The trackers had lost his trail and were milling dejectedly, searching near the spot where he had feigned entering the stream. None appeared too adept at finding sign and for that he was grateful. Another mile in the wrong direction and then he would backtrack. Hopefully, the maneuver would confuse them to the point they gave up. He was, after all, only one individual and probably not worth the effort. Feeling more confident the further he got from the newcomers, he relaxed, moving faster through the brush, but still carefully covering his tracks. If they did manage to stumble on his new direction, he wouldn’t make it any easier for them. After what he estimated to be a mile, give or take a few yards, he began a wide circle back towards the shelter’s location. The underbrush, trees and vegetation were noticeably denser here and, as the sun sank further, visibility was limited. Pausing for a moment, he drew in deep gulps of air, the exertion of the last few hours having taken its toll on him.
