Whitefish River you and me and the devil make three

It was growing harder to spot the blood in the snow, and sometimes his scent would waft away, leaving the shadow roving the meadow until she found it again, setting back onto the trail with relief. Thus far, she'd not seen a body, and she'd been following his trail relentlessly, neglecting to hunt in the fear that she'd lose it. 

And yet she lost it all the same, somehow leaving it in the dark of night. She whirled, concern already bubbling up as she paced back the way she'd come, nose to the ground as she searched. She'd never been the best tracked, and unknowingly she passed over the faded trail twice as she searched, desperation having her pick up the pace, ignore the thirt burning in her throat and the the demanding hunger in her gut.