In the lee of the great rock, the team pants in the thin mountain air. River stands at the front while the sled creaks behind her, snow still clinging to the runners. Harold edges close, head lowered in a show of deference.
Harold
I get it now, River. Your calls, your pace, all of it. I should have trusted you sooner.
The words sound humble. His eyes do not. They stay hard, measuring the fork ahead, the drop beyond it, the gap where a mistake would leave a dog behind.
River
His posture is wrong for the praise he is giving.
Mack
Well, that is a sight. Harold sounding polite.
Harold lets the jibe pass. He keeps his shoulders tucked and his tail low, as if he means every careful word.
Harold
I mean to stay in line. Just tell us where to set our feet, and I will follow.
Only River can see the truth of it, the man is not yielding, he is clinging to position. The next dangerous stretch has made obedience useful, and Harold knows it.