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Going to his hands and knees to get closer to the ground as he inched his way-back among the trees, Scratch found it. Nothing else quite like that sweetish tang on the air, an odor going old and rancid. Again he sniffed, moved to his right, and the smell hit him all the stronger. In five steps he was standing over it in the dark. Giving it a good sniff, Bass assured himself he was right about the smell, but remained uncertain what the clump was. He poked a finger at it, then a second time to confirm it. I logged off and just needed to get out of there. I was definitely forgetting about him now. I could stop thinking about him all the time. I could stop obsessing about how I was going to explain myself to him. No matter, he had reflected several times since. Quickly tying them off nose-to-nose, two-by-two, the four trappers emerged from the mouth of the draw in a crouch. Best you boys make your one shot count. His cheekbones were so high they gave his eyes such an Oriental slant that upon meeting last summer Scratch had first believed Corn was a half-breed, Canadian-born Frenchman. He was instead a river-bred Cajun with a dusky drop of Creole blood in his veins.
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