Chapter 8 – Standoff

	That acrid, astringent smell increased as we climbed the stairs to the second story.  And the unmistakable stench of old blood accompanied it, not overwhelming, but lingering, like it had sunken into the wood of this place.  The quarters upstairs was as limited in space as the downstairs area, essentially just a hallway with three doors off of it, the first of which we entered.  
	The treatment room looked as though it doubled as a spare bed room he let out to patients sometimes, with a worn straw mattress on an old frame in the corner, one small, uneven table, and a chest of drawers.  There was also, intimidatingly, a chair in the very center of the room with fraying leather straps built into the arms, and a lot of suspicious stains marring the headrest.  It had an odd array of metal pieces near the center, a few locking hinges that probably leaned it back, if I had to guess.  
	“Ughh,” Finnegan grumbled beneath his breath.  “Reminds me of the time I had a tooth pulled.”
	“I do that, too, if you’ve an irksome bugger that needs out,” the cat said chipperly.  He moved towards the potbelly stove near the far end of the room and opened it, reaching into a cone of what looked like small fire pokers nearby.  He extracted one, looked over the end of it, then repeated the process several more times before he apparently found the one he was looking for.  Then he inserted it into the stove and hustled back out down the hall, presumably to get something else.
	I had a feeling now that I understood what he’d meant by ‘sear’ the wound.
	Finn had put his paw on my shoulder again, the uninjured one, and I turned to regard him.  He looked worried for me.
	“You actually seem fairly calm,” he noted, dropping his voice.  “You know what this treatment will entail, right?  Do you need a translation?”
	I shook my head.  “No, I understand.  He is going to burn the wound closed.”
	Finnegan gave a soft huff, “So resolute.  I won’t lie, I’d be pissing myself.”
	“I’m just glad there’s a simple treatment for this,” I said.  “And anyway, it took weeks of hide-burning to finish my markings.  This will probably be much faster.”
	“Oh, right,” he rubbed a hand over his muzzle.  “Damn, how didn’t I think of that?  I’ve been staring at them for days.  Seems obvious now that you mention it- those are burned in?”
	I nodded, mostly paying attention to one part of what he’d said.  “You’ve been. . . staring at them?”  I asked, voice as low as his.
	He slowly smiled.
	We both heard the cat approaching us, and he removed his hand from my shoulder probably faster than he needed to.  When the apothecary came back into the room, he was carrying a brown glass bottle and removing the stopper with an audible plunk.  He gave it a sniff, then nodded, handing it up towards me.
	I looked at it uncertainly, then slowly took it from him.
	“Payment first, if’n you don’t mind,” the cat cleared his throat.  “Two silver for the medicine, two for the treatment.  You’ll want to drink at least a third o’that now.  Help keep you calm so I can work, help with the pain.”
	I reached down into my shoulder bag and dug for my coins, pulling out handful.  The silver were obvious, thankfully.  Some of the copper pieces were worth different amounts, and I wasn’t good at telling them apart yet.  I sifted out four coins and handed them to him.
	While I did that, Finn leaned in and sniffed the bottle, arching his eyebrows.  “What exactly is in that?”  He asked.
	“Carlton’s Patented Pain Tonic,” the cat announced proudly.  “A proprietary tincture to treat the discomfort of all ails, and induce a calm and painless euphoria-“
	“It smells mostly like whiskey,” Finn muttered, in a dry tone.
	“Aye, that’s the base,” the man affirmed.  “Also Laudanum, castor, a bit of hashish-“
	“Bloody hell,” the wolfdog guffawed, glancing briefly at me.  “Tuli, maybe drink that slow, alright?  Have you ever even had whiskey before?”
	“We don’t trade for liquor, my father doesn’t believe in it,” I said, warily.  “He says it makes men crazy.”
	“Your father sounds like a wise man,” he agreed.
	“Do as you please,” the cat shrugged, setting down a bucket on top of the stove that I’d just realized he’d also brought in with him.  It was half-full of water, and had a rough-looking rag slung over the side.  “But you’ll be wanting my tonic to endure the treatment.  Believe me.”
	“I’ve sat through branding before,” I said, “I know what to expect.”
	“It’s not the brand you’ll be wanting it for,” the apothecary promised lowly.

	He was right.  The worst part of the treatment, by far, was having the wound scrubbed and cleaned.  The man used what I’m fairly certain was an intentionally coarse rag, (woven from horse hair or something like it) scathing hot water and lye soap, and scoured the wound raw, washing it in nearly boiling hot water in between each successive round.
	I was lying on my side on the chair, the wood creaking beneath my weight, praying to the spirits that it be over.  The whole while.  I’d had a few sips of his tonic before the cleaning began, but midway through, Finn sympathetically offered me more, and I took it.  The tincture was muddying my senses somewhat, but I can’t say it was euphoric.  It was mostly making me even more tired than I already was, but the pain saw to it that I stayed well and truly conscious.
	I’m not sure how long it all took.  It was thoroughly dark outside by the time he approached me with the brand.  At that point the pain was already blinding, but he gave me something to bite down on and I closed my eyes and pressed my muzzle into the headrest of the chair, thankful at least that this probably meant it would soon be over.  I vaguely felt Finn take my paw where it was slung over the edge of the armrest.  
	And honestly, though it can be hard to compare physical pain sometimes, especially when remembered through the haze of years. . . the searing brand on my raw wound was in fact far worse than receiving my markings had ever been.  Likely because the area was already so exposed.  But it was blissfully short.  I’m not sure if I cried out. . . I probably did.  I think I should be forgiven if I did.
	The apothecary said he’d give us an hour or so following the treatment for me to recover my senses.  He offered me the bed to rest in, but I didn’t want to move.  I just wanted to lean there on my side in that chair and pray to the spirits that the pain fade faster.
	Finn talked to me, quietly and calmly.  His voice kept me grounded, comforted me with its cadence.  It didn’t even matter what he was saying.  
	I could tell by his demeanor that unfortunately, this situation was not new to him.  He’d already told me how his mother had been sick, so. . . I could take a guess why he had experience comforting someone who was ailing.  As time passed, the minutes stretching as long as they could, as the burning fire on my shoulder blade oh-so-slowly began to lessen, I started to think about that a lot more.  My mother had died six days after catching the affliction she’d been trying to treat in someone else.  At the time those days had seemed long, but in retrospect, I’d essentially seen her healthy one day, been uncertain for a week, and then she’d been gone.  
	Finn said his mother had lingered.  For how long?  Long enough to request and be denied the coin to comfort her in her illness, apparently. . . by his own father.  
	Losing my mother had seemed the most tragic, unfair thing that could happen to someone, from my perspective.  I’d been outright angry about it for a long time, and I’d had many talks with my otterfa, trying to make sense of it.  What kind of purpose it could possibly have served, why the spirits hadn’t seen fit to save her, even though we’d prayed and prayed. . . .  It had me questioning so many things, wondering how I’d ever live on without her.  And I had a father, who still loved me very much and had tried so hard to fill in the gaps my mother had left when we’d lost her. 	
	I turned my head slowly to regard Finn.  In the low light of the room, the wolfdog’s eyes were intense and dark, lost in a sea of black fur peppered with those small scars I’d seen the other night.  His lean, elegant muzzle and strongly-defined, angular features had always been attractive to me, even when I hadn’t known that’s what I was feeling.  But seen in another light, they could be frightening.  There was a ferocity there, a fury, which I often interpreted as determination or focus.
	But I knew the anger that came from watching someone you loved. . . die.  Helpless to stop it.  And whatever it was he had endured with her, it had not only lasted far longer, he’d gone through it being denied the comfort and love of his remaining parent.  The man who should have loved her.  And him.
	What did something like that do to a person?
	 “I know it must feel enormous,” he said, soothingly stroking my good arm, “but the mark’s not that big.  Size of my palm, at most.  And it will probably shrink as it scars.”
	I shook my head slowly.  “It’s an honor,” I managed, through a dry mouth.  “To be wounded. . . protecting a friend.”
	Finnegan’s brows lifted and he smiled softly.  I swear I heard his tail brush the floor.
	“I’ll get a marking. . . for this,” I said hoarsely.  “An honorific I never thought. . . I’d earn.  A warrior’s emblem.”
	“Alright,” he chuckled, “but give it a little time before you go burning yourself again.  We all like to look good, but health comes first.”
	“I’ll have such stories thanks to you,” I said.  “My family will want to hear everything about this trip.”
	“Hopefully not everything,” he said with a knowing smirk.
	I went silent at that, realization setting in.  “Oh spirits,” I groaned, “I hadn’t even thought about how I might talk to my family about. . . .”
	“And you’re not going to start,” Finn affirmed.  “Remember what I said?  You don’t talk about it.  To anyone.”
	“But I tell my father everything, we don’t have secrets-“
	“Alright, this is probably not a good talk to have when you’re out of your mind with pain and. . . ‘tonic’,” Finn cleared his throat, stroking back one of my ears.  “Are you feeling up to moving yet?”
	“. . . I think so,” I said at length.  I attempted to sit up slowly and mostly managed, despite the world spinning and my body badly wanting to upend itself.  Finnegan stabilized me by the arm, and I took my time getting my bearings.
	The apothecary returned some time later with a tankard of fresh water from the well outside, and I gulped it down greedily.  I hadn’t realized how thirsty I’d become.  The water, and likely just being vertical, helped immensely with the dizziness.  
	More than just an hour must have passed, (at that point I was having trouble keeping track) because by the time I was really able to walk well again and was feeling capable of leaving and finding a place for us to actually spend the night, it. . . wasn’t really night any more.  At least, it looked as though it was beginning to grow more blue than black outside.  Dawn was probably an hour or so away, and we’d certainly taken up enough of the apothecary’s time.
	The Maine Coon seemed pleased with the transaction however, and more importantly, with his work.  He reminded me to keep the wound as clean as possible and to drink the tonic to help me sleep and improve my humors, but assured me that it would heal in time.  He suggested that I not overly exert myself for the next few days, and showed us back down the stairs.
	By the time we made it down to the storefront area, I was dead on my feet.  Our bags were still there in the locked shop, although I recalled I’d left the oars on the raft.  We’d need them to set up our lean-to.  Probably down near the docks, alongside the other travelers who’d taken to using the area as a camp site.  I’d seen a few good spots near the wood-line where we could pitch.  We’d have to sleep through the day, but that hardly mattered.  Finn had to be as tired as I was.  Or well, maybe not as tired.  But tired. 
	Those were the only thoughts going through my addled, exhausted mind as we stepped out into the chill early morning air.  Fresh snow had fallen at some point last night, not very much, but enough to coat the town in a shallow dusting.  We’d have to stamp down an area for camp, I thought vaguely.  I wasn’t thinking about the troubles we’d had, or what the next day would bring, or what would become of Finn and I from this point forward.
	Everything, absolutely everything, came rushing back into my consciousness with a vengeance when a gunshot split the snow-muffled silence. 
	The door behind us clapped shut, the apothecary wisely bolting back into his residence.  The bleating of a small flock of sheep receded back into their pens in a nearby enclosure, and Finn and I both froze in our tracks, Finn reacting far faster than I did.  I nearly stumbled down the two shallow steps to the cobbled road.
	There was an upturned patch of blackened dirt and snow not ten feet in front of us, right in the middle of the road.  It was close enough that the intent was clear, but not so close that they might have missed.  Not unless, whoever they were, they were a terrible shot.
	“Should we run?”  I asked in a whispered, frantic tone, my breath puffing out into the air.  “Go for cover?”
	“No,” Finn said softly, holding a palm out.  “Stay completely still.”
	He was staring straight out across the road, very intently at something.  I followed his gaze slowly, and caught sight of the man.  
	There was a lone figure standing on a porch across the street, staring back at us.  He was wearing simple mountaineer’s clothing, a cotton shirt with leather breeches, suspenders and a brimmed hat drawn down over his features.  He was feline at least, that I could make out, and had a rifle held in his hands, but it wasn’t pointed at us.
	“Why aren’t we running now?”  I asked Finnegan, again in a whisper.  “He already fired.”
	“No, he hasn’t,” he said with dead certainty, his eyes scanning the street.  “Do you see any smoke?  Look for smoke from their powder.  He isn’t alone.  Whoever else is with him, they’re re-loading right now.  And he still has a shot, if he chooses to take it.”
	Finnegan shifted his paws a bit further apart, turning his body slowly to the side and gingerly brushing back the edge of his coat.  But at that point, the man on the porch spoke up, and began descending the short staircase down to the road.
	“That’s enough, Ambrose,” he called out, padding slowly across the street towards us.  He lifted his chin, revealing a very young face.  A mountain lion.  He was barely grown, skinny and fawn-colored.  I felt like I’d seen him before, but it was hard to place.  Maybe when he’d been even younger.
	He stopped a short distance away from us, tail curling and flicking from side to side.  He pushed up one edge of his hat, looking Finn over.  “You are Ambrose.  Aren’t you?”
	“I haven’t a clue who you think I am or what you want,” Finnegan said, and I noticed with some shock that he’d shifted his voice, or rather his accent.  The one that set him apart from the Otherwolves I knew.  He was doing an admirable job of it, too.  If I hadn’t met him before, I’d never have picked his voice out as being foreign.  “But my friend and I have done you no ill.  Please don’t hurt us.”
	“C’mon now,” the young lion spit on the ground, cracking half a smile.  “A man as defenseless as you play at would’ve a’least put his hands up.  Show me now.  Show me ‘ow innocent’n helpless you are.”
	I saw Finnegan’s jaw tighten, but he didn’t move.  Didn’t raise his hands.  I looked between him and the lion, wondering what could be going through his mind.  Shouldn’t we do as the man with the gun said?!
	“Aye, thought not,” the lion snuffed.  “Mmhh.  You look juuust like yer picture.  That artist did you right.  N’the bounty papers didn’t miss no details.  Down to the eyes. . . and the ivory grip on that pistol o’yours.”
	“Did they tell you who you were hunting?”  Finnegan asked, voice deadly low.  And he’d given up the charade of masking his accent.
	“That they did,” the young man nodded slowly, before glancing briefly back behind him. . . somewhere.  “That’s why m’ma got set up well and proper this time.  She’s got a clear shot at you, half-blood.  No tossin’ river to foul things up.”
	“Your mother is Odina,” I said suddenly, before I realized the words had left my mouth.  That got the man’s attention, although his gaze kept flicking back to Finn.
	“How d’you know my mother?”  He asked curiously.	
	“She comes to trade with my father,” I said.  “Chieftain Takoda.”
	He seemed to digest that, his hands shifting on his rifle, showing the first sign of nerves any young man his age should rightfully be feeling in a situation like this.  “You’re Takoda’s son?”  He asked, nose twitching.  “The bearchild?”
	I nodded.  “My name is Tulimak.  What’s yours?”
	The mountain lion looked again briefly to Finnegan, his gaze darting back and forth, hands gripping his rifle tighter.  “Sawyer,” he said, distractedly.  “We didn’t know who you was, when we fired on you.  Thought you was just some gun for hire.”
	“I barely know a thing about firearms,” I said, trying to sound less tired and drunk than I felt.  The pain was still there too, my shoulder throbbing with each pound of my heart.
	“Why the hell are you travelin’ with this’un?”  He asked, denoting Finn with a flick of his rifle.
	I opened my mouth before I really knew how to answer the question.  What could I say that would help us, here?  The reason we were traveling together, after all, was because he was being hunted.  Apparently by one of the local hunters my father’s tribe knew.  Which wasn’t that strange when you thought about it long enough, but still.
	Should I tell him why there was a bounty out on Finn?  That would take a long time to explain.  Probably more time than we had.
	“Look,” Sawyer said, addressing me and taking a step in my direction.  “Ain’t no reason this has to go down bloody.  Why don’t y’just-“
	I heard, and saw, next to nothing.  Only felt the barest hint of motion beside me, and saw a flash of movement.  And I do mean a flash.  In an outright stunningly fast gesture, Finnegan had somehow drawn his pistol and pointed it directly at the mountain lion’s head.  
	The boy was as caught off-guard as I was, having been talking to me, he’d looked away from Finn.  For a few seconds, at most.  That’s all it had taken.
	I was on Finnegan’s side, and it frightened even me.
	Sawyer didn’t have his own gun raised, only held in his hands, so he was caught dead.  He went stock still, flinching back as one might if they expected they’d be shot any second.  But thankfully, Finnegan didn’t pull the trigger.  Not immediately, anyway.
	“Finn-“ I started to say, my voice probably far too loud, but my blood was rushing through my ears.
	“Tulimak, stand back,” the wolfdog cautioned.  “Last thing we need is for you to get fresh viscera in your wound.”
	“You wouldn’t,” the young mountain lion said, obviously trying to keep his voice calm, but only partially succeeding.  Plenty of the fear was coming through.  “She’s got her sights on you boy, let me tell you, an-“
	“Try me,” Finnegan rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest.  “You think I won’t shoot a kid?  You think I won’t take you out with me?  You carry a firearm, you become fair game, as far as I’m concerned.  And I haven’t got much left to lose, lad. . . so by all means. . .” he advanced a step, closing more of the distance between them.  “I’ll take my chances on a rifle at, what. . . ten yards?  Twenty?  Versus a pistol three paces away?  God knows I’ve had worse odds in the past.”
	“Finn, no, please,” I begged quietly, splaying my palms out, although I did not know what I planned to do with them.  I just wanted to stop this from happening.
	“Tulimak, look away,” he commanded quietly.
	“She’ll kill you!”  The boy shouted.
	“If she hits, maybe,” he replied, voice dead calm.  “Did you really think a standoff would make me flinch?  You said you knew me.”  He took another step forward, and the mountain lion another step back.  I heard someone else move, somewhere down the road.  Quiet footsteps in the snow.  
	“Finn-“ I tried to warn.
	“I hear her,” he murmured, then louder, “Last chance.  Leave.  Both of you.”  He fully cocked the hammer on the pistol.  “Or your son dies.”
	I could see her now, silhouetted against the pale, muted blue mist of snow lifting in the wind on the empty street.  She had a rifle raised, and wasn’t far.  But she was still much farther from us than Finn was from Sawyer.
	My heart was hammering.  I wasn’t even certain who I was more afraid of any more.  I didn’t want to be here, watching this.  Being a part of this.  
	I didn’t want to watch Finn shoot this young lion.  No matter the threat to our lives.
	And I believed that he’d do it.  I wasn’t even sure why.  There was just something in his tone that prickled my instincts, made me feel the intent in his words.
	Like he’d done this before.
	“What if I were to shoot the bear?”  A rough, female voice called out.
	Finnegan had been still as a statue until that point, his gun arm unwavering.  But he shuddered at that, and one of his feet shifted.  Unlike Sawyer, he didn’t move his gaze from his target.  But he inclined his head ever so-slightly, and raised his voice to her.
	“Why would I care?”  He asked coolly.
	The words stung, but I knew he was trying to bluff her.  I wondered if I should move. . . but he’d told me not to.  Still, things had changed.  There had to be something I could do.
	“Odina,” I called out.  “My name is Tulimak.  You’ve traded with my father-“
	“I know who you are,” she asserted, slowly approaching us, becoming more visible through the morning haze.  She was a tall, stocky woman, much as I remembered her.  She was dressed similarly to her son, practically, in men’s clothing, and had two heavy straps supporting a large pack she carried on her back.  She wore a heavy, worn duster that had clearly seen many years of weather.  Her tail rigidly twitched from side to side as she walked, keeping her balance as she held her rifle aloft.
	I swallowed.  “You’ve always had good relations with our tribe.  I know my father likes trading with you-“
	“You threw your lot in with that one,” she stated matter-of-factly.  “I don’t know why and I don’t care.  If you want to rectify that mistake, now’s the time.”
	“Give me a chance and I’ll explain why,” I said, holding up my paws and trying to put myself between her and Finnegan.
	“Tulimak. . . .”  Finnegan growled out a warning.
	“Weak pretense there, Ambrose,” she called past me.  “But the bear’s a bigger target, I won’t miss, and you know it.  And I know you give a damn.  You two use each other’s given names, and we’ve been stakin’ out the apothecary since my son saw you go in last night.  You bothered seeing to the bear’s injuries. . . and now he’s standin’ in the line of fire for you. You really want his death on your conscience?  Got a lot of others weighin’ on you by now, I’m sure.  So maybe what’s one more?”
	“I-what?”  I glanced back at Finn.  And this time, his eyes had moved.  Only momentarily, but not at me.  He’d just closed them for a moment.  He opened them a few seconds later, and slowly. . . slowly. . . waved the pistol at the young mountain lion, in the direction of his mother.
	The teenage boy skittered the few feet to his mother’s side and moved partially behind her, pulling his own rifle up, finally.  Finn had followed his movement with his firearm, and now the two groups were just staring down their barrels at one another.
	I looked back to Odina, who had relaxed some now that her son was at her side again.  She kept her rifle up, but tipped her chin towards me.  “Relax, bearchild,” she said in a far less gruff voice than before.  It sounded almost motherly.  “I wouldn’t’ve shot Takoda’s boy.  I have far too much respect for your father.”
	I breathed out a sigh, but Finn cursed behind me.  
	“Fuck you,” he hissed out.  “You already shot him!”  
	“And who’s fault was that?”  She retorted back, like she’d been ready for it.  “How was I to know you’d suckered a local boy in somehow?  What manner of spell did you cast on this sweet’un to string him along?  Takoda’s told me about him, he’s a gentle boy.  No reason he should be involved in any of this.  I’m sorry I fired on you, child.  We didn’t know.”
	“Are you alright?”  I asked her, prompting an outraged look from Finnegan.  “I-it’s just that, we were pretty sure Finn hit you-“
	“I did,” he said with angry certainty.
	“Aye, he did,” she agreed.  “The wardens warned us you were a crack shot, but I thought for sure, on a river-tossin’ raft. . . well, it was a graze, anyway.  Got me on my right.”  She glanced down at her duster, which I now realized had a stain and a sizable hole in it just along the right side of her ribcage.
	“This time I’ll be a lot more careful,” Finnegan said, his tone icy.
	“Alright enough of that,” the mountain lioness said dismissively.  “Seems t’me at this point we’re at an impasse, and I’d rather we settle things one way or t’other before the law in these parts starts to take an interest in our activities.”
	“That won’t exactly shake out well for you,” Finn said.  “The law in Broen is my people. Who do you think they’ll side with in a dust-up like this?  Some feline woman, or the canine she’s menacing?”
	“I’d be happy t’let them take us all in,” she replied evenly, apparently not at all flustered by his words.  “Then I can show them the bounty papers I’ve got on you.”
	Finn went dead silent at that, gritting his teeth.
	“Your friend there’s the solution we’re both seeking,” she continued.  “A means to work this out without spillin’ blood.”
	It took me a moment to realize she was talking about me.  “I-I am?”  I said when it was obvious everyone was looking at me.
	“You’re taking him up-river, aren’t you?”  She asked knowingly.  “To your tribe.  Which means he’ll be in Chieftain Takoda’s care.”
	I realized where she was going with her questioning before Finn did.  He mostly looked confused, and was beginning to say something when I spoke up, “Yes,” I said quickly.  “Yes.  That’s where we were headed.  How did you know?”
	“Ain’t much else up-river,” Sawyer finally spoke again, sounding a little less scared now.  A little.  
	“Just the settlement they’ve been building on Takoda’s land, and Broen here,” Odina added.  “If we hadn’t found you here we would’ve gone up that way even not knowin’ who you were.  Not many other places you could’ve been headed.”
	“How did you beat us here?”  I asked, realizing they must have been here for quite some time to have been able to follow us, wait outside the shop and lay an ambush for us.
	“We took the deer trails,” she said, as though the answer were obvious.  “The river winds, takes a day longer at least.  I didn’t know I’d hit you, but figured chances were good you’d stop here regardless.”
	I’d known that, of course.  I felt foolish for even asking.  But it had been a long few days.
	“I’m guessin’ it’s not the bounty you’re interested in,” she said, nodding her rifle at Finn.  “But whatever your interest in this half-blood is, we can negotiate it with your father.”
	My eyes widened.  “You’d be willing to do that?”
	“I know once I explain things to him, he’ll see it my way,” she said evenly.  “Takoda’s a sensible man.  We can talk business and mediate how t’handle this in your village.  In a way that don’t get no one killed.”
	“We’re not-“ Finn began.
	“Fine, yes,” I raised my voice over his, and the wolfdog blinked at me in shock.  “That’s good by me.  My father will know what to do here.”
	“Can we talk?”  Finn snapped quietly, from behind me.  
	“Later,” I promised him.
	“Later might be too late,” he insisted.
	“I am not going to stand here and watch either of you shoot each other!”  I exclaimed, summoning what I could muster of my bear voice.  My throat was dry, and I was still hoarse with pain and addled by whatever drug I’d been given.  But it still worked.
	The nice thing about rarely raising your voice is that when you do, people tend to listen.
	“Enough people have been hurt by this already,” I said, quieter.  I looked into Finn’s eyes, and his expression slowly gave way.  “My father will know how to handle this.  I know he will.  We are not just going to hand you over, Finn.”
	The canine haltingly lowered his pistol, and his gaze from mine.  “Alright. . . .” he said at length.  “Sure.”
	There was something non-committal in his tone, like he didn’t believe me.  I wanted to say something to assure him, but it was at that point that Odina spoke up again.
	“We’ll be keeping an eye on you for the duration of the trip, if’n you don’t mind,” she hoisted her rifle up over her shoulder.  “But you can keep your own camp. . . and that piece o’yours.”
	“Just try to take it from me,” Finnegan growled softly.
	“Oh, I will,” she promised.  “In time.”

	We made camp just as we’d planned down by the river, while most of the rest of the town was just starting to wake up.  Pitching our lean-to was a blur for me, I was beyond exhausted and had needed to drink more of the tonic just to muscle my way through the agony of lifting some of our things and making it back down to the river.
	Finnegan once again did most of the work to set up our campsite, and I leaned against a nearby tree on my good side and drifted in and out.  He went about the task in complete silence, the air surrounding him dark and agitated.  I couldn’t imagine what was on his mind after all that had happened, but considering I was having enough trouble staying conscious and he didn’t seem to want to talk, it felt like a good time to give him some space.
	At some point he woke me and I crawled into the lean-to and barely made it onto the sheepskins before sleep took me.  I vaguely felt him settle down beside me, but not as close as we had been the previous nights.  I didn’t need the added comfort to sleep, though.
	I don’t know how long I was out, before an overpowering physical urge woke me.  My eyes opened to bright yellow light streaming in through the hides, my eyelids nearly sealed together, mouth dry, nose dry, everything parched.  My body ached, but it seemed mostly residual, my shoulder actually did feel a little better.  Not good, certainly, but not like it had before.  When I flexed it, the pain didn’t radiate all the way down my back.  It felt more contained to the burn now.
	What had woken me, though, was the overwhelming need to relieve myself.  I realized groggily that I hadn’t last night, I’d just gone straight to sleep.  And I’d had a lot to drink after the treatment.  The tonic seemed to parch me, for some reason.  I realized I should probably drink some more water now, while I was up.
	That thought just made me need to relieve myself even more, so I stiffly got up and crawled out of the lean-to, making my way for the woods.  It wasn’t far, we’d camped right on the edge of the tree-line to afford ourselves some privacy from the other campsites.  Also because we needed trees to set up the lean-to.
	Once I was done, I made my way down to the river, which also wasn’t far.  I could hear the distant sounds of the other other campsites, and beyond that, the bustle of Broen.  But here, things were quieter.  And we should have been alone.
	Except we weren’t.
	The young mountain lion saw me approaching and didn’t bother to hide himself.  He was sitting on a boulder near the edge of the river, whittling something with a pocket knife.  It was hard to tell if he was making any progress, or what it would be.  Currently it just looked round.
	I gave him a long look before I leaned down over the edge of another of the boulders along the bank and just stuck my face in the water, letting it wash away some of the stale, dry feeling around my eyes and my nose.  It was freezing, of course, so I lifted my head back out immediately and shook, before lowering my muzzle back to the current and drinking for a time.
	Sawyer began speaking while I was still drinking.
	“I don’t know under what falsehoods that’un imposed himself on you, young’n,” he sniffed.  “But you ought get out from under his sway before this thing’s done.”
	I lifted my head and shook again, before glaring in his direction.  “I’m pretty certain I’m older than you.”
	“Ah’m fourteen, and ah’m nearly full grown,” he said stubbornly.  “Been a man longer’n you have.  Ma says you only just left your tribe, that you ain’t been out in the world more’n a year.”
	He had me there.  Something was bothering me, though.
	“Why are you still speaking to me in Amurescan?”  I asked in Nontawlik, the northern tribal language that almost every tribesman I knew in the area spoke.  
	He balked a bit at that, and when he answered me back, did so imperfectly and slowly.  “Don’t speak tribe speak well.  Mother said it’s less important now.  It’s their world.”
	His answer made me sad, but I couldn’t argue the logic in it.  The mountain lion tribes, much like the bear tribes, were all but dissolved.  At least everywhere I knew.  They’d been small to begin with, and fiercely territorial, so they’d been some of the first to meet with the Otherwolves’ aggression.
	“Is that also why you have an Otherwolf name?”  I asked, switching back to Amurescan since it seemed to make him more comfortable.
	He nodded.  “Ma says I fit in better like this.  Anyway, you’re the one travelin’ with one of ‘em.  And a criminal at that.”
	“Just because there’s a price out on his head doesn’t make him a criminal,” I said with a sigh, reaching back down into the water to wash my paws.
	“No,” he said in a clarifying tone, “killin’ people is what makes him a criminal.”
	I lifted my head slowly to stare at him.
	“He didn’t tell you why there’s such an enormous bounty out on ‘im?”  The young lion asked me point-blank.
	“He. . .” I tried to find the words to explain what I knew.  What Finnegan had told me.
	What Finnegan had told me.
	“He’s a murderer,” Sawyer said.  
	My field of vision shrunk.  The sound of the river seemed to intensify, or maybe it was the blood in my veins, growing to a roar that filled my skull.  But it was still not loud enough to drown out the mountain lion’s next words.
	“He killed some rich man across the ocean, in their home country.  And two more since he made landfall here.  Shot ‘em all dead in the street.”  His eyes softened with some sympathy.  The pity I saw there made me feel sick.  “You didn’know, did you?”