CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hunting Talk

Hank Dawson’s hunting lodge, high in the Lost River Mountains of Idaho, was the first house Sandy had ever been in where no woman had ever set foot. In every way it was a man’s paradise—designed exclusively for male society.

No chintz curtains cluttered the view. There were no pictures, prints or china figurines on side tables, no hooked rugs underfoot, no attempt to cover wooden walls with plaster or, even worse, with decorative wallpaper. Hank Dawson had built himself a straightforward, sturdy house. Massive, seasoned beams supported the roof. Half-rounded logs formed the walls and the floor. All wood surfaces were scraped, sanded and still fresh with the fragrant smell of the forest.

An enormous forty-foot main room looked out on a breath-taking view of jutting peaks and misty valleys. Behind the lodge bulged a huge rock bluff, dotted with clusters of vivid green jackpine and traced by a thin finger of crystal-clear water that trickled musically down its rough, gray surface.

One end of the living room was completely faced with a stone wall that held the biggest fireplace Sandy had ever seen. Splendid heads of elk, mule deer, mountain goats and pronghorn antelope filled up the rest of the space. One animal, though, was significantly missing. Mike was the first to notice it.

“How come no mountain lions, Hank?” he asked.

They were stretched out in front of the fireplace, deep in comfortable chairs, relaxing as the stiffness of a hard day in the saddle drained slowly out of their tired bodies. A full meal and the warm glow of the fire had made them all pleasantly drowsy.

Mr. Cook and Hank Dawson were both drawing thoughtfully on their pipes. Joe sat with his head thrown back against the stone wall, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily through his fingers. Mike was propped up on one elbow, staring into the fire with glazed fascination. Sandy was lying on a large, overstuffed sofa, one hand absent-mindedly scratching the floppy ear of a big-chested tan-and-black dog.

The dog, Drum—Hank’s favorite lion hound—had adopted Sandy the first moment they met. Ignoring everyone else, even Hank, he insisted on padding around after him all evening and was now settled happily by his side.

Mike’s question broke a contented, peaceful silence that had lasted for nearly ten minutes.

“What’s that, Mike?” Hank said.

Mike repeated his question. “I see every other kind of trophy up there, but no lion,” he added.

Hank tapped the bowl of his pipe reflectively against the side of the fireplace. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t think they’re worth mounting.”

Mike looked surprised. “I thought they were the best prize of all.”

Hank shook his head. “I don’t agree. Oh, they’re dangerous, all right. Don’t make any mistake about that.”

“How big do they get?” Sandy asked.

“They vary,” Hank replied. “Mountain lions or pumas or cougars—they’re the same animal, you know—are found all the way from British Columbia down to the tip of South America. And the farther north you go, the bigger they get. A full-grown male will weigh as much as two hundred pounds. That makes them bigger than an African leopard.”

“Then why don’t you like to hunt them?” Mike asked.

“That’s just it. I don’t hunt them.”

“Huh?” Mike was confused.

“I kill them. There’s a big difference.” Hank shrugged and reached for a match. “At least there is for me.”

Sandy slid along the bottom of the sofa and sat up. “I don’t get it,” he said.

“Well,” Hank said deliberately through a cloud of smoke, “look at it this way. If you had a vegetable garden and a woodchuck was tearing it apart, what would you do?”

“Shoot him,” Mike replied promptly.

“You see?” Hank grinned. “I notice you didn’t use the word ‘hunt.’ That’s exactly the way I feel about a cougar. They’re destructive beasts and wanton killers. I’ve known them to kill fifty sheep in a night just for the fun of it. That’s why I’ve declared war on them.” He paused and looked up at the trophy heads lined up along the wall. “There’s another reason I don’t care much for mountain lions. They’re no challenge to me as a hunter. It’s no good trying to match wits with them because, essentially, they’re cowards. All you do is set the dogs on their trail and they do the rest. You just follow the pack and, after a little while, you come up against your lion crouched in a tree like a frightened old lady. After that, it doesn’t take much to knock it off.”

“Couldn’t they kill the dogs?” Sandy asked.

“Oh, yes,” Hank said. “And they do. Old Drum’s been clawed plenty of times, but, knock on wood, he’s still alive and kicking. A cornered animal is always dangerous. I’ve had them charge me on several occasions. If they’re hungry enough they’ll come right up to a house. One of them tried to get into my corral once. I shot him just outside, on the path as you come up to the front door.”

Mike shook his head in bewilderment. “I give up,” he said. “It sure sounds like exciting sport to me. I wouldn’t exactly put it in the same class as shooting woodchucks.”

Mr. Cook spoke for the first time. “I think I know what Hank means. He’s the man with the gun. He’s got the advantage. The sport isn’t in the killing—it’s in the stalking.”

“Right!” Hank agreed, leaning back comfortably. “I remember one time I was hunting elk up in Thoroughfare Creek country in Wyoming. On the first day, I spotted a real giant—oh, he was a beauty! He must have had close to twenty points and a spread of nearly seventy inches. How I wanted that head! Nothing else would do. I stalked that animal for ten days trying to get into position for a shot. But he was a wise customer and always managed to keep out of my way. Not that he got panicky or ran!” Hank broke into a grin of admiration. “That’s the whole point. He knew what I was after—I’m convinced of that—but he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of showing any fear. He was that proud. Well, as I say, we played our little game for ten days and, finally, on the morning of the eleventh, just as dawn was beginning to break through some gray clouds, I stepped out into a clearing in the woods. I heard a noise behind me and there was my elk. He was standing straight as an arrow, staring at me—a perfect shot against the rising sun.” Hank threw up his hands. “But I couldn’t do it. We stood looking at each other for about a minute or two and then he slowly moved back into the woods—one of the most majestic sights I’ve ever seen.” Hank found a twig and began to scrape the bowl of his pipe. “I’ve never regretted losing that elk.” Hank paused and corrected himself. “Actually, I didn’t lose him. He was mine—in a way that no stuffed trophy will ever be.”

Mr. Cook looked over at his son and Sandy. “You boys still want to bother with a cougar?”

Hank threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now, Arthur. Don’t discourage them. Of course they do and I don’t blame them. I just hope they’ll experience some real hunting, too.”

Mike, who had been listening to Hank’s story with a rapt expression on his face, scrambled to his feet. The quick movement made Drum open one curious eye. “Why don’t we start tomorrow?” Mike cried excitedly.

“Tomorrow?” his father said with a frown. “I’d just as soon wait a day or two.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, we’re up pretty high, you know. Before I go scrambling around any mountain peaks, I’d like to get used to the altitude.”

“I’ll go out with the boys,” Hank said unexpectedly. “You can loaf around the house and take it easy.”

“How about it, Dad?”

Mr. Cook shrugged and put down his pipe. “As far as I’m concerned there’s no better man in the world to take you hunting than Hank. You’re sure you want to, Hank?”

“Positive.”

“Then that’s settled.” Mr. Cook nodded over to the Indian, who was sitting with his back against the stone wall. “How about you, Joe? Feel like going out?”

Joe smiled and shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so,” he said quietly. “I’ll just wander around here for a while until I get my mountain legs under me.”

“Suit yourself,” Hank Dawson replied. “What’s your pleasure, gents?” he said, turning back to the boys.

“How do you mean?” Sandy asked.

“What do you want to go out after—giraffes, elephants, saber-toothed tigers—you name it!”

“You’re the boss,” Mike said, grinning. “You say!”

Hank paused and considered the question. “Well,” he said slowly, “how about trying for an _Oreamnos montanus_?”

“A _what_?”

“A mountain goat to you, Mike.”

“A mountain goat!” Mike’s face fell. “I thought we were going to go after some big game—not a billy goat!”

Hank laughed. “Don’t kid yourself—if you’ll pardon the pun. A mountain goat is my personal candidate for the most dangerous animal in the world.”

“No fooling!”

“I’m serious. A mountain goat lives in the most inaccessible places. He’s got eyes like binoculars, he’s smart and fast, and he’s not afraid of anything that walks. I’ve known of cases where mountain goats have killed a lion. He may not be much to look at, but I can promise you an exciting chase and one you won’t forget in a hurry. Okay?”

Sandy and Mike both nodded their heads in agreement. “Okay,” they chorused.

“Good.” Hank stood up and stretched his arms over his head. “I’m for bed,” he announced. “And you better do the same. If we’re going hunting tomorrow, we’ll have to be up at....”

“Oh, no!” Mike groaned as he lumbered to his feet. “Don’t tell me—dawn again! Why is it,” he asked plaintively, “that everything around here starts at dawn?”

“Tell you what,” Hank said, moving to the door of one of the bedrooms that opened off from the main room. “When we get back, we’ll let you lie around in bed some morning all you like.”

“Sure,” Sandy agreed. “We’ll let you sleep till six—or maybe even seven.”

“Lucky boy.” Mr. Cook chuckled as he reached over to turn down the wick of the kerosene lamp. “Just let me know what the sunrise is like tomorrow morning, will you? Personally, I plan to sleep until noon.”

“Still want that goat?” Hank asked Mike, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Mike grinned back at him. “See you at dawn,” he said. “If I’m lucky, I may even have one eye open.”