CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Yellow Fury

Mike was the first to see his father. Mr. Cook was standing on the porch, feet braced apart, a rifle cradled in his arms. Even at that distance, they could see there was an air of tense watchfulness about him, almost as though he expected a sudden attack. When he saw the three of them pounding down the hill toward the house, he vaulted down the steps, waving his arms in an urgent message of warning. But they were still too far away to hear what he was trying to tell them.

Hank broke stride briefly and levered a handful of shells into the breech of his rifle. Without knowing why, Sandy followed suit.

Mr. Cook was now standing in the middle of what could be considered Hank’s back yard. The two corrals—one for the dogs and the other for the pack animals—were over to his right. Hank’s lean-to that served as a feed barn was fifty yards over to his left. The dogs, especially Drum, were wild with excitement, adding to the noise and confusion with their sharp yelps of eagerness.

Sandy jammed the last shell into position and raced to catch up with Mike and Hank. “Watch out!” he heard Mr. Cook cry. “He’s somewhere near us.”

“Who?” Sandy shouted breathlessly as he braked to a stop beside them.

“There’s a wounded mountain lion around,” Hank said. The line of his jaw was firm and his eyes looked grim.

“He came up to the house about five minutes ago,” Mr. Cook explained. “I was inside, sitting by the fire, when I heard a terrific racket behind the house. All the dogs were barking at once. I went out to investigate and saw them scratching and jumping, trying to get out of the corral. Then I saw the cat. I raced back into the house, grabbed a gun and tried for a shot. I should have been more careful and taken a little time. But I was rattled. My first two shots were wild. The third one, though, got him. I’m positive of that.”

“Where was he when you hit him?” Hank asked.

“Right over there. Near the watering trough.”

“Let’s take a look.” Hank led the way over to the trough and crouched down to examine the ground. “This rain’s coming down so fast it’s hard to tell,” he muttered. He peered closely at the area around the trough and then straightened with a grunt of satisfaction. “You got him all right,” he said. “There’s a spill of fresh blood on the grass there.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t put him away,” Mr. Cook apologized. “I thought I was a better shot than that.”

“Don’t blame you a bit,” Hank replied. “What with the storm and all, this light’s tricky.” He turned to Sandy and Mike. “Well, you’ve got your lion hunt, boys. We’re going to get that cat.”

Sandy wheeled and started for the corral. “I’ll let the dogs out,” he said.

Hank threw out an arm to stop him. “Wait a minute. I don’t think we’ll use them. We already know where he is.” He spoke to Mr. Cook. “Where did you see him last?”

Mr. Cook pointed in the direction of the feeding shed. “He was headed that way.”

“All right,” Hank said. “We’ll each take one side of the building. Check your guns and make sure your safety’s off. As soon as you spot him, start pouring lead. If you’ve got a side shot, aim right behind his shoulder. If he’s coming at you head-on, blast him in the chest. Is that clear?”

They nodded and started to move away. “One thing more,” Hank added. “Don’t take any chances. He’s wounded and he’s dangerous. This storm has made him nervous and he’s probably plenty mad. Sandy, you take the north side of the shed. Mike, you cover the west.”

It was then that Sandy noticed for the first time that Joe wasn’t with them. He started to ask why, but checked himself. There would be plenty of time for that later. Thumbing the safety catch back, he curled his finger around the trigger and moved cautiously into position.

The rain was letting up a little, but it was still difficult to see. Massive dark clouds continued to roll overhead. Trees, heavy with rainwater, bent and rustled under the force of a snarling wind that slashed at loose leaves and stirred bushes into sudden motion.

Or was that the wind?

Sandy froze and took a closer look. The top leaves of a bush about seventy-five yards away trembled slightly and then settled back into immobility. Crouched under the tangled stems of the bush was what looked like a long, lean shape, hugging flatly against the ground.

Sandy’s heart thumped under the pressure of pounding blood as he knelt slowly to pick up a handful of stones. How long, he wondered, did it take for a mountain lion in full charge to cover seventy-five yards? The thought crossed his mind that he should shoot first, but he rejected it almost immediately as being too risky. The first shot, Hank had told him once, was the one that counted. Every competent hunter waited for his quarry to present itself before he pulled the trigger. Shooting at shadows was wasteful and dangerous.

Sandy took a deep breath and heaved the stones into the bush. As they whistled through the leaves and branches, he yanked his rifle up to his shoulder and tensed himself for a flash of yellow fury.

But nothing happened.

The long, menacing shape under the bush hadn’t moved. Sandy’s hand was shaking as he lowered the rifle. Breathing in short, dry gasps, he forced himself to relax. There was nothing under the bush more dangerous than a dead, half-rotted log.

Feeling embarrassed and a little foolish, he turned to see how the others were doing. Over to his right, Mike was sweeping carefully in toward the shed, his body bent slightly forward in an attitude of absorbed concentration.

Just as Sandy craned around to locate Mr. Cook, the corner of his eye caught a lightning-fast motion. It happened so quickly and was over so fast that Sandy wasn’t sure, at first, whether he had actually seen it.

Something vaguely earth-colored had dropped silently from a tree behind Mike and was now hidden under a cover of tall grass that ran along the border of the clearing.

Uneasily, Sandy swung around and moved closer to the waving grass under the tree. He saw a flurry among the stems and then what looked like a ripple of motion less than forty yards behind Mike’s back.

Sandy broke into a quick trot, narrowing the range to approximately sixty yards. Mike was completely unaware of what was going on behind him, and Sandy felt no inclination to shout. A startled cat might jump before he was properly in position.

There was another rippling movement from the clump of grass. Then slowly the tangle of underbrush parted and Sandy saw the mountain lion.

The big cat’s head was flat against the ground and his eyes were fastened on Mike. Sandy sensed that the beast was gathering itself for a spring, and suddenly he knew that he would have to fire quickly.

Now that the crisis had come, Sandy was surprisingly calm. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder and nestled his cheek comfortably against the stock. As the mountain lion loomed up into the field of his telescopic sight, Sandy noticed that his eyes were thin slits of yellow. They looked malevolent and deadly. Powerful muscles at the joints of his shoulders gathered and hunched into hard knots. In another moment they would uncoil, sending two hundred pounds of clawing death down on Mike’s unsuspecting back.

Bracing himself for the gun’s recoil, Sandy took a deep breath and squeezed slowly down on the trigger. The intersection of the two cross hairs was centered on a spot directly above and behind the cougar’s foreleg. Sandy could feel the trigger pressing harder into the crook of his finger as he held the rifle steady. He closed down the last sixteenth of an inch and held his breath.

The cat made his move a split second before Sandy fired. Then three things happened simultaneously. Sandy’s rifle roared out, missing a fatal spot, but slamming into the cougar’s side. Mike whirled around at the sound of the explosion, saw the cat and backed away instinctively. As he stepped back, his foot caught on a stray root and he sprawled awkwardly to the ground, losing his rifle. The impact of the bullet momentarily broke the lion’s charge. The force of the blow sent him spinning into the earth with a spine-tingling scream of pain and rage. By the time he clawed back to his feet to renew his attack, Sandy had managed to pump another shell into the chamber.

This time he didn’t miss. He caught the cat three inches behind the shoulder and could almost see the slug smack home. The lion lunged through the air, jerked once and slumped to the ground, barely fifteen feet from Mike’s frightened face.

Still holding his rifle, Sandy walked unsteadily over to Mike.

“You all right?” he asked huskily.

Mike gulped and nodded wordlessly. His face was completely drained of color. He made no attempt to stand up.

The next moment, Mr. Cook was bending over his son, but Mike refused any help and scrambled to his feet. He walked over to Sandy and extended his hand. “Thanks, Sandy,” he said quietly. “I never expected to come out of that alive.”

Sandy took the outstretched hand and gave Mike a friendly punch on the shoulder. “That makes us even, Mike.”

Mike managed a weak grin of acknowledgment. “Let’s not do it again,” he said.

Hank, who had been covering the south side of the shed, was the last to arrive on the scene. When he was told what had happened, he frowned and walked over to Mr. Cook.

“Listen, Arthur,” he said sincerely, “I’m sorry Mike had such a bad time, but I guess it’s my fault. I should have stalked that lion alone.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Mr. Cook replied. “The boys wouldn’t have let you.”

“Anyway,” Hank went on, “I never expected to see a mountain lion attack from cover. They don’t normally do that, unless they’re being deviled by dogs. I’ve been going after them for more than twenty years and this is the first time anything like that’s ever happened. I knew there’d be a little danger, but I didn’t think it would be quite so serious. I was confident the boys would have plenty of time to place their shots.”

“Well,” observed Mr. Cook with a smile, “they did. Or at least one of them did.”

They walked over to the dead mountain lion. Hank bent down and lifted one enormous paw. “Right where I told you to shoot,” he said. “Nice work, Sandy. I’ll skin it for you and you’ll have yourself a fine trophy.”

“I think Mike should have it,” Sandy said. “As a sort of reminder.”

“No, thanks!” Mike protested. “I’d just as soon never see that cat again. I’ll bag one of my own. Joe guaranteed it—remember?” Mike stopped and looked around with a puzzled expression.

“By the way,” he said, “where is Joe? You’d think he’d be here, with all this shooting.”

Mr. Cook cleared his throat and looked at the three of them strangely. “I’ve got some news for you,” he said, “and I don’t know what to make of it. Early this morning—right after you left—Joe and I were sitting on the porch, cleaning the guns, when suddenly I noticed him start and grow pale. I followed his eyes and there—up in the mountains behind the lodge—I saw a thin column of smoke. You three didn’t light a campfire by any chance?”

They shook their heads.

Mr. Cook raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I was afraid of that,” he went on. “About an hour later I noticed that Joe was gone. I looked around and called, but he wasn’t in the house or near it.”

“What do you mean?” Sandy asked.

“Exactly what I said,” Mr. Cook slowly replied. “Joe has disappeared—vanished.”