Rising Sun Valley beneath this

sycamore's paws slammed against the ground, each one with more force than the last. the scent trail, it'd dissipated, leaving him lost and without a clear path. he cursed in frustration, a string of words too vulgar for his catholic writer. 

there will be a next time, he thought, eyes narrow and searching. he huffed as his claws beat furiously against the ground, the motion akin to an ornery bull. there will be a next time, and next time,

i won't lose.