Evan

It went from a four-beat canine pattern to something that, if I'd seen it on paper, would have made me say, that's not a clean trackway.

It looked like something was stumbling or changing speed in a way that didn't match the terrain.

Dale watched me work without interrupting.

When I stood...

He asked, What is it?

I told him the honest thing.

I can't call it clean yet.

That's investigator language for, This doesn't fit my boxes.

Wes leaned in and said quietly, You hear about the dog that stands up?

Dale shot him a look that wasn't anger exactly, more like warning.

Wes shut up.

We checked two more sites before sundown, both older losses.

The pattern repeated.

Damage that suggested predation, but didn't match a single predator cleanly.

Tracks that didn't settle my mind.

And in one spot, something I'd never seen before.

a line of prints in damp sand along an arroyo where the tracks started as large canine impressions, and then, over the course of ten yards, turned into something that looked uncomfortably like a human barefoot print, too narrow, too long, toes wrong, then back to canine again.

If I'd been doing this in a city, I would have assumed a prank.

Out there, with no tire tracks, no boot prints, no sign of a person walking in to make the joke.

It felt less like humor and more like a message.