The sky behind the eastern peaks had barely turned the color of wet pewter when Chaska climbed back up from the lower nursery chute and braced her brass scouting lens against the rim of the sulfur chimney.
For ten seconds she swept the glass along the timber palisade, past the mule lines and the smoking stovepipe of the mess tent. Then the lens stopped on the high cedar cross-post at the corner of the eastern rope yard.
Hanging from the top peg, swaying half an inch in the cold canyon draft, was a broad strap of greased harness leather with a scarred brass tongue-buckle.
“Collar’s up,” Chaska said, her voice dropping flat. “Siv’s collar is on the eastern post.”
Beside the warm niche where the mouse box sat, Osha’s hands tightened on the oilskin wrapper of her father’s journal. Ysabet reached for the lens, took one look at the heavy collar swinging empty above the rope coils, and lowered the brass tube.
“Where are the wolves?” Ashaun asked, rising with her right hand on the grip of Fesk’s bow.
“Down by the outer shale ditch, thirty yards outside the fence,” Chaska said, shifting the glass down the bank. “Wait—they’re moving.”
