“Where is he?” I whispered too quietly, because Ignacio didn’t hear me. But my question was answered with the sight of two ibexes fleeing the scene about sixty yards down the mountain.
We climbed to the top of the range and glassed, searching for an ibex the right age and size. We didn’t see any all morning, and after lunch decided that we needed to go farther.
My fingers wound and unwound in my lap under the table, hiding the only outward sign of the nervousness I felt sitting in the green canvas chair under the big plastic sign reading “Great Spanish Hunts.”
