Whitefish River now they see my blood on their sneakers

He was not sneaking around, hiding, or otherwise trying to conceal his path as he sought out the river. The beast's mighty strides made him resemble his asiatic cousin — showing off the reason why his people are sometimes referred to as mountain lions; he lacked the mane but he moved with swagger, even with his recent wounds. There was blood all over his forelimbs, his throat, his face — not his, not all of it anyway. Most of it was dry between the filaments of his fur, matting it in place or making him look altogether wild. He liked it. He liked the fear he had brought upon the world around him, the pain, all of which the wolves deserved.

But he was heading for the river because he just couldn't lick himself clean. The sensation of crusty blood all over him was not as appealing as the fresh stuff, and Zugzwang needed a bath. What a moment that must have been — this massive cat, agitated, injured, filled with wrath and power, creeping along the edge of a frigid river just as a dark shape came careening out of nowhere.

It was another wolf. Zugzwang could've ducked away and gone about his business, gotten that bath, tended to his wounds, but he didn't. That wolf came racing out of nowhere and the cat watched - pupils briefly dilating as it moved across his vision - and then he took off after it, engaged by the strong instinct to give chase to something on the move.