Markwildyr.com, Post #230
Hope you liked the story of “Down Where I Live.” It got a fair number of hits, but no comments.
* * * *
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.
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
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mantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.
You have something to say, so say it!
See you later.
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