He saw everything: the gleam of the sun on the craft as it dropped below the clouds, its shadow moving across the bright snow-covered hills, the faces of the passengers in the windows looking down at the pristine forest. He saw it all. He had acquired his inner vision from Little Feather, the old Apache tracker. He had lived with him for a year in the wilds. Little Feather taught him about the forest, about people, about life and death. Bowen opened his eyes when he heard the first crunch. The waiting was over. The buck was eating the apples laid out on a tree stump next to his hide. Thick falling snow was forming a white ridge on the animal’s back as it stood motionless and alert. Once the six-point whitetail determined that it was safe, the doe and the young ones hiding in the nearby brush would follow. They were beautiful creatures. Bowen was not hunting them. He had been waiting in his hide in the woods for hours for no other reason than to be close enough to touch one. Bowen was a survivalist who lived in the mountainous forests of Western Maryland.
