Markwildyr.com, Post #231
Part one of the story
found Rod Running Deer on a cougar hunt while emerging from a hangover. Worse,
two of the other three men on the hunt have grudges against him. We left the
story as the cat tried for a yearling in the herd Rod and Dillon (one of the
men he’d wronged) are guarding. Rod fires on the cat, making him drop the
carcass. Rod elects to sit nearby the rest of the night in case the cat comes
back. Dillon says it won’t.
* * * *
THE
COUGAR HUNT
By
Mark Wildyr
Dillon was right. By
daybreak the cat hadn’t returned, and Rod was almost frozen. They gulped a
hurried breakfast and saddled up. The cat’s trail turned into the same box
canyon. They searched the floor of the balsam. Tracks led in, but none came
out. The cat went down the mountain by one route and came back up through this
canyon. They sat down in an out-of-the-way place and scanned the high stone
walls while a plan percolated in Rod’s head.
“He goes home every
night up this canyon. I’m going to stay up here. As soon as he stirs up things
down there, scare him off. I’ll hear your rifle fire and be watching for him.”
“You ought not
tackle this fella alone. He’s pretty damned hungry. If he don’t go for you, he
might get your horse.”
“You’re right. Let
me get my bedroll, and you take Two Socks back down with you. If nothing
happens, come get me in the morning.”
After they arranged
a series of signals with rifle fire, Dillon started down with the two horses,
tossing a warning to be careful over his shoulder.
Rod spent the rest
of the day digging out a hiding place for himself, while keeping half an eye on
the ridge. Nothing moved. He had wanted to stay in the canyon all day rather
than come back later because his spoor along the trail would be fainter. This
left him alone with his thoughts for hours.
Right in the middle
of covering his bedroll with leaves and fallen branches, the recollection of Thelma
lying beneath him in the wickiup slammed into his head. Then other memories
crowded his mind. Dillon’s girl—before she was Dillon’s girl—losing the
baby. The long nights in jail before a bunch of whites decided a fight between
two Indians didn’t deserve a trial. His embrace by Lady Alcohol. If he thought
about it seriously, Rod concluded, he was a pretty miserable excuse for a human
being.
Time slowed, his
movements slowed, the world slowed—except for the memories racing through his
mind. He blinked and discovered it was twilight. How long had he sat like a
blind man? What if the cougar had walked right up and decided he was an
acceptable meal? Would he have seen it? Did he care?
He tried to remain
alert until the last of the light faded. Then he crawled into the sleeping bag,
taking his rifle with him so it wouldn’t freeze. Was what he was doing right?
The lion was wild and free. The red blood singing in his veins said these were
good and proper things. The cattleman in him came up with another answer. The
cat had ceased to be natural when it turned to killing beef. Cattle were not
its natural prey. Rod fell into a childhood habit.
“Mountain Lion,
forgive me. You are old and sick and hurt. This is a kindness I do you.” For
good measure, he added that the white eyes in Washington made him do it.
The cold woke him.
It was still dark, but he sensed dawn wasn’t far away. A frigid breeze swept up
from the desert. Good! The cat wouldn’t catch his scent. The faint sound of a
gunshot bounced around the little canyon. Moments later, two rapid shots told
him Dillon had missed the cat. If the animal got away with a beef that would
slow him down. If he didn’t, he’d head straight for his lair.
Rod tried to stay
alert, but his world crowded in on him again. His grandmother came to say she
told him so. Thelma called him a sniveling coward for not fighting for her.
With a college boy?
The ghostly gray
touch of dawn drew him back to reality. The cat could have come and gone, and
he’d never have known. He shook his head, willing the ghosts of his past to
remain in his past. The growing light gave the canyon an unreal, otherworld
appearance. The wind wafted down the canyon. Damn! The cat would smell him.
He froze. Instinct
stilled every muscle. The lion was here! He almost missed it. A tawny blur
bounded toward him before he could free his rifle from the bedroll. At the last
moment the cat spotted him and veered to the left, knocking a tree limb he had
used to camouflage his position into him. The rifle flew from his fingers. The
cat streaked by.
Rod scrambled for
the weapon. The beast was halfway up the wall of the canyon when he swung the
rifle around. The gun roared. The puma stumbled, gathered himself, and sped on.
Rod cocked the rifle and got off another shot. The cat screamed and clawed the
air with its forepaws. The lithe form tumbled end over end in space, falling
with a muffled thud in a deep bank of snow. Rod walked up, not caring if the
lion was wounded and dangerous or dead and harmless. But the cat was dead.
He raised his rifle
and fired three rapid shots into the air.
The others would
come now and look at a cat already growing stiff and cold. They’d pat Rod on
the back and claim he was a good hunter. Things would ease up between the men…
and all it took was a cougar hunt. Didn’t seem right.
Seemed like the cat
paid for Rod’s sins.
He dipped a finger
in the dead puma’s blood and held it aloft.
“Mountain Lion, you
gave up your life for me, so I gotta live my life for you. My secret name will
be Big Cat from now on.”
Rod Running Deer—Big
Cat—mentally poured out every bottle of booze he had stored in his cabin.
Tomorrow, he’d do it for real.
* * * *
And so ends the
cougar hunt. Rod seems a reborn man, and I certainly hope so, but once alcohol
gets you in its grip, that’s a hard thing to break. I can only wish Rodney
Running Deer the best of luck.
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
Email:
markwildyr@aol.com
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Twitter: @markwildyr
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.
You have something to say, so say it!
See you later.
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