He fished. All day. Not in the canyon, but out in the broad meadow, whose grass had turned tawny and was crisscrossed with the trampled paths of single browsing buffalo and pocketed with beaten patches where they had lain. They would be the lone bulls, wandering up this high, unassailable and unafraid. Ren had seen them much higher. Once, he had stumbled on one grazing among the rocks above tree line. Here in the meadow were signs of elk, too. He could smell their particular musk and see where they had tracked the thick grass in a small herd and left piles of droppings.
