Bitterroot quietly yelped and backwinged to get some height, but Amanita didn’t notice her. She wasn’t wearing anything except for a small saddlebag, and her every step was slow and shaky. Bitterroot squinted and saw that Amanita was sopping wet. Blood trickled from a wound on her shoulder, maybe where she’d been shot. She began gathering sticks from the river and tossing them into the clearing.