Tigo’s head emerges from the brush, scattering parrots. Sweat drips from his grizzle.

Hurree’s machete chops out nearby, and he follows it, standing damp but tall in cliffside grass. “Yes,” he mutters, surveying. “Just as in the stories…”

“You sure about this, Hurree?”

“Sure as I’ve ever been,” he says, shrugging off his pack. “Hold this. I’m going in.”

A moment later, he’s moving down the dirt track that hatches the cliffside. A lone yip reaches Tigo on the wind, and he stares bug-eyed into Barranca de Perroqueños Qui No el Miedo Saben, Canyon of the Pekingese Who Know Not Fear.