Part 4
There was no shortage of water for the chipmunk. He had only to drag himself to the edge of the outcropping where he sheltered and drink from one of the shallow depressions in the pitted stone. The field beyond was filled with grass and a variety of succulent plants, some of which grew quite close to the makeshift shelter. He plucked several ripe grass seeds and chewed them, savoring their woody, clean flavor as they squeaked between his teeth.
It would take time for his leg to heal, and he had no doubt he could survive easily on the resources available, but he was concerned about the nights. The little alcove he'd hunkered down in was open to the air somewhat, and though it offered protection from the elements, it was no match for a predator on the hunt. His only defense was the stick he'd used as a crutch to hobble from the gravel bar by the stream to the stone outcropping.
During the daytime, he stayed close to the entrance, watching the clouds and scanning for danger. But at night he scooted to the very back of the shelter and propped himself against the wall. It smelled of urine and made his eyes water, but he had no choice until his leg healed.
He sat with his stick across his lap and his eyes focused on the darkening entryway. As night fell, the blackened landscape blended with the shadowy walls until he could scarcely discern one from the other. After many minutes, his eyes adjusted, and he could detect a faint difference between the limestone walls and the world outside. Closing his eyes from the stink of the urine smell, he leaned his head back on the stone and took shallow breaths. The acrid odor stung his nostrils, but it was a small price to pay for the relative safety of the shelter.
A snuffling sound carried to his ears, and his eyelids snapped open. Stars! He'd fallen asleep!
The chipmunk's eyes were well-adjusted now, and he could see a clear difference in hue between the walls and the night outside. The snuffling grew louder, and a shadow blocked the entrance. He gripped the stick firmly and pointed it in the direction of the shadow like a spear. The sound of scratching echoed in his ears, and the dark form of a paw crept toward him from the entrance. It nearly reached him, but it retracted, and a narrow snout squeezed into the opening.
The chipmunk scooted forward, wincing at the pain of moving his injured leg. He raised the stick above his head and brought it down with all his force on the beast's nose. The creature cried out and withdrew its face from the chamber, snarling.
Expecting another attack, the chipmunk readied his stick once more, but instead of another intrusion, he heard the unmistakable sound of the beast trundling away through the grass.
He scooted back to the wall and rested the stick in his lap once more. It was hours until daylight, but he must defend his space if he had any hope of making it back home.
And hope was just about all he had left.
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