Arrow Lake can you spare a dam?

The stranger offered no verbal response, but Finley’s call was heard; she, too, dropped to a crouch and began slinking forward. Finley resumed her own pursuit; she was less subtle, her steps heavy where the other’s were light, and her compensating slowness meant the other reached their target first. Here the other hunter stood still—had she been noticed? Was she waiting for a cue?

Their target hid in a shallow divot a few feet from the water’s edge, hidden among sticks and grass. Buck teeth had hooked around the heftier end of a mighty branch, telltale dirt scrapings and grass uprooted in its wake. The beaver, quite awake but oblivious to its looming predators, gave tug after tug; its branch would not budge. Its shelter could prove its undoing; the branch had snagged among the roots, and the rodent was a young specimen, either too determined or stupid to admit defeat and untangle its bounty.

But surely if it noticed the wolves, it would give up and dive for the lake, its life more important than some dumb stick. Finley looked back to her ally; they had one chance. A sidelong glance towards the escape route; then a curious head tilt to the turquoise-eyed wolf, a nose point to the beaver, back to her. Nonverbal communication (or communication in general) was not Finley’s strong suit. She could only hope the other had assessed the situation similarly and drawn the same conclusion: one for the throat, one for the escape. Surely it wouldn’t try running further inland; its flopping, heavy gait—or so Finley assumed; it looked even less lithe than her—wouldn’t stand a chance.