Redhawk Caldera we're the new face of failure.

As they cantered slowly toward the herd, Peregrine couldn't help but repeat that word in his head: Wildfire. It was at the top of the list when it came to names for the children he hoped to have with Fox someday soon. It could work for a boy or a girl, he figured, but there was something feminine about it to him. If he ended up naming one of their little girls that, he would be sure to tell her that he had named her for her beloved Aunt Finley's preferred flavor of wing sauce.

He didn't share these thoughts out loud. In fact, he mentally brushed his arm across the tabletop of his mind, sending all the cluttered thoughts there to the floor, then swept them under the ole brain rug. He focused now on the hunt. His nostrils flared and his whiskers quivered as he drank in the buffaloes' scent. They were formidable prey but Finley didn't seem deterred in the least, so he would follow her lead. Perhaps they could find a young, old or injured animal.

"See anything promising?" he queried as they came close enough to count the beasts and scan them for details. For the time-being, the buffaloes either hadn't seen the two approaching wolves or had decided not to consider them a threat, for not a single one of them seemed to react to their encroaching presence.