Yellowstone Run

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There was something out mere.

Something lurking in the tall timber.

Eagle Feather paused in the act of chopping wood for the fire, his right arm upraised, his tomahawk gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, and gazed at the surrounding forest, his keen brown eyes scrutinizing every shadow. The feeling of being watched was stronger now than ever before, and he frowned when he failed to detect any movement in the pine trees.

“Is something wrong?”

Putting a smile on his face, Eagle Feather turned at the sound of his wife’s melodious voice and looked at the woman he loved more than life itself, “What could be wrong?” he responded, hoping he conveyed a lighthearted attitude, he didn’t want to worry Morning Dew or the children. Yet.

“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly, staring at the woods. “You seem troubled.”

Eagle Feather lowered the tomahawk and pretended to inspect its edge.

“You are imagining things.”

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