There, clearly defined in the dust, was a cat track as big as my spread hand, and the mere sight of it sent a chill up my spine.

"There's a lion track for you; made by a female, a two-year-old; but can't say if she passed here last night.

Don won't take the trail.
Try Moze." I led Moze to the big, round imprint, and put his nose down into it.
The old hound sniffed and sniffed, then lost interest.
"Cold!" ejaculated Jones.

"No go.

Try Sounder.