It had been a week since we left the den.
The family had finally cleared the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies, pushing southeast toward the Mississippi plains. The endless white summits were fading, replaced by a rugged landscape of jagged red rock, wind-blasted basins, and sheer canyon walls.
Massive layers of crimson stone cut through the earth like open wounds. Nature had carved these cliffs into strange, towering shapes that stacked on top of one another, separated by a valley so deep it looked like a sleeping dragon. It was raw and magnificent.
Looking at the scale of it, sothing clicked in my head. I know this place. I've seen this in geography magazines back ho. Is this... the Grand Canyon?
The realization hit hard. In my past life, the Grand Canyon was a bucket-list trip I never got to take. Now, I'd reincarnated as a tiger and stumbled into the prehistoric version of it ten thousand years before the tourists arrived.
But the awe didn't last long. My stomach gave a sharp growl, reminding that "scenery" doesn't fill the belly.
The last seven days on the road had been brutal. We were moving and hunting at the sa ti, never really settling. Zack and Zoe looked like hell—dazed, skinny, and stumbling through the drifts. Even Mom and Dad were struggling. We'd only caught a few small snacks along the way, nowhere near enough to offset the calories we were burning on the march. They were starting to look worn out, their usual confidence replaced by a grim, tired focus.
I wanted to help, but there wasn't much a sub-adult could do besides keep up and stay alert.
As we entered the new territory, Mom and Dad went into professional mode. They fanned out, noses twitching as they sifted through the mountain air for a scent. This ti, our luck turned. A massive herd of pronghorn antelope had passed through recently, leaving a thick, musky trail.
"Roar~~"
Mom gave a low signal. We weren't letting this chance slip away. We picked up the pace, following the scent deeper into the canyon system.
The cliffs eventually opened up into a wide, sandy basin. It was a bleak sight—dead, yellow grass struggling to poke through the heavy snow. But right in the middle of that wasteland, we found what we were looking for.
A herd of pronghorns. At least four or five hundred of them.
They were scattered across the flats, using their hooves to kick away the snow to reach the frozen roots below. Winter was hitting the herbivores just as hard as us; they looked frantic, digging for every scrap of green they could find.
Despite their hunger, they were on high alert. Pronghorns have incredible vision—they can spot movent from over a kiloter away. Any predator trying to sneak up on them across this open ground was basically walking into a spotlight.
Mom and Dad watched them from the ridgeline, salivating. An adult male pronghorn is only about 150 pounds—barely a single dinner for the five of us—but at this point, we weren't being picky.
"Roar..."
Mom signaled the "all-in." We dropped low, bellies scraping the snow, and began the slow, agonizing crawl toward the herd. Zack, Zoe, and I followed their lead.
This was a full family operation. We needed this kill.
The pace was glacial. Everything was against us: the sun was still up, the ground was flat, and our brownish fur was a target against the white snow. Every ti a sentry pronghorn looked up, we turned into statues, holding our breath until the animal went back to digging.
An hour crawled by. The winter sun started to dip, turning the sky a dusty gray. As the light faded, Mom and Dad decided it was go-ti.
Their targets were a few juveniles on the edge of the herd. These kids were born back in the spring and weighed maybe fifty pounds now. Not a feast, but enough to stop the shakes.
I picked out my own target—a young one slightly separated from the rest. In a hunt like this, it's better to have multiple lines in the water. I tracked its movents, calculating the distance and where it would bolt once the panic started.
But as I scanned the area, my eyes caught a flicker of movent on the opposite side of the herd. Another pair of eyes was watching.
We weren't the only ones invited to dinner.
A Miracinonyx—the North Arican Cheetah
—was stalking the exact sa herd.
It was a sleek, deadly piece of work. It looked almost exactly like the African cheetahs from the future: the sa aerodynamic fra, the black spots, the long legs, and that flexible, spring-like spine. There's a reason paleontologists called it "amazing"—it was built for pure, unadulterated speed.
This cheetah was a pro. It was smaller than us, which made it much easier to hide. It had managed to crawl within thirty yards of the herd without being spotted.
This guy knows what he's doing, I thought, impressed.
But the cheetah wasn't going to wait for the perfect light. Before Mom or Dad could give the signal, the cat suddenly uncoiled. It didn't sneak anymore. It launched into a full-blown sprint.
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