly laid flat on the ground while talking softly to her children. Red Hawk was dumbfounded as several of the little critters climbed up his robe and proceeded to sniff his ears and nose. A broad, unannounced smile flashed across his face, followed by laughter, muffled at first, and then open and hearty. He was soon covered by curious baby raccoons. As he played with the uninhibited little fur balls, the mother lay quietly by watching. After about fifteen minutes of mutual enjoyment between the Indian and the imps, she clucked a call to her brood, and they obediently scampered down his robe and huddled around their mother.

What am I to make of you? he asked. Somehow I doubt that you are an animal spirit who has come to guide my future. As he softly talked to her, she sat up on her hind legs and proceeded to rub her nimble paws around her mouth and lick them noisily. He was at first dumbfounded at the performance, but then he instinctively moved to his shelter and brought out his basket filled with acorns. He lifted a handful and slowly placed them on the ground in front of him. Without hesitation, the mother moved toward the nuts and began to eat. The rest of the brood soon joined her, and in a few moments, all the acorns were gone. She promptly led them to the pond for a drink, and then they were gone.

I wait for a spirit, and I get a beggar, he mused to himself as he entered his shelter and closed the mat over the door opening. He thought that perhaps the animal had been raised by humans. Her behavior was unlike any wild animal he had ever known.

Those first memorable meetings with Beggar had been three years earlier. She was an occasional visitor and one