The carriage reined to a stop next to another track in the snow. The hunter got out and examined it in the early morning light
“She’s been this way,” he said to his companion. “Recently.”
The track wasn’t so different from any other bird. You could mistake it for a chicken or a turkey if you discounted the fact that it was large enough for a man to lay down comfortably inside.
“Come, Lawrence.” They had to hurry. The cyptozoological gardens opened in an hour, and if the terror bird wasn’t back in her enclosure, it would be their heads.

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