Lord Stink

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Only when the shadow of Feather Mountain reached her high grassy ledge did Winter realize how late the day had grown. For the last time, she emptied the little basket she wore strung around her neck into the bigger one at her feet. With care she picked up the bigger basket, now brimming with berries, and scrambled sweating along the narrow trail that led down through otherwise impenetrable thickets of scrubby spruce and blueberry. She had come farther than she meant to. Four-Legs used this trail; while yanking her hair from the prickly clutches of a spruce, she nearly stepped into a day-old pile of grizzly droppings.

The other Sandspit Town women had already gathered at the steep meadow where they had left the pack baskets. Winter poured her blueberries into the emptiest one. As she tipped her basket, her hair fell forward, and stuck to her sweaty cheek. She brushed it back impatiently.

“Pick them, don’t paint your face with them,” said old Aunt Wren.

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