The pines began to thin on the uphill side. He emerged onto a long, wide slope that stretched, ever-steepening, boulder-strewn but almost barren of vegetation, to the ravine's horizon. His easiest way lay along its base, past tangled underbrush.
A little distance ahead and up the slope, a large chunk of granite jutted out. On its rim sat three cats, again regarding him. Something about the way they were turned toward each other, the little movements they made, suggested that they were holding a conference and that the topic of the conference was—he.
From behind and below the howling came again. The cats pricked up their ears. There were more movements, more glances in his direction. Then as he began jogging along again, one of the cats—the tiger—leaped down and streaked away past him, downhill. While the black-and-gray and the black dropped off the granite rim more leisurely and began to trot along in the direction he was taking, with frequent sidewise glances.
He quickened his pace, grateful for the reserve energy.
The going was good. There were no eroded chutes to be edged around, no pines to fight.
Once the howling was repeated faintly.
The shadowy bodies of the cats slipped between the boulders, in and out. Gradually he began to draw ahead of them.
For some reason everything felt very natural, as if he had been created for this running through the dusk.
He sprinted up the last stretch, came out on top.