The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby by H L Grandin Page B

west, and about forty-five feet down a steep rampart. A hundred yards downstream was Blackwater Falls, a 200-foot step in the gorge that had pounded the rocks below for all of time.
    Tyoga looked at the lay of the land and knew what was happening. Wolves are pack animals. Not only do they rely upon the safety in numbers for physical protection in times of territorial confrontation with rival packs, but their prowess as a living, thinking hunting machine was so sophisticated that it served as the model after which humankind fashioned their own hunting strategy. The wolves were boxing them in by using the environment as their tool.
    Cunningly, the boys had been cut off from any possible retreat.
    Like an apparition forged from the vacuous shadows that bridge the light to the dark, the Commander materialized from the darkness. His eyes were filled with a dispassionate resolve that projected an odd separation from the outcome of the impending confrontation and the decisive role he was to play in it. With a weary determination, he advanced toward Tyoga.
    Tyoga watched as the Commander’s eyes lowered ever so slowly toward the ground. He saw the wolf extend and tighten his huge neck muscles and assume the aggressive stance of a mighty stalker before downing a two-ton buffalo or fending off the slashing antlers of a bull elk. Sure of the outcome of the battle to come, he didn’t slow his pace like the others had before him. There was no need for stealth or hesitation. He would kill the smelly hairless creature before him, not only because he had killed members of his family, but because if he could not, then the legend would go on to proclaim that Tyoga Weathersby was the one.
    Tyoga backed away. The ball of his foot touching feather soft upon the pine covered loam. First the left foot. Then the right. He did not take his eyes off of the Commander. He was sure that the others were not invited to this dual.
    “A ho ya, Ty.”
    Tyoga did not reply to Tes Qua’s admonition to stop backing away. Although he hadn’t heard the words, the message had registered. He slowed his retreat, and prepared to stand his ground. He would live—or die—on this spot. Neither was true.
    The Commander slowed his pace. Each massive paw hesitated in mid air before being carefully, thoughtfully placed in advance of the other. Unblinking, his eyes burned with a lustful hatred. The deep resonating rumble of contempt echoing from the barrel chest of the beast changed to a more aggressive pitch; shallower, more deliberate, ready to attack. Tyoga sensed that the charge was only seconds away.
    He tightened his grip on the shaft of his makeshift spear, planted his left foot against a protruding root, bent slightly at the waist and waited. He was covered in the sweat and dirt and blood of both man and beast. The braids of his long sandy hair had long since fallen into disarray. Wet matted strands clung to his brow and fell about his shoulders and back. His breathing was fast and shallow. He fought to stay focused and calm.
    Everything in him told him to run. This was a fight that he could not win. He could run a few hundred yards downstream, leap from the falls, and swim free from this nightmare. How joyous would be the embrace of the cool, dark, mountain water filled with the sweet tannins that gave Black Water Falls its name as it washed the sweat and blood from his tired, aching body. How wonderful it would feel to gulp mouthfuls of cold, sweet mountain water. He could feel the bubbles lifting him to the surface, and see the acrid tan of the water break into the joyous clarity of the crisp night air as he was lifted free … lifted free …
    The strike was lightening fast. Sensing that Tyoga had lost his concentration, the Commander struck with savagery. He did not leap into the air and aim at Tyoga’s throat as he had expected and prepared himself for, but the full force of his charge was focused at Tyoga’s knees only inches below the knife blade of