Dawnlark Plains pretend you know this song

Tahoe paused above the hoofprint, a sharp exhale exiting his nostrils after giving the decimated ice a thorough sniff. Without a doubt, the print was made by a deer. Based on the scent's freshness, their quarry had to be lingering nearby. 

Do you see them? Inquired Alejandro, approaching. McBride flicked an ear his way, but signaled nothing more to him. He figured St. Clair was capable of using his eyes. They were probably sharper than his anyway.

They're somewhere 'round here. Go ahead. He answered in a low mumble, following the beaten trail the deer had created without further delay. He kept his gait furtive, it would be a foolish mistake if he were to spook the prey early—potentially costing them the whole hunt. Tahoe felt it would be more efficient if St. Clair were to lead. He assumed he would be faster, based upon the man's spry stature. Speed was not Tahoe's strongsuit, but he made up for it in stamina. If Alejandro could slow down their target, Tahoe would certainly be there to assist in the takedown.