Tucked behind the lichen-painted rocks, the dead deer trussed between them, the men spun at the sound of the matriarch’s trumpet. They’d seen the mammoths approaching, and had moved behind the stones to stay out of the herd’s way. Now they looked to watch lumbering walls of wool, framed in gray and green rock, pass them. Little, amber-colored eyes peeked from those shaggy mountains, mildly wary of the humans. The lead dame coughed a warning, and the men remained silent and still.
Five fat puffs of white launched from a nearby boulder—nervous ptarmigans. Less scared were the foxes. They hid between the rocks, eyes fixed on the dead deer, sniffing covetously, chops-licking hopefully, though, even with the men distracted, their chances of sneaking a morsel were slim. Luckier was a wolverine who crept on the opposite side of the outcropping. With a rabbit stuffed in his mouth, he trotted alongside the boulders, keeping just beyond the crushing tread of the mammoths and out of the sight of temperamental rhinos and muskoxen.
The mammoths passed. When the herd was a safe distance away, the men hoisted the deer onto a staff and carried it home. They would dress it there. The foxes followed, dreaming of offal. Cool, Vintage Paleoart
He crammed a lot in there. I like the wolverine.