Lost Creek Hollow lady in the water

He is within sight of the creek's weaving body, but something stops him. At first it is like a gust of wind billows from the depths of the hollow that freezes him in place, head up and body rigid with uncertainty. But then there is a shift - either in the wind or his mindset - and Barton reacts to the oncoming wolf as best he can. At first he begins to hunch in the classic style of a coyote cornered; a wild lashing of his tail snapped it in to place along his rump, almost touching his belly, but he tries to relax. If he is to reach the water and test his luck - test the myth - then he had to act the part. He smelled like a wolf already, like a member of this pack. All he had to do was prove himself to this stranger.

But her bared fangs and deep warning growl were offsetting his natural inclination to escape. He wanted to run for the hills and keep his body intact, unharmed. A steel will kept him firmly rooted. The coyote's tail raised up, batting in a friendly manner at his hips, and then raising more, hesitantly dominant. The beast leveled his autumn gaze at the approaching stranger as if he were offended.

"Halt!" He commands, voice shaking only a little.

He steps away from the stranger and wheels around, baring his fangs and dropping his tail. "A man gits welcomed up in this here place, an' this is the welcomin' I'm gettin'?" Barton channeled his frayed nerves in to a look of dissatisfied offense, his head pulling back a bit, before shaking back and forth. "Ain't right, jus' ain't right. Y'all pickin' on me jus' because I'm small, like e'body else." Tsk.

Maybe that would work. The boy's body prickled from spine to tail, with the latter puffing out like it had been hit by electricity; but he was just anxious, and clearly not pleased.