Stone Circle ain't no use in trying

Without any companions to slow him down, Kincaid had put many miles between himself and the last place he'd seen Nine Lives. This knowledge sat bitter and heavy in his chest, but aside from that, he was in good spirits.

He'd hunted. His success rate had taken a steep plunge since the separation, but he was learning. Now he held a fat ground squirrel in his jaws, and although he was salivating around it in his hunger, he refrained from damaging it any more than he already had. For it was tradition, where he was from, to come to another pack's borders bearing a gift of goodwill.

Kincaid stopped a respectful distance away to drop his gift and howl. Then he settled in to wait, hoping he would not have to wait very long in the uncomfortable heat of the day.