Toward the tail of dawn, the others stumbled over, each adrift in his own dream. After their morning routine, they broke camp, reviewed the map, and doubled back to check their traps. As they retraced their route, the land came alive again.

The brushes rustled, and the birdsong was back. Perhaps Threewolf’s magic had waned with the moon, or maybe it was just the weather all along. Flinzer asked the other watches if they’d heard wolves in the night, but they hadn’t.

The clear skies and chatter were short-lived. By mid-morning the gray curtain rolled back over, the land stilled, and the tomb-feeling swallowed them again. The men shook their heads, wondering how the Sunnysiders could stand it.

With the strange pallor and their scent all over, Flinzer expected to find little action at their traps. He was wrong. Signs of wolves were everywhere. Pawprints looped wide around the snares they’d set with such care. Streaks of piss sneered against their piles of poisoned meat.

They tried to track the culprits, but the tracks ran beneath thickets, doubled-back, and dead-ended into streams. Flinzer’s troop followed one set of prints that terminated in the middle of a ravine, as if the wolf had leapt to Heaven to leer at them from behind the moon.

“How did it do that?” Cocker gawked.

“Lifted by sylphs, no doubt,” said Ives.

“Perhaps these are the winged winter wolves of ancient Albarian legend,” Ames piled on.

“It walked back through its own tracks,” Stripes said flatly, no patience for their game.

“How would a wolf know to do that?” Cocker asked and turned to Whent.

“Maybe this is Threewolf’s trick. He’s trained the beasts to tempt fools deep into the badlands or up into the tundra where the weather finishes them. Bet he never lifts a finger, just lives off loot from frozen bounty-men. Maybe Moraney’s in on it, and they split the pot.” Whent half-joked.

“They shall be sorely disappointed.” Flinzer clapped a hand against his empty purse. He looked down at the tracks and scratched his head. Naïvely, he’d assumed wolves were just bigger, meaner dogs and that they’d have little trouble trapping three. Not so! These wretched beasts were artful dodgers, canny and careful. Still, any sign was better than none.

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As they searched the woods, their eyes rose often, wary of pumas in the trees or another flock of crows. Above all, they worried over the weather. The snow was standoffish, and the sky sulked in unending gray. It felt like once the snow truly began, it would never end.

The hunters ought to turn back, and they knew it. The trouble was, they loved the work. Seven left from forty, but they were the core, the ones who lived for the chase. No matter how scattered the tracks or strange the trail, it was something.

The seven bounty-men moved with a hint of glee in their eyes, a savor no setback could snuff. Men were made to hunt. Flinzer’s newfound resolve bled through them all.

Still, they found no sign of Threewolf himself. A few times, the men looked to Flinzer, but he was out of his element. The heart of bounty hunting was sympathy. Flinzer’s tact was to see through the eyes of his mark, guess where they’d go, be there first and spring on them. He’d done it a thousand times.

A man on the run was reduced to his most essential element. Strong men ran for a time, lost patience and, inevitably, turned back for a scrap. Clever men tried too many tricks and usually wound up outsmarting themselves. Cowards flew as fast and far as they could and wore themselves out. They kept accumulating shadows until they were pursued by an army of their own devising.

Flinzer had seen plenty of chickens wheeze with relief when their head hit the block. The weak and indecisive hid, and it was great fun finding them. Flinzer could catch them all, one way or another.

But this mark was different. They hadn’t caught a glimpse of one wolf, much less Threewolf. Did he even exist? Was the whole thing just a snipe hunt for suckers? Perhaps the Sunnysiders would all laugh when Flinzer’s pack stumbled back, frost-bit and empty-handed. He second-guessed himself and wondered if he even wanted to find the fugitive anymore.

He could hang it all up, break up the band, and slink back, hat in hand, to shack up with Lilleen. Perhaps their spark was strong enough to survive a winter crammed together in a cottage. Probably not.

What have you got to show for it?

Near noon, they climbed a rise and came to a place where a game trail crossed their path. In the east, they saw the shimmer of the Blue Fugue. They looked at each other. No one wanted to say it. If they gave up the chase and marched hard, they might make it back to Sunnyside in time to beg a pauper’s place before the hearth. Flinzer searched the ruddy faces of his men. He saw no signs of surrender.

“North,” he said.