The Crow And The Hunter

The homesteader carefully walked through the woods, watching his steps to make as little noise as possible. He cared as little for spooking any prey as he cared for getting noticed by a predator. His eyes flitted from bush to bush, watching for any telltale signs of an Alces or a Lepus. The rifle in his hands was meant for the first, when firepower mattered more than staying silent. The crossbow on his back would serve him well against a smaller prey.
A sudden caw almost made him jump out of his skin, his eyes immediately flying towards the direction it came from. At about eighty metres away, he saw a Corvus sitting in a tree, looking straight at him. He let go of his rifle's barrel with his left hand, then held a balled fist in front of his mouth. The bird merely looked at him in response, not making a sound. It blinked. Again. Again. And then suddenly it looked away.
The homesteader's blood ran cold as he realised what that meant. The bird still looked at him with one eye, but his beak was now aimed down to his left and to the ground. He kneeled while looking in the direction it was aiming at. There, inbetween the foliage, he could see flashes of what looked like a brown fur. An Ursa Minor. One that wasn't moving, so he might have missed it until he got too close...