Porcupine Ridge The hills of Hollywood on fire

The pair's soundless charge scattered the coyotes, whose spindly legs carried one left and one right. Thus divided, their fear began to get the better of them; their nattering was a mile a minute, harsh yips and yowls to Farstep's ear and perhaps something more to Diane's. The whites of their eyes gleamed in the mid-morning sun. Their demeanour, nervous and desperate. Farstep's tongue swept over his bared teeth in an unbridled display of threat as he squared himself against the male coyote. He was skinny, ribs prominent, and his slavering jowls suggested he hadn't eaten for several days.

He yapped something fierce, and Farstep's head levelled with his shoulders as he broke into a choppy run. The coyote barely managed to swing partway around when the wolf barreled into him, sending his side down against the earth with a thud. But the male coyote had something to live for, it seemed, for the narrow jaw found a way to slice into the wolf's exposed cheek, painting half of Farstep's countenance crimson. He yelped as the coyote struck again, quick and dangerous as a rattlesnake, at an exposed snout, but then the wolf hooked his jaws around the smaller canine's skull. He crunched and shook viciously his prey, sending droplets of blood flying along with fur from his victim, who flopped like a ragdoll in the wolf's unrelenting grip.