“Well, don’t just sit there,” Scarface growled. “Get out of that street! We’ve got to get you home.”
Bridget stretched her muscles, which were still sore with tension fatigue, and skipped to the top of the curb. Scarface’s belittling bothered her, though she would never have admitted that, such was her admiration and respect for his feats. He had turned his back to Bridget as he rambled into a line of unkempt brush, so she pushed herself after him.
“Hey now, squirt,” he called as he passed into deep shadows within a line of spreading oaks. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”
Bridget struggled to keep pace. He moved so fast!
“I wanted out,” she answered between bounds. “They couldn’t… they couldn’t stop me!”
As that rolled off her tongue, the cats moved beyond the street lamps into a worn field of weed patches and damp, moldy earth. The crystalline fog, which she had first found so beautiful, now blended with the night to hide most everything – including Scarface. Fearful, Bridget slowed in a sand pool amidst the trees, barely able to see even her own paws. Something hooted high among the fluttering leaves. She cringed.
At once Scarface was there, standing above her, chuckling. “Come along, little warrior. We’ll get you home.”
He disappeared with a silent leap. Embarrassed at being left behind, Bridget charged into the mist, racing to catch the ghostly image of his tail. Branches and weed stalks flew by, but she seemed unable to gain any ground. Each time she increased her speed he did as well, with far greater ease. The effort soon had her legs aching and her pads sore, with thorns snagging her fur, but Bridget pushed on. Her nose started to run from the heat of her exertions, even as her throat throbbed against the chill, wet air.
Step by step Scarface pulled ever ahead. To Bridget, he was like a wraith – appearing for a moment before her, then fading within the dark. More and more Bridget had to follow his scent, but soon that too disappeared, as did his tracks. So she slowed to rest, though it galled her to do it, and tried to figure out where Scarface had gone. That led her to a far more discouraging problem: Bridget had no idea where she was or what she was doing.
“Oh, stop fretting so!” Scarface whispered. “You think this will change things?”
Shocked and humiliated by his sudden appearance, Bridget nearly raked his face with her claws. How did he keep sneaking up on her?
She could see his amusement in his glowing eyes, but he made no sport of it. “We mustn’t stop here,” Scarface warned. “The hounds patrol this place all the time. Come on now! Follow me! We’re almost there.”
With that, he was off once more. Bridget swallowed her pride and shoved her weary self forward. But this time Scarface moved ahead at a slow clip to help her keep pace. Beneath a thick shrub he came to rest alongside a wall of gray deadwood planks, slivered and cracked from decay. Bridget rolled to a stop at his feet, gasping.
“So, you wanted to be a warrior,” he reminded her. “Well here’s your chance. We’ve got to cross under this fence to get you home. You must be swift and silent, or the hounds will get us both. So stay close, squirt! I don’t want to have to save you again.”
Bridget offered a timid nod. She saw his tense muscles, calculating eyes, and flattened hair. It gave her courage.
Without another word, Scarface crawled into an eroded hole in the dirt that stretched below the bug-gnarled boards. Flattening his back, the large cat scooted under the fence with little difficulty. He waited on the other side for Bridget to come through, and then he bounded into a black forest. She followed, focusing on his darting tail. All she wanted was to escape this place. The scent of dog corrupted the sod, the grass, the air itself. It maddened her.
A barricade of dense brush rose before Scarface. It brought Bridget some joy, for upon its damp leaves and fallen needles sparkled the light of the pale midnight sun. The male warrior paid it no heed, springing through the branches to splatter Bridget with dew drops. Blinded, she plunged after him. On the other side she sensed a clearing. She sprinted ahead, batting her eyes clear, then froze.
Bridget stood at the center of a grassy knoll, far from the circling tree line. Scarface was gone, but she wasn’t alone. Poised at the foot of the hill stood a mountainous German Shepherd, her sharp black eyes targeting Bridget with dark, restless malice.
“Scarface!” Bridget cried out.
A cross bark answered from behind the cat, followed by a second and third. The hound at Bridget’s face snarled, then charged.