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~ Down Range ~

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

October 2025

All Rights Reserved

Chapter One – The Long Dusty Road

The sun sagged low and angry in the west, burning the ridges to molten copper. Heat shimmered across the plain. Cattle moaned with each plodding step, tails lashing at the black clouds of flies. Dust clung to sweat-slick hides and every stitch of canvas shirt.

Finn fought his mare again, knees pressing too far back while his hands hauled the reins the opposite way. Confused, she squealed and sidestepped, teeth snapping at the bit before shoving a steer out of line. The animal bawled and shouldered back in, rank and furious.

“Behind the ribs, lad. Not in ’em.” Branford’s voice rolled over the dust like distant thunder. The older whitetail sat his chestnut gelding as if carved into the saddle, antlers sweeping pale against the blaze of the sun, white-flag tail flicking once at the flies. “And one command at a time. Left or right. You give both, she’ll buck you into the nearest tree and never lose sleep over it.”

Finn’s ears burned hotter than the sun itself. Dust clung to the duskier shades of his blacktail coat, tail tuft stiffening in agitation as he slackened the reins and shifted his knees forward. The mare pinned her ears but grudgingly slid back into place.

“Better,” Bran added, nothing more.

Finn dared a glance. The whitetail rode loose and easy, reins looped slack, posture steady as a fencepost. Dust caked the fur along his throat, flies pestered his ears, but Bran didn’t flinch. Just steady eyes on the herd, a mountain in motion.

By contrast, Finn’s thighs screamed with every stride of his mare. His back ached, his shirt clung, his tongue rasped dry as bone. Antlers itched where velvet still hung rough along the tines, half-grown and unimpressive beside Bran’s towering rack.

He muttered under his breath, “Don’t know how you make it look so damned easy.”

Bran’s ear flicked his way. “Practice. Seasons in the dust. That’s all.”

Silence settled again, broken only by the bawling of thirsty cattle and the ceaseless drone of flies. Finn hunched low in the saddle, grit thick on his tongue. He told himself he’d make it to sundown — and maybe another after that. Bran had done it for years. So could he.

* * *

Chapter Two – Bushman’s Corral

A rough corral rose from the scrub, crooked walls of split timber and heavy logs stacked like the bones of giants. Weathered gray, patched with wire and brush, it looked older than memory itself — yet it still held. The old-timers had built it to last.

Branford swung down from the saddle, boots sinking into the dust as the last calves stumbled inside. He hauled the log gate shut with a grunt and dropped the timber bar across. The bawling faded into weary lowing as the cattle pressed tight, penned for the night.

Head tipped back, nostrils flaring, Bran sniffed at the still air. His ears twitched once, twice.

“Storm coming.”

Finn blinked at the endless blue above. Not a cloud in sight. He leaned over the rain barrel and dunked his muzzle, cool water streaming down his cheeks, dripping from the velvet on his half-grown tines. He looked up, dripping, bewildered.

“I don’t—”

“Pendicles itching like a whore…” Bran cut him off with a snort.

Finn froze mid-swallow, ears jerking high, eyes wide. Vulgar didn’t begin to cover it. By Bran’s standards, that was practically polite. Another lesson for the greenhorn: his boss’s tongue was as blunt as his boot heels.

“Tryin’ to catch a muzzle full of flies?” Bran growled, stripping the saddle from his chestnut gelding in one smooth pull. The horse blew out a breath, grateful. “Shut your yap. Get the horses unsaddled and watered. And don’t forget the hobbles this time.”

He shot Finn a sideways glance, sharp as a spur. “Took you half the day to run Greymane down last week.”

Finn’s ears drooped, tail tuft lashing once with guilt. Bran was right — Bran was always right. Wordless, he ducked his head and reached for the cinch strap, shame hot along his jawline.

* * *

Chapter Three – Breaking Sky

The air turned. One moment it was dry and dusty, the next it sagged heavy as wet wool. Heat bled away, the temperature dropping fast enough to raise the hair along Finn’s arms. Even the flies knew — gone in a blink, fleeing like calves harried by wolves.

Humidity thickened, sour and cloying, clinging to every breath. Clouds boiled and rolled over each other, blackening by the minute, their bellies bruised purple with menace. Lightning split the far horizon — silent at first, then rumbling like a wagonload of stone tipping downhill.

How the fuck… Finn gaped, wide-eyed as the sky tore itself open. He knew. He bloody knew it was coming.

“Bad one,” Bran muttered, utterly unbothered. The whitetail slung his saddle up onto one shoulder, white-flag tail flicking at the first spattering drops. “We’ll shelter in the cabin tonight, unless you’d rather drown. Old place has stood a century or more. Hand-cut ironwood walls, split shingles. Leakier than a doe after rut, but better than boggin’ belly-down in the mud.”

Finn blinked, Bran’s colorful metaphor rattling around in his head until a flush prickled up his throat. A snort slipped out before he could swallow it, and he slapped a paw over his muzzle, mortified.

Bran cut him a sidelong glance, unreadable. The corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile — before he turned back to the storm.

The first true crack of thunder shook the corral rails, cattle bawling in answer. Rain hammered down in sheets, turning dust to mud and plastering ears flat. Bran’s gelding braced hocks steady as stone, while Finn’s mare Greymane danced sideways, squealing until he near lost the reins. By the time he got her unsaddled, he was drenched to the bone, shirt plastered against his ribs, tail dripping black.

The cabin door slammed open under Bran’s hand. Rough-hewn logs rattled under the storm’s weight, but the walls held. Inside was shadow and damp earth, air close with old smoke and sweat.

Bran thumped his saddle down, antlers dripping, then crouched at the hearth. Kindling snapped under flint sparks, smoke curling until flame caught and licked upward, snapping damp wood into heat and light. From a battered tin he dumped grounds and water, setting it straight on the grate to boil into tar.

Finn wrinkled his nose as the acrid scent filled the space. But beneath it, faint and clinging to the timber walls, came something else.

A musk.

Not just damp hide or wet leather — heavier, deeper. Old sweat baked into the logs, smoke tangled with something sharper, almost intimate. Finn’s ears swiveled forward, then back. He drew a delicate breath, trying not to be obvious.

I know that smell… don’t I?

Heat touched his cheeks. Semen. Musk. The ghosts of things he’d half-remembered in the bunkhouse when rut ran high — yet here, older, fainter, layered into the cabin itself. As though the walls remembered.

Bran poured black liquid into a tin mug, calm as if he were home at his own hearth. If he noticed the scent — or Finn’s restless stance — he gave no sign. He leaned back on a stool, long legs stretched, expression unreadable.

“Coffee,” Bran muttered, swirling the tar. “Put hair on your velvet, lad. Stockman’s trick — boil it ’til it’ll stand on its own. Throw in a horseshoe after. If it sinks, you’ve not used near enough grounds.”

Finn stared at him, dripping. “You’re joking.”

Bran sloshed the tar-black brew into a mug, took a long pull, and grunted approval.

“Stockman’s brew,” he muttered. “I’ve seen it keep a buck up three days straight.”

Finn froze mid-sip, ears jerking high, nearly choking on the bitter sludge. His tail lashed sharp as the double meaning sank in.

Bran didn’t blink. Just leaned back, straight-faced, as though he’d said nothing untoward at all.

Outside, the storm howled, lightning splitting sky from earth. Inside: smoke, firelight, and that musk — sharp, intimate, inescapable.

The air hung heavy with more than rain.

* * *

Chapter Four – The Fire and the Storm

Bran shed his clothes without ceremony, draping them over the back of a rickety chair that creaked in protest. He stretched, fingers laced, spine cracking from skull to tail-tip like dry kindling. A long grunt rattled out of him as he bent forward, then leaned left, then right, joints snapping in chorus. He dropped into a squat, rose again, rolling his shoulders as though shaking the years off.

“Old body, older heart,” Bran groused, twisting his back until it popped sharp and loud. “Rainy weather makes it worse.”

Finn flushed and fixed his gaze on the fire, paw poking at the coals with unnecessary precision. But as Bran turned, the younger buck risked a glance, ears twitching, muzzle hot. One guilty look became two before he dropped his eyes again, tail-tip curling tight against his thigh.

Bran’s back was still turned, but one ear rotated slowly, listening. He looked over his shoulder, brow arched, smirk curling his muzzle.

“Son, I’m not shy. Out here in the backcountry, you can forget airs and graces. Stockman’s life doesn’t leave room for ’em. It’s blood, tears, pain — and nudity. Nothing shameful about it.” He flexed again, voice steady as a hammer strike. “I’m fifty-two winters, and still as fit as the day my whore mother dropped me on my head out her cunt while two wolves spit-roasted her under tail and muzzle.”

“Bran!” Finn bleated, ears slashed flat to his skull, velvet tines near glowing with heat. He half-coughed, half-laughed, utterly scandalized. His chest rose and fell fast as he tried to process — was Bran joking, or was this just another unvarnished truth from a buck with no filter at all?

Bran only smirked wider, turning back to the fire, letting the storm rattle the cabin walls and Finn’s nerves alike.

Finn stripped with fumbling hands, every stitch of damp cloth clinging like a guilty secret. He hung them anywhere they might dry — over a chair, across a rope strung near the hearth — never once turning to face Bran. Paws clenched, shoulders hunched, tremors rippled through his frame despite the fire’s warmth.

A flash split the world white. The crack followed less than a heartbeat later, a deafening blast that rattled the old cabin walls. Finn nearly leapt out of his hide, vision blurring with sudden tears, ears ringing as though he’d been braced for a rifle shot. A raw bleat tore out of him, humiliation burning hot on its heels.

Bran? He didn’t even twitch a whisker.

“Mmm. Close one.” His voice was calm, as if he’d counted cattle instead of lightning bolts. He sniffed the air, ear swiveling. “Three hundred feet, give or take. Plenty of conductive stone around this ridge. Old legend says it used to be a sacred grove, long before our kind carved corrals out here. Some nonsense about the earth drawing the sky down for itself.”

Finn swallowed hard, trembling, ears drooping low. He risked a glance, expecting laughter, mockery, something. Instead Bran only stretched, tail flicking once, perfectly at ease, eyes reflecting firelight as steady as bedrock.

Finn trembled, rump aching, thighs burning as though his own storm raged inside him. He was sure his spine had shrunk an inch from the saddle’s pounding. He nursed the tin mug like it was ambrosia, sipping, then wrinkling his muzzle. Whatever Bran called it, it wasn’t coffee. It was liquefied death in a cup. One more scoop of grounds and it would’ve dissolved the mug and eaten through the hard-packed dirt floor.

“Relax,” Bran growled across the fire. “I’ve been watching you, greenie. You’re not posting the trot. You’ve got to work with old Greymane, not against her. She rises, you rise with her — push off with your hooves, let the saddle carry you. She dips, you flow like water with her. But fight her? Small wonder she near tore your ear off this afternoon. More patient mare you’ll never meet… but push her, and she’ll plant you so far in the dirt you won’t claw your way out.”

“I’m… fine,” Finn muttered, muzzle twisting around the lie. His tail curled tighter, betraying him.

“Sure.” Bran’s snort rumbled low. “Now stop being a know-it-all and get over here.”

Timidly, Finn rose, backing toward him. Before he could gather his thoughts, rough, calloused fingers gripped his hips and turned him, pressing him to his knees. A paw slid over his collarbones, pinching, flexing, testing the muscle. Bran grunted approval, then cupped Finn’s muzzle in one hand, shoulder in the other.

“Breathe out. Hold.”

Finn barely managed to obey before Bran twisted sharp. A loud crack split the air, pain flashing white through him — followed by a sudden, startling relief. He gasped, ears shooting high, the ache in his neck loosening like rope uncoiled.

“Better?” Bran muttered, voice rough but not unkind. He released him, giving his shoulder a firm pat. “Good. Now — rest of you. Up.”

* * *

Chapter Five – Firelight

Outside, the storm raged on, rattling the cabin, thunder rolling like a wagon across the beams. Rain drummed steady as hooves on hardpan, thick as any cattle drive.

Bran stretched out by the fire, flat on his back, paws laced behind his head. His chest rose slow, unbothered, eyes half-lidded as though he hadn’t just driven cattle through dust and downpour all day. Firelight painted the pale tines of his antlers, picked out the white flag of his tail curled lazy against the hides.

Finn hunched over his tin mug, staring into the black dregs. His tail-tip lashed once, restless. He stole a glance at Bran — one second too long — and yanked his gaze away, heat crawling up his throat.

A low huff rumbled from Bran, not unkind. “Son, I’ve seen the way you look. Don’t take a stockman to read that. And your scent? As plain as leather after a long ride… or a mare in season.” His tone was steady, matter-of-fact, as if he’d been talking about the weather. No judgment. No shame. Just truth.

Finn’s breath caught sharp. His ears flattened, shoulders drawing in tight. His heart thundered louder than the storm outside.

Bran didn’t move. Didn’t beckon. Just lay there, giving space — silence as much permission as words.

The fire popped. Shadows shifted. Rain hammered the shingles. Bran’s ears flicked toward Finn, his voice dropping low, contemplative:

“You’re curious, lad. Questioning yourself. Questioning what you want. Even your scent says more than you know.”

Finn froze mid-sip, mug trembling in his hands. Heat darkened his muzzle. He opened his mouth, but no words came — only a stammer trapped in his throat.

Bran didn’t press. His eyes half-lidded, his voice even. “No shame in it. None at all. Only in pretending otherwise.”

* * *

Chapter Six – The Storm Inside

The thunder had eased to a steady growl, rain drumming hard on the shingles overhead. The cabin breathed with fire and storm, close and heavy, every sound magnified.

Finn sat hunched on the stool, paws locked tight around his mug though it had gone cold long ago. His tail-tip curled against his thigh, ears swiveling at every crack of thunder, every snap of the fire. Worse than all of it was the weight of Bran’s words still coiled in his head.

I’ve seen the looks… your scent gives you away… you’re curious.

He swallowed hard. Fear sat bitter in his mouth — not the coffee, but the thought that Bran had meant nothing by it. Or worse, that he had.

His eyes betrayed him, dragging back to the pallet again and again. Bran lay sprawled on the deerhides, one arm pillowed behind his head, the other resting across his chest. Firelight gilded the pale sweep of his antlers, shadows deep in the cut of his muscles. His chest rose steady, untroubled.

Gods, he’s my boss. My elder. I couldn’t— I shouldn’t—

Finn trembled, sore and aching, yet something in him leaned forward even as reason begged him back. Urges like a doe’s — shameful, needy — clawed at his belly. What if Bran pushed him away? What if he laughed?

The silence stretched, taut as rawhide.

Bran’s head turned, slow and deliberate. One ear flicked. His brow arched. He didn’t move otherwise — just looked at Finn, eyes steady, unreadable.

The message was clear as thunder: Well?

Finn’s heart slammed against his ribs. His muzzle worked but no words came, only a hitch of breath sharp and shallow. His claws scraped the stool.

Would he permit it? Just a touch? Just… a lick to the cheek?

Heat surged along his jaw. He had never been so frightened. Or so tempted.

The storm filled the silence. Rain hammered. Thunder rolled. The fire spat. Finn’s own breath was the loudest of all.

Slowly, as if against his own will, he rose. Legs trembling, tail clamped tight like it wanted to bolt him back to safety. One hesitant step, then another, until he stood beside the pallet.

Bran did not stir. Paws laced behind his head, eyes half-lidded but watchful, chest rising calm as ever.

Finn’s paw lifted. Hovered. Shook. Then landed at last, timid against the older buck’s chest. Heat radiated through his fur, steady as the fire, steady as the earth. Bran’s heart thumped slow beneath his touch, in sharp counterpoint to Finn’s own gallop.

He swallowed, leaned in, lips brushing Bran’s cheek — feather-light, gone in an instant.

Then he froze, waiting. For a shove. For laughter. For anything.

None came.

Bran exhaled, a soft huff through his nose. Steady. Unmoved. His silence was clear: It’s yours to decide, lad. As far as you choose to go.

Finn’s paw trembled where it rested. The storm rattled the cabin, but the thunder that mattered now was inside him, rolling through his chest, telling him he’d stepped off the cliff at last.

* * *

Chapter Seven – Between Antlers and Firelight

Outside, the storm dulled to a steady roar, rain sliding down the cabin walls in endless sheets. Inside, the air hung heavy with smoke, musk, and nerves.

Finn knelt straddling Bran’s ankles, ears drooping low, muzzle hovering over the older buck’s belly. His chest heaved, heart pounding loud enough he was sure Bran could hear it. Yet beneath him the whitetail lay utterly still — paws behind his head, body stretched across the hides as though Finn’s trembling touch weighed nothing at all.

He swallowed. Tongue flicked, a tentative lick, tasting salt and fur. Boldness shocked him, and he flinched, eyes darting up.

Bran did not move. Only a slow exhale, nostrils flaring, gaze steady.

Another lick, longer this time. His muzzle brushed the heat of Bran’s loins; heat darkened his ears. He gagged when he tried more, shame cutting through him, muzzle damp.

A paw settled gently between his antlers. Not pressing. Not forcing. Grounding.

“That’s it, lad,” Bran rumbled, voice low as thunder. “Take your time. Find your way.”

Finn shivered, but bent again. Licks steadier now, his paw braced against Bran’s hip, breath hot and uneven. Musk filled his nose, sharp and intoxicating.

Bran’s eyes half-closed, a flicker of memory passing — a hayloft, another buck, both clumsy and laughing. He let it go with a huff, returning to the present.

Finn’s rhythm faltered, then caught. His ears trembled, tail flicking sharp, but he did not stop. The fire crackled, thunder rolled, and Bran groaned low, paw firming between his antlers — not command, but confirmation.

The blacktail pressed low, muzzle filled, until Bran’s storm broke with a rough gasp.

Finn gagged, eyes watering, but forced himself to endure, to swallow. When at last he pulled back, breath ragged, muzzle slick, shame and pride tangled tight.

Bran exhaled long, paw slipping to his shoulder. “You did well, lad.”

Finn lowered his head, trembling, unable to speak. But beneath the storm, something had shifted. He had crossed a line — and found not scorn, but acceptance waiting.

* * *

Chapter Eight: A 'Does' Lessons

Bran rolled to one side, paw rummaging through the battered provisions box until he came up with a small tin. He popped the lid with a thumb; the rich, greasy smell of lard filled the cabin.

Finn blinked, ears swiveling. “That’s…for cooking?”

Bran gave a low chuckle, dipping two fingers without a trace of embarrassment. “Does the job just fine for other things too. Dry won’t do, lad. I’m not here to split you like firewood.”

Finn flushed so hot he thought his ears might catch. His breath quickened as Bran spread the slick with slow, practiced strokes — not a tease, not a show, just the efficient pragmatism of a stockman who’d done this before.

When Bran leaned over him again, paw heavy at his hip, his voice was a gravelly reassurance. “You’ll take me, but I’ll see you through it. No shame. No hurt you can’t bear.”

Finn shifted uneasily on the deerhides, tail curling tight. The scent of lard filled the cabin, sharp and foreign, nothing like the perfumed oils of home. His mind betrayed him with memories — padded benches, rails for bracing, considerate touches from bucks his own size. Familiar. Manageable. Nothing like the hulking weight of a whitetail whose antlers brushed the rafters.

He swallowed hard, heart hammering. He’s too big. I can’t.

Bran grunted, catching the nervous clamp of his tail. His paw settled firm but not rough on Finn’s hip. “Quit thinkin’ yourself into knots. You’ve had bucks before. You know the dance. Only difference tonight is I lead.”

Bran’s muzzle brushed his ear, tone low but steady. “You’ll curse me, you’ll bleat, but you won’t break. Trust me.”

The words weren’t soft or sweet, but something in their certainty eased Finn’s trembling.

Bran guided him down onto hands and knees, tail flicking high despite Finn’s instinct to clamp it tight. The older buck’s paw trailed along his spine, grounding him. “Good. That’s better. Now breathe. Let me do the work.”

Finn’s breath hitched. Muscles taut.

The first press was slow, testing, Bran’s hips shifting just enough to let Finn feel the inevitability of him. The younger buck flinched. Bleated low. But the paw along his spine held him steady.

“Easy,” Bran murmured, voice low as the storm. “Not here to split you. Breathe. Feel it. Let it happen.”

Finn buried his muzzle in the deerhides. Gasped. Each slow inch sent sparks up his spine.

He’d thought it would be rough and over before he could understand it. Instead, Bran dragged it out, inch by inch, control terrifying in its precision.

Minutes stretched. Fire crackled. Storm raged. Bran worked him patiently — never more than half-buried, never enough to break him, always enough to keep him trembling. His body betrayed him, tail lashing, hips pressing back without thought, breath sobbing in his throat.

Bran’s muzzle pressed to his ear, hot breath shivering through him. “You feel that, lad? Every twitch, every breath? That’s me teaching you. Breaking you proper. Not once and done, but until you’ll never forget it.”

Finn whimpered. Paws clawed the hides. His body a trembling wreck lost in Bran’s slow rhythm. Time blurred — an hour, maybe more — until he no longer knew where he ended and Bran began.

At last Bran’s patience snapped. A growl rolled from his chest as his grip locked hard on Finn’s hips. The rhythm broke — one fierce thrust, then another, and then Bran drove home in a single, hilt-deep stroke.

The sound that tore from Finn was no timid gasp. It was a sharp, piercing bleat, a cry from his very marrow as his body seized and released in the same heartbeat. He collapsed forward, shuddering, white-knuckled on the deerhides, lost in the storm breaking through him.

Bran leaned close, muzzle at his neck, his voice a rumble between growl and sigh. “There. That’s it. You’re mine now, lad.”

* * *

Bran’s breath came rough against his neck, hot and heavy, chest pressed firm to Finn’s trembling back. His arms locked tight around the younger buck’s middle, holding him as though the night itself might try to pull him away.

He stayed buried deep, hips flush, heat seeping into Finn’s slack frame. Every small twitch rippled through him like aftershocks, nerves sparking long after the quake.

Finn stared at the cabin wall, vision blurred. His ears flicked weakly, tail a limp flag, breath catching in shallow, uneven gasps. Thought had left him. He was nothing but fragments — flashes of sound, touch, the cry he hadn’t known was his until it rang back at him.

No words came. No will remained. He was simply there — melted, spent, claimed.

Bran shifted, tightening his hold, muzzle brushing damp fur at Finn’s shoulder. A low grunt rumbled out of him, more truth than speech: mine now.

Outside, the rain eased to a softer patter, thunder growling off into distance. Inside, the only sound was Finn’s ragged breathing — proof of a greenhorn buck unmade and remade in a single night.

* * *

Chapter Nine – Back in the Saddle

Morning broke damp and gray, the storm spent but leaving the air thick with wet earth. The cabin still reeked of musk and sweat, clinging to the timbers like smoke after a branding fire.

Finn fumbled with the cinch strap, ears pinned, cheeks hot beneath his fur. Greymane swung her head and snorted at him, sharp and knowing. When he hesitated too long, she nipped his shoulder — not cruel, just pointed. I know what you’ve been up to.

“Quit it,” he muttered, shoving her muzzle aside. His tail flicked in embarrassment all the same. Every pull on the leather drew a reminder of the ache in his thighs, the sting in his hips. His movements were stiff, clumsy, and when he leaned too far forward he winced.

Behind him came a low snort — Bran, swinging a saddle onto Greymane’s back as though it weighed nothing at all. His ears flicked once, muzzle twitching in amusement.

“Ride’ll limber you out,” he said, tone dry, eyes never leaving his work. “If it don’t, you’ll learn to sit softer by week’s end.”

Finn’s blush deepened. He bit his lip, cinched the strap tighter. Greymane stamped once, as if laughing with Bran at his expense.

* * *

Epilogue

The bawling of cattle echoed through the yards, low and weary after months on the move. Dust clung to hides and coats alike, settling into every fold of leather and fur.

Finn slumped forward over Greymane’s neck, stroking her sweat-slick mane with a trembling hand. She snorted, tossed her head, then turned one ear back toward him, the other pricked forward in quiet approval. It had taken three months to break this foolish blacktail buck — but between her master’s iron patience and her own steady temper, she trusted him now.

Bran’s gaze flicked sideways to Finn, something unreadable softening at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, boss.” Bran drew his gelding up alongside, his voice as steady as the land itself. “Finally made it. Lost a few along the way, but most are here, penned and sound.”

Blackwood, reins loose in one hand, nodded toward the yards. Trail boss, hard as the country itself, his eyes slid past Bran to where Finn sagged in the saddle, muzzle dark with sweat. “And the greenhorn? He got what it takes? Think he’ll last?”

Bran didn’t look. He lifted his canteen, drank deep, and hung it back on the horn before answering. “Yeah, boss. He’s alright. He’ll fit in. He’ll last just fine.”

Six steps away, Finn caught that fleeting softness in Bran’s glance. His ears darkened crimson. A muffled bleat escaped before he could bite it back, buried into Greymane’s mane — along with the small, involuntary smile he couldn’t quite hide.

Neither older buck remarked. The cattle bawled, the sun sagged low, and the dust settled over the yards. Another drive ended — and for one greenhorn blacktail, nothing about the world would ever be the same.

FIN