Sipar got swiftly to its feet and stood looking at him and there was,
he thought, an odd glitter in its eyes.

"Get going," Duncan said. "We still have a little time. Start circling
and pick up the trail. I will cover you."

He glanced at the sun. An hour and a half still left--maybe as much as
two. There might still be time to get this buttoned up before the fall
of night.

A half mile beyond the knoll, Sipar picked up the trail again and they
went ahead, but now they traveled more cautiously, for any bush, any
rock, any clump of grass might conceal the wounded beast.

Duncan found himself on edge and cursed himself savagely for it. He'd
been in tight spots before. This was nothing new to him. There was no
reason to get himself tensed up. It was a deadly business, sure, but
he had faced others calmly and walked away from them. It was those
frontier tales he'd heard about the Cytha--the kind of superstitious
chatter that one always heard on the edge of unknown land.

He gripped the rifle tighter and went on.

No animal, he told himself, was unkillable.

Half an hour before sunset, he called a halt when they reached a
brackish waterhole. The light soon would be getting bad for shooting.
In the morning, they'd take up the trail again, and by that time the
Cytha would be at an even greater disadvantage. It would be stiff and
slow and weak. It might be even dead.

Duncan gathered wood and built a fire in the lee of a thorn-bush
thicket. Sipar waded out with the canteens and thrust them at arm's
length beneath the surface to fill them. The water still was warm and
evil-tasting, but it was fairly free of scum and a thirsty man could
drink it.

The sun went down and darkness fell quickly. They dragged more wood
out of the thicket and piled it carefully close at hand.

Duncan reached into his pocket and brought out the little bag of
rockahominy.

"Here," he said to Sipar. "Supper."

The native held one hand cupped and Duncan poured a little mound into
its palm.

"Thank you, mister," Sipar said. "Food-giver."

"Huh?" asked Duncan, then caught what the native meant. "Dive into
it," he said, almost kindly. "It isn't much, but it gives you
strength. We'll need strength tomorrow."

* * * * *

Food-giver, eh? Trying to butter him up, perhaps. In a little while,
Sipar would start whining for him to knock off the hunt and head back
for the farm.

Although, come to think of it, he