—John Fitzgerald Kennedy
October 29th, 2010
Saturday
Rand Armstrong had picked up the tracks in the fresh dusting of snow two miles east of the edge of his property on Rocky Mountain National Forest land. There had been no mistaking them: three-lobed heel pads; teardrop-shaped toes in uneven lines; no appreciable claw marks; and the feathery halos surrounding the prints from the fringe fur. No doubt this was the mountain lion he was after. Damn prints were nearly the size of a tiger’s. No way this wasn’t the bastard that had snuck over his fence and torn apart his huacaya alpacas. He’d already lost three in as many weeks, and he wasn’t about to risk losing any more. Breeding those fluffy llamas may have sounded like a pathetic way to eke out an existence, but he was pulling twenty grand a head. Even with that kind of income, he sure as hell wasn’t about to blow another ten thousand bucks electrifying nearly five miles of fencing like the Forest Service suggested. If they weren’t going to come out and relocate that blasted cat, then he was just going to have to take care of the problem himself.
He’d been hunting big game in these very hills his entire life, but he had to admit the mountain lion posed more of a challenge than his standard prey of deer and elk. The cougars were more like big horn sheep in the sense that rather than skirting rock formations and seeking the route of least resistance, they just as often went up and over. There were points where he lost the tracks entirely under the dense canopy of pines where the snow didn’t reach the ground and in the clusters of scrub oak where the lion could wriggle through and under the branches while he couldn’t, but it never took him very long to pick them back up again. Best he could figure, the prints were about two hours old, which put the mountain lion passing through here right about half an hour before sunrise. It would have been back in its den before first light, so he had to be getting close.
A steep embankment rose about a mile ahead. The Rockies beyond were all gray rock and snow above timberline, where only sporadic pines grew at severe angles from the slope.
Rand paused to rub the blood back into his stubbled cheeks and stomp some feeling into his toes. His Gore- Tex camouflaged jumpsuit may have helped him blend into the forest, but it was useless against the frigid wind, which knifed right through his skin and into his bones. He imagined how red his hands must have been inside his gloves. His trigger finger still worked just fine though. A pull from his hip flask and he was on the move again.
He slung the Remington Model 70, Sporter Deluxe .30-06 off his back and carried it across his chest.
Not much longer now.
One quick shot and the deed would be done. Dragging the carcass back down to the ranch would be a bitch, but he looked forward to incinerating that infernal cat for all the trouble it had caused him. Maybe he’d even cut a chop or two off its flank. It did butcher his alpacas after all. Turnabout was only fair.
He lightened his tread on the detritus and advanced at a crouch. Mountain lions weren’t as cumbersome as elk. They could distribute their weight on those fat paws to such a degree that they could practically float across the snow. He was going to need to hear everything he possibly could. And unlike a deer, if he cornered it without knowing, it could blindside him with a barrage of slashing claws and sharp teeth.
More likely than not, it was curled up in its den licking alpaca blood from between its toes, but he wasn’t about to take that for granted. The walk back was more than long enough to bleed to death.
A skeletal aspen tree bore the telltale gouges from the cat’s claws. Twenty feet up there was a smear of dried blood on the trunk to mark the passing of a squirrel.
The forest faded to the left as the valley wall rose to the right, growing steeper with each step. Large boulders had fallen from the lip above to line the base of the embankment, creating dark crevices and caves, any one of which would have proven a suitable temporary den. At least mountain lions were solitary creatures by nature and he didn’t have to worry about stumbling into a dozen of them. Besides, he only wanted the one.
He pulled back the bolt silently, chambered a round, and eased it back home. Seating the butt against his shoulder, he slowed his advance and scoured the hillside along the barrel of the rifle. The wind tapered and the world around him assumed an unnatural calm.
Movement drew his eye from up the rocks to the right. He knelt behind a boulder and made himself small. Nuzzling his cheek against the stock, he looked through the scope and traced the contours of the haphazardly assembled rock slope with the crosshairs.
A flash of white, and then it was gone.
Slowing his breathing, he steadied the scope on the spot where he had seen it.
His finger found the trigger and gently pressed it into the sweet spot. Even the slightest pressure now would do the job.
He saw the black triangle lining the ear first, and then the creature raised its head. Golden fur over the smooth crown of the skull, a cold black eye, white muzzle—
Crack!
A spray of crimson raced up the rocks behind the lion as it disappeared from view.
The report echoed through the valley over the tinny ringing in his ears.
Rand rose, chambered another bullet, and advanced cautiously. The scope never left his eye as he crawled up and over the obstacles in his way. He attuned his ears to even the slightest sound, but only heard his own tread. When he reached the boulder, he leaned over it and looked down. The cat was sprawled on its right side. Its left front paw carved at the ground in twitching movements. Blood drained down the rock behind it toward the crater where its left ear had once been. The better part of its cranium was gone, and its left eye and the surrounding fur were scorched.
It shivered and made a meek mewling sound, then became still.
Rand climbed over the rock and pressed the barrel of the rifle to the soft flesh behind its front leg for a quick heart shot if it even flinched. He kicked its rear haunches, but it made no effort to move. One more kick for good measure and he lowered the rifle.
He smiled and slung the gun back over his shoulder.
“Sixty thousand dollar cat,” he said. “Damn.”
He kicked it again…and again.
Momentarily satisfied, he shoved his hand into his pocket and produced the big game strap he used to haul deer up by their hooves to be gutted. He looped it around the mountain lion’s back legs. It was nearly as large as a wolf, so he was going to have to drag it.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the mouth of a small cave barely large enough to accommodate a grown man in fetal position. There was a collection of broken bones near the opening, most likely from a rabbit. Beside them was another, much larger bone. He felt a surge of anger again at the thought of it belonging to one of his alpacas and stormed over to investigate.
He bent over to grab it and froze.
It wasn’t an alpaca bone.
Not even close.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.
He was totally screwed now.
November 4th, 2010
Thursday
“Office hours don’t start for another twenty minutes,” Gabriel Hartnell said without looking up from the
