Mists of Dawn (21 page)

Cautiously,
Mark
inched
his
way
closer.
He
could not
afford
to
waste
one
of
his
precious
shots,
and
a
.45, for
all
its
smashing
power,
was
a
very
erratic
weapon as
a
target
pistol.
He
settled
on
the
calf
as
his
best
bet. It
grazed
a
little
apart
from
the
others
and
should
be easier
to
bring
down.

Mark
halted,
a
scant
thirty
yards
from
his
prey.
He checked
his
gun
and
slipped
the
safety
off.
He
lay down
full
length
in
the
grass
and
raised
his
pistol
to take
aim.

He
never
had
a
chance
to
fire.
With
a
sudden
snort, the
lead
bison
lifted
its
head
and
broke
into
a
lumbering
run
that
covered
ground
with
a
deceptive
speed. The
others
followed
him
instantly.
Mark
still
had
a shot
of
sorts,
but
he
passed
it
up.
He
simply
could
not take
a
chance
on
missing,
with
bullets
in
such
short supply.
It
had
to
be
a
sure
shot
or
nothing.

There
was
something
else,
something
that
sent
a cold
chill
through
Mark
that
was
not
entirely
due
to the
chillness
of
the
coming
night.
Something
had frightened
the
bison,
and
he
was
positive
that
it
hadn’t been
himself.
He
lay
very
still
in
the
grass,
listening. He
heard
nothing.
There
was
only
the
whisper
of
the wind.

It
was
growing
late.
With
an
alarming
rapidity,
the sun
was
gone
and
the
long
shadows
of
twilight
were merging
into
the
black
of
night.
It
was
colder
now,
a wind-driven
cold
that
threatened
to
drop
the
temperature
far
too
low
for
comfort.
Mark
was
painfully hungry.
He
had
been
so
close
to
food
that
he
could almost
taste
buffalo
steaks
in
his
mouth.
And
the
skin could
have
kept
him
warm,
if
he
could
have
managed to
get
it
off
with
his
pocket
knife.

Mark
did
not
want
to
move.
He
felt
the
weird
presence
of
something
alien
in
the
shadows
of
the
onrushing
night.
He
felt
unseen
eyes
upon
him,
boring
into his
back,
lifting
the
hair
on
his
neck.
But
he
had
no choice.
He
told
himself
that
it
was
all
imagination
and got
to
his
feet,
the
.45
ready
in
his
hand.
He
saw nothing,
but
the
shadows
were
thick
around
him
now.

Desperately,
he
started
back
the
way
he
had
come, guiding
himself
by
the
faint
lingering
light
behind
the mountains
in
the
west.
He
was
grimly
afraid
that
he 
had
waited
too
long,
that
he
would
be
unable
to
find his
way
back
to
the
space-time
machine
before
nightfall.
He
could
never
find
it
at
night
and
he
knew enough
not
to
try
to
blunder
on,
which
would
only result
in
his
getting
hopelessly
lost.
He
would
have
to stop,
if
he
didn’t
make
it;
build
a
lire
perhaps.