The Foundling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page 7

Original Version

Revised Version

He nodded, then turned to lead the dogs. She followed after, watching as he piled the deer into the small building, helping as he allowed. When they finished, Stan unhitched the dogs from their traces and set the sled by the porch. The dogs followed them as they went into the house. One of the dogs stayed behind, sniffing at the red bundle. It whimpered, and Stan looked back.

“Come along there, Ranger!”

falling. She couldn’t reach the knots holding the ropes in place, and had to let Stan do it instead. He could just barely reach.

“Had to stand on a stump to do that up,” he explained, carefully pulling the hides free.

Deer, boar, rabbit, fish. Lots of fish. Everything skinned, dried, and ready to store; the hides packed to the side, ready for tanning.

“You’ve been busy,” was all she said, beginning to unload.

“Dogs did most of the work,” he answered, smiling wryly. “It’s like they knew just what I wanted. One would flush out a deer, and have two others waiting to chase it into a snare. I spent more time preparing the meat, with Ranger standing guard, than anything else. If I