Thursday, December 15, 2022

The Cougar Hunt (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 Markwildyr.com, Post #230

 Image courtesy of Freepik:


 

Hope you liked the story of “Down Where I Live.” It got a fair number of hits, but no comments.

 This time I’m doing the first part of a new story about a young Native American whose life it about to get away from him. Wil a cougar hunt change things?

 

* * * *

THE COUGAR HUNT

By Mark Wildyr

 

Rodney Running Deer wasn’t certain how he ended up on a cougar hunt with three other men, two with reason to kill him if they were so inclined. Probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been in the grip of a suicidal hangover after a prodigious drunk following a breakup with his girl. Didn’t know why he made such a big deal of it. He’d find another one. Always had.

After a four-hour horseback ride, Rod’s stomach was behaving better, and he was feeling easier about the makeup of the cougar hunt. Dillon Greavy and Buck Wolf kept their distance but didn’t seem particularly hostile since they’d set out from the Cattle Association’s barn earlier in the day. Best he could expect after knocking up Dillon’s woman and crippling Buck’s brother in a fight outside a local bar. In his defense, he’d screwed the woman before she and Dillon got together, but he’d known the man was sweet on her. And Buck’s brother had started the fight by spilling beer all over Rod and refusing to apologize for it.

Rod eyed the fourth man in their party, Jethro Birdshead. So far as he could remember, there were no problems between the two of them. But he’d been sorta alcohol soaked for the last couple of weeks, so he couldn’t be sure.

Upon arriving at Rusty Blade Windmill, where they intended to set up camp, the four men broke out grub and ate while making plans. No one was in charge of the hunt, so each expressed an opinion. Buck, who’d found the carcass of the puma’s last victim when he drove up in his pickup to unfreeze the pump on the windmill, showed them where it happened. There were still some prints, so Rod decided to track the lion a distance. He rode away with an itchy spot on his back that didn’t go away until he was out of sight of the others.

Rusty Blade sat in the foothills. Snow was splotchy down on the desert, but it was a couple of inches deep here, and Rod encountered deeper drifts as he climbed. Following faint scratches in the snow and occasional bare patches of earth, he finally found four perfect paw prints. One of them was badly mangled.

He let out a whistle. “Looks like a steady diet of beef from now on.”

He gave up the chase in a small box canyon where the cat had gone up a steep rock wall. It was getting dark, and pulling himself up that shelf hand-over-hand wasn’t appealing.

Dillon handed him a steaming cup of coffee when he walked back into camp. Between sips, he reported what he’d discovered. All agreed the mangled paw was the cat’s death sentence. Fortunately, pumas weren’t spirit animals to any of them, which made it easier all round.

Two small groups of cattle sheltered in the immediate area, so they decided to split up and try to deny the beast another meal. If they could get him hungry enough, the lion might get careless. Rod was relieved when Buck and Jethro headed off to Sloping Hills a mile or so northwest to keep watch over the second herd. That meant Rod only had to contend with Dillon. But the man seemed to be warming a little. If not friendly, not on the nettle either. Rod had grown up on the reservation with Dillon and knew him to be a patient man. Retribution could still be on the way.

The cat tried three times over the next six days to get at the cattle in one or the other of the locations, but they managed to keep him from a kill.

Dillon nursed a tin of coffee beside the campfire. “We’ve been out here a week. That cat’s gotta be starving.”

Rod took a sip from his cup. “I figure he’ll come tonight. And he won’t be so easy to chase off this time. Hope Buck and Jethro are figuring the same way.”

“They’ll be on the lookout. I’ll take first watch, okay?” Dillon said.

Rod kicked out of his boots, loosened his clothing, and slipped into a sleeping bag even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep. Thirteen days ago—even though it seemed more like a year—Thelma had told him they were through. That wasn’t such a big deal… until he found out she was leaving him for a soft bread college boy who Rod figured didn’t even have a pair. That’s what set him to drinking… and it still rubbed raw. And facing tonight was no easier than facing last night, especially without a bottle around. And nobody was gonna bring a bottle on a hunt where everybody totted a long gun. And, of course, he slept with one eye open with Dillon around.

He'd tried to air the situation yesterday by apologizing, but Dillon had closed up and said here was nothing to talk about. Had that made things better or worse?

 When the bag was warm from his body heat, he pulled his cold rifle in beside him and lay back to deal with whatever ghosts chose to come in the dark. Rod must have dozed because the next thing he knew Dillon shook his shoulder.

“He’s here. Cattle are jumpy.”

Rod stepped into his boots and buttoned up his sheepskin. Shivering slightly, he clamped his cold hat onto his head and scooped his rifle from the fading warmth of his sleeping bag before moving cautiously after Dillon. The cattle stirred nervously around the tank, shying away from the mountains. The moon hid behind a bank of clouds.

“Damn, it’s a black night!” Dillon whispered. “Hey! Couple of them broke away.”

“Stay with them!”

Suddenly, the two strays set up a loud bawling. A vague shape took form in front of them. Both men raised rifles but held fire. A frightened cow, the whites of her eyes glowing like foxfire, lumbered past. The second heifer, her bawling now almost a squeal, was still in front of them. There was a quick clatter of hoof beats, a thud, and then silence.

“Hot damn!” Dillon yelled. “He got one.”

“Don’t let him get away!” Rod veered toward the mountain. The moon reappeared suddenly, and he saw it. The cat, weighed down by the dead yearling, seemed to be running in slow motion. Rod pulled off a round. The cat kept moving. On the second shot, the cougar dropped the carcass and bounded away.

“Get him?” Dillon puffed noisily.

“Naw. But I made him give up a good meal.”

“Wanna drag it back down to the camp?”

“No. I’ll sit down by that rock and see if he comes back for it.”

“He won’t.”

* * * *

Don’t know if I’d like to be on a hunt with two guys who have a beef with me toting loaded rifles. Rod Running Deer seems to be handling it okay… but the hunt isn’t over.

 The print version of More Wildyr Tales, a second anthology of some of my stories, is now out.

 The third anthology called Gabacho and Other Wildyr Stories is still scheduled for release in January of next year. And that’s just around the corner.

 My contact information is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email: markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now my mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 Mark

 New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

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