He was a gnarled, knotty, powerful little man, beginning to grizzle but not to slow down. He wore a kilt of skins. His hide was dark and tough as leather, his hazel eyes set in nests of wrinkles.
The hunter, who had been hearing nothing but noises going back and forth over his head, turned and led off down the gully. The others followed, still not speaking.
Ciaran was thinking, He's crazy. He's clear off his head—and of all the things we didn't need, a crazy hermit heads the list!
There was a cold spot between his shoulders that wouldn't go away even when he started sweating with exertion.
The gully was evidently a main trail to Somewhere. There were many signs of recent passage by a lot of people, including an occasional body kicked off to the side and left to dry.
The little knotty man, who was a trapper named Ram, examined the bodies with a terrible stony look in his eyes.
"My wife and my first son," he said briefly. "The grey beasts took them while I was gone."
He turned grimly away.
Ciaran was glad when the bodies proved to be the wrong ones.