In fifteen years on Patji, he had seen another trapper in person only a handful of times. On each occasion, they had both turned and gone a different direction without saying a word. It was the way of such things. They would try to kill one another, but they didn’t do it in person. Better to let Patji claim rivals than to directly stain one’s hands. At least, so his uncle had taught him. Sometimes, Dusk found himself frustrated by that. Patji would get them all eventually. Why help the Father do so? He didn’t want to kill other trappers. Still, it was the way of things—and regardless, this
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