People of the Fire by W. Michael Gear

air, and caught the thief low, tumbling him in a heap.
                   "Got you!" Hungry Bull yipped and
vaulted the sagebrush in pursuit.
                   To his surprise, the thief pulled himself up
and scrambled into the denser mat of sagebrush and grass.
                   Perplexed, Hungry Bull bent down, studying the
tracks through narrowed eyes. "Huh! Must have been just a little off.
Broke a leg."
                   Growling, he bent over a sagebrush, grasping
the stiff gray branches and twisting them round and round until the root parted
with a soil-muffled pop. Satisfied, he picked up his throwing stick, slipping
it behind the buffalo-hide belt he wore, and took up the scuffed track of the
thief. Using the uprooted plant for a flail, he smacked clumps of sagebrush,
poking here and there, seeking to flush his wounded prey.
                   "All right, where ti you go? Look, you can't get away. You've got a broken leg. Come on out. Better
I eat you than some tick-infested coyote."
                   Hungry Bull bent down, peering into a thick
shock of grass, seeing a gleaming brown eye staring back in the breaking light
of morning. The pink tip of nose quivered, a wealth of silvered whiskers
shivering.
                   Hungry Bull jabbed his bush at the hole,
satisfied to see a hobbling streak of brown shoot out the other side.
                   He jumped the sagebrush, charging after the
wounded creature, sprinting a zigzagging course through the unresisting brush.
The quarry shot to the left. Hungry Bull planted a foot, leaping after him—only
to step on a curled chunk of dried sage stem that leapt up as if alive to trip
him. Bull slammed down, catching sight of his quarry disappearing. Frantic, he
scrambled after him on hands and knees, spitting a curse as he stuck his hand
in a clump of brown- spined prickly pear.
                   Getting his feet under him, he lunged,
grasping for the thief's body, missing. Again he pelted after the small
brown-and-white shape, sage crackling and snapping before his charge, scenting
the air with its tangy aroma.
                   They'd crossed most of the drainage bottom
now, closing on the gentle slope that led up to the rounded ridge top. If the
thief got to the rocks up there, got to a hole, it would be all over.
                   Hungry Bull slid to a stop. "Lost
you!" He cocked his head, sensitive ears tuned for the soft rustling. A
meadowlark trilled, followed by a robin calling in crisp melody to greet Father
Sun.
                   There! Bull jumped for the sound of scurrying
feet. The thief had doubled back, making a wide circle as Bull crashed down on
him. Again the mad scramble continued, the thief belying his broken leg as he
slipped through the small spaces. Bull—condemned by size—had to pound through
by dint of brute force.
                   As the thief shot across an open space, Bull
launched himself again, slapping belly-down on the dust.
                   Roaring rage, Hungry Bull got a foot braced
and lurched again, his grasping fingers slipping off the creature's back as he
planted his other hand in a wicked patch of cactus. Bellowing from the sting
and cursing the extraordinary luck of his wounded prey, Hungry Bull went
momentarily berserk, diving headfirst into the thicket of sage, barely aware of
the scratches it tore in his cheek.
                   Worming after the scrambling fugitive, he
slapped at him, finally got a grip on his tail, and pulled. The captive clawed
frantically at the loose dirt as Hungry Bull dragged him back.
                   "Got you!" he howled in victory.
                   Hungry Bull stood, grinning, his prey dangling
by a brown-and-white tail, front legs outstretched, broken hind leg limp. Under
the sleek buff-brown coat, lungs labored, whiskers trembling.