Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Caleb opened his eyes and breathed in the cool, clean mountain air, marked only by the scent of a dead cooking fire, healthy horses, and his three snoring companions.
He looked up into the deep, endless blue-black canvas, still studded with stars so bright, they looked alive.
But as he tilted his eyes to the east, he saw the faint lightening of the blue and knew dawn would soon be breaking.
He sat up and pushed off the bearskin covering.
Even now, his eyes could distinguish the ridges and the craggy boulders and the lines of treetops plunging down on a sharp angle to the river far below.
Above their camp, a pair of deer moved cautiously along the slope and disappeared into the firs.
Caleb rose, picked up the coffeepot, and padded off along the trail.
Leaving the camp behind, he entered the darker gloom of a wooded grove.
The air immediately became cooler and the earthy forest smell filled his lungs.
Here, with the evergreen canopy above and a carpet of needles beneath his feet, it was silent as a church on a Wednesday, and he had no desire to disturb the peace.
For a moment, before men and guns and trouble came crowding back in, the stillness of the forest reminded him of Smith and Imala’s place, of the kind of life was trying to build.
After a few moments of walking, he heard the burbling sound of the creek falling with whispers and murmurs over the rocks.
The light ahead brightened a little, and he soon came to the grassy banks where the trail crossed the shallows.
It was the place where he and Zeke had watered the horses last night.
Dropping his hat on a flat rock beside a wide pool, he went down on one knee and rinsed out last night’s coffee before scooping up cold water in both hands. After drinking deeply, he washed his face and neck and dipped his head in the water.
As he wiped his face, a glance at the soft earth by his knee made him pause.
Two fresh prints, side by side, caught his eye. Four toes and a palm pad, each print as big as a man’s fist. Cougar.
He ran his eyes around the edge of the open area. The cat had been here not long before him, no doubt stopping for a drink after a night of hunting.
And Caleb had left his gun belt back at the camp.
Traveling in these hills at any time of day could be hazardous.
Travel at night was another thing entirely.
Black bears, grizzlies, wolves, and coyotes stalked their prey along these trails.
But they were not the most dangerous. Aside from the two-legged predator, cougar or puma or mountain lion—whatever the locals chose to call it—the big cat was the cruelest.
Caleb hadn’t been concerned about mountain lions yesterday as he climbed the slope.
The crackle of gunfire would have been enough to drive them off.
But the rock slab overhangs and shallow caves and ledges like the bluff where he’d encountered the rattler provided perfect lairs for the big cats.
There, they would lie comfortably, still as death, eyes shining, and watch their evening meal grazing below them in the grassy hillside.
Caleb had encountered dozens in his travels and seen signs of a hundred more. In lands farther to the south and west—places like the red rock hills of Mormon country and the woody river valleys of New Mexico—a man couldn’t spit without hitting one. He’d seen many over the years. And killed a few.
The cougar was a strange animal, though.
As predators go, they were easily the most unpredictable.
Caleb had run across some that would be scared off with a mere wave of his hand.
Others—maybe the hungrier ones—would stalk you craftily for an hour, showing up only now and again, their green-gold eyes glowing.
Those were usually the ones that wouldn’t take a friendly warning.
And when they were ready, they could bring the fight to you with such speed and ferocity that a man couldn’t help but pay attention.
When that happened, a cool head, a sure hand, and a dead aim were the only things that could deter the big cat’s dinner plans.
On one of his early travels with Jake out in western Wyoming, they ran across a man who herded appaloosas.
Caleb recalled sitting around a campfire, listening to the man complain that mountain lions cost him thousands of dollars every year.
No one ever hunted them, he said. They couldn’t be hunted.
And wherever there were deer and horses, the cougars lived fat.
He had a score of stories, and Caleb remembered every one.
He thought of the deer he’d seen above the camp, moving silently into the trees.
Caleb stood and gathered his things. He had work to do before he sent Zeke and Everett back to town. They had bodies that needed to be strapped across the backs of their horses and dead blackguards that needed tending to as well. That is, if wolves hadn’t already dragged them off in the night.
The thought brought no satisfaction. Only a weariness that was becoming more familiar all the time. The mountains wasted nothing, but a man could grow tired of seeing death turned into another chore before breakfast.
As he started back along the trail, he stopped short.
The braying of the mule and the shouts of Preacher were enough to wake the dead.
Caleb ran hard toward the sound. He rounded a bend and saw them in the distance.
It was just as he’d feared. The minister was yelling like a madman over the terrified sounds of the mule. His arms were up, and he was waving a branch of evergreen at something Caleb couldn’t see. That branch wouldn’t have done a lick of damage to a newborn lamb.
He knew what Preacher was trying to do, though.
Caleb was covering ground quickly, but he was still several hundred paces from them.
He ran full speed, leaping to avoid protruding rocks and roots.
The trail dipped into a wash, and he lost sight of them for a moment.
The hoarse shouts of the minister and the continuous braying urged him on.
As Caleb raced up the incline and caught sight of them again, he figured he was still more than a hundred paces away.
Suddenly, tawny fur flashed across the ground.
A cougar that looked to be the size of a pony leaped onto the hindquarters of the mule.
He barely got his claws into the mule’s haunches, however, when the old beast let go with a ferocious kick using both back hooves, sending the big cat tumbling and rolling across the forest floor.
Caleb’s lungs were burning. Still carrying the coffeepot, he was a good seventy paces away, but he let out a yell with as much breath as he could muster.
The lion crept into view, his broad face, tawny and white, held low to the ground.
Even as Caleb pounded along the trail, he could see the bared teeth and golden eyes gleaming in the murky dawn light.
The big cat was moving closer to the preacher.
It had clearly decided that the old man—fearless as he appeared with his flimsy weapon of fir—was easier prey than the sharp-hoofed mule.
“Heya! Heya!” Caleb shouted, but the confrontation ahead was focused and deadly.
He was still fifty paces away when the trail turned slightly, and he lost sight of them for an instant.
By the time he saw them again, he was thirty paces away.
This cougar was the largest he’d ever seen. The powerful back legs were quivering, ready to launch him once again. The ears were back, nearly flattened against the head, and the mouth opened with screech that showed long teeth, sharpened on the bones and gristle of a thousand animals.
Twenty paces from them, he shouted again, using the sharp sounds of the seasoned cattle puncher, trying everything he could to divert the fearsome hunter.
But the mountain lion was not to be distracted. He took two smooth steps forward and lunged at the preacher, who threw up his arms as the cat bowled him to the ground. The powerful front claws ripped and grabbed hold, trying to catch the man’s face between those cruel jaws.
Caleb flung the coffeepot at the beast’s head. He saw the lion’s eyes and ear flick toward him, but the animal was intent on finishing the battle with the struggling preacher.
Without slowing his pace at all, Caleb launched himself into the fray.
The cat, seeing a more formidable opponent so close, released his prey and spun toward him at the exact moment Caleb found a handhold in the thick, tawny fur.
Using his momentum, he leaped over them both, hauling the beast with him.
There was no time for fear. No time for thought. Only the hard certainty that if he failed, the old preacher would die.
The lion, dragged off-balance for a moment, was not about to give up the fight. Spinning and slashing at the new foe with lightning-fast swipes of his deadly front claws, it scrambled to regain its footing. It took the predator only a split second to get its rear paws on the ground.
Caleb released the big cat and sprang backward, hoping the combined force of two humans would be enough to scare the hunter off. But the animal was aroused, and blind rage was driving it now.
The lion came with almost unimaginable quickness, leaping with its front legs fully extended. Outstretched claws as sharp as razors reached for Caleb’s neck and throat. He looked into the gaping mouth and fangs, at the jaws ready to crush his head.
Over two hundred pounds of raw muscle and fury hit him, gripping him and driving him back.
As the beast surged forward, Caleb threw his hands up, his two fists grasping the fur high on the cat’s chest. The hunter’s front claws had his shoulders, and he could smell the cougar’s foul breath, hot on his face.
Turning and falling backward, Caleb used the animal’s weight and motion to yank the lion toward him, intending to throw it to the ground. But the trail behind him had disappeared.
The two of them tumbled over and over, down the steep slope. Even as they fell, Caleb knew that the cat’s four paws would be quicker at finding a foothold, so he hung on as they plunged and rolled.
Rock and brush and sky flashed past in brutal pieces. Somewhere in the tumble, Caleb thought of his ranch, his dog, his friend Doc and his daughter. He wasn’t ready to give any of that up. Then the world slammed hard beneath him and knocked every thought loose.
When they hit a small sapling and stopped, Caleb found himself momentarily on top. He was not about to surrender his advantage. With the big cat’s body still writhing beneath him, he managed to pin the clawing back legs with his own.
Jerking a hand free, he reached for his boot and drew the hunting knife that had served both him and Jacob Bell so faithfully.
Caleb struck hard, driving the blade deep into the cougar’s chest.