Whitebark Stream don't think we need to engage in any pleasantries

She had not chased a buck before, from memory.
So far with Colt it had been carrion, small things, sometimes a mark; but rarely if ever could they corner something as mighty and calorie-rich as this. It descended to the shadows of the oak and Redbird was coasting in Colt's wake, close enough to see his cues, to hear commands if he uttered them, and quick.
He pulled along the water.
She eyed him as much as the buck's dark trail, perhaps more-so, vigilant.