Larry rode north before sunrise, his yellow eyes fixed on the horizon. The old timer's tip echoed in his skull. Red canyon country meant rough terrain and fewer hunters. Perfect hiding ground for something rare. The White Rabbit's mounted head would prove he was the greatest tracker alive. Every saloon from here to the eastern wastes would know his name. He reached the canyon by midday and found fresh prints in the dust. The tracks led deeper into the rocks, but Larry needed supplies first. He followed smoke rising from behind a ridge and found canvas tents tucked between the canyon walls. Animal skins hung from poles. Poached furs and mounted heads decorated the makeshift shelters. Men with rifles watched him approach but didn't raise their weapons. They knew a hunter when they saw one. Larry dismounted and scanned the camp for someone who might know the White Rabbit's habits. An old woman sat skinning a coyote near the largest tent. Larry approached and asked about rare game in the area. She spat tobacco juice and pointed north with her knife. White fur had been spotted three days back near the high caves. Larry traded ammunition for jerky and water. He left the camp with his supplies restocked and his skull buzzing with purpose. The White Rabbit was close now. He could feel it in his bones. The trail wound higher into the rocks. Larry's boots crushed dried brush as he climbed. He spotted the first marker an hour later—a hollowed tree trunk wedged between two boulders. Brass gears and dark metal caught the afternoon light. Someone had rigged a trail camera inside the dead wood. Larry studied the device and noted the lens pointing north. Other hunters were tracking the White Rabbit too. He needed to move faster. Larry checked his rifle and adjusted his hat. The high caves were half a day's ride if he pushed hard. He mounted up and urged his horse forward. The canyon walls rose higher on both sides, casting long shadows across the path. His yellow eyes scanned every crack and crevice. The White Rabbit wouldn't escape him. Not when he was this close to claiming the greatest trophy of his life. By dusk, he found what he needed—a shallow cave tucked into the rock face with flat ground outside for a campsite. Larry unpacked his bedroll and spread his gear across the dirt. This would be his base while he hunted. He built a small fire and checked his traps. Tomorrow he would start tracking in earnest. The White Rabbit's trail would lead him to glory, and this cave would be the place where that hunt began.