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The Tall Grass is swayed in the wind, swishing back and forth as the gusts howled over the hill

tops and down into the clefts that reached down toward the river below.

Shunks of ice floated in the water, little bits of winter freeze left over as spring

slowly and tentatively made its way onto the tundra.

The river is burbling in the roar of the wind soon faded under a rising din.

Hooves, dozens of them, pounded the stalks of grass flat into the ground.

Splashes followed as the herd of reindeer followed the well-trodden path down to the river,

seeking out the only point shallow enough to cross for miles around.

The herd came this way every year.

Caves and yearlings remembering the root as they grew into adults who brought their own

offspring to seek out the abundant grasses of the summer pastures.

The first reindeer's hooves hit the far bank of the river and started up the hillside,

struggling against the steep grade.

He was a big old male, a veteran of many such crossings, and the herd followed his lead.

They bunched up behind him.

The path was too narrow for more than one or two reindeer to go up at a time.

He paused halfway up the slope, sniffing the wind.

Danger lurked out there, but what kind?

Too late.

With the herd smashed together along the river, a dozen hunters sprang over the lip of the

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