Redhawk Caldera Whatever's left of you

"What --- what do you think you're doing?" derided Wagtail through gritted teeth. Every instinct, every experience, suggested calling in the cavalry in some unknown place was not only a bad idea, but a terrible one. It had been the first lesson her father had bothered to impart: never rely on the kindness of others. It was a resource like any other, and it was often in short supply.

In her discomfort, she leaned on the stable footing the rules provided. Rigidity. Structure. "We should leave -- before they come. We still have time if we go now--"

"We're going to wait," Whip replied decisively. His voice was rough like gravel, and the sound made Wagtail flinch. "Running off now wouldn't be very polite, would it? "  

Ears falling back, Wagtail sank into uncertainty.

"Trust me," the elder implored. "I haven't gotten us killed yet."

"There's always today."

He smiled wryly.

"There's always today."

***

When the rider came, the sun was nearly gone. He seemed cautious, and this didn't surprise Wagtail -- she was always cautious of strangers; and here they were, a strange bunch, an oddly proportioned coywolf and a crusty geriatric. 

It was Whip-por-will that answered back. "The prodigal son returns home to roost." he called out over the distance. "My name is Whip-poor-will Redhawk, and this is my daughter, Wagtail."

Wagtail bowed her head, but stuck close to her father's side.

"Any Redhawks still call this place home?"