Claws

by Ozzie Cheek

  Once they were in the middle of the river, Jesse dared to look behind. “No!” she cried out, taking in a mouthful of water. The giant cat was coming after them.

  In fact, Kali hadn’t even hesitated. Nobody had to teach her to swim. Instincts, tiger instincts mostly, told her what to do. After the minute it took her to feel assured of her movements, she began to close the distance.

  Wade slid the pickup to a stop on the riverbank, jumped from the cab, planted his feet in soft ground, and slammed a 7mm Magnum in the chamber of the Remington. He took careful aim, aware that a wild shot could hit Jesse or her horse, and then fired. His bullet pinged the water. His second shot caused the big cat to list and flail. Wade took aim and fired again. He didn’t know if the third shot hit the cat or not. What mattered was that the monster was drifting away from Jesse and her horse. Wade lowered the hunting rifle and watched until he felt certain Jesse was safe. Then he dug out his cell phone.

  On the other side of the hills a dust cloud trailing the speeding Jeep soon obscured the Double-D ranch in Jackson’s side view mirrors. He had spent nearly an hour on a Honda ATV following Armando, but the Mexican rancher had been unable to track Jesse’s route. Jackson had his Nokia cell phone out to call Jesse again when it rang.

  Touie clamored up the low bank on the far side and stood with his head low and dripping water, while Jesse stumbled out of the river and dropped to the ground. She had lost her ball cap, and her ponytail had come undone. Wet hair clung to her face like seaweed as she locked her hands around her knees and lowered her head and wept.

  She had no idea how long she stayed there cradling her body, rocking back and forth, and weeping. She did not notice Touie graze on a patch of tender grass or hear him nicker. She remained unaware of time or place until a voice broke through the shock, and she heard her father saying, “Jesse, honey.”

  Jackson lifted his daughter off the ground and wrapped her in his arms. He felt her body heaving as her face pressed against his chest. “Jesse, honey,” he said again. Then he shut up and held her and let her exhaust whatever it was inside her that had to come out in tears and gasps. When he felt Jesse’s shredded vest and saw Wade staring at the damage in disbelief, Jackson held her even tighter.

  After a while Jackson bundled Jesse into his Jeep and drove her home. Wade, who had removed the wet blanket and saddle from Touie and then dried him, remained behind with the gelding until Jackson could send a horse trailer.

  Once he had Jesse soaking in a hot bath, Jackson called Iris, although Jesse asked him not to. They both knew that Iris would use the incident as another reason to oppose Jesse entering the endurance race. They also knew that Iris’ dislike of riding wasn’t because she feared Jesse would get hurt. Iris simply didn’t want Jesse to be an Idaho cowgirl. She had higher aspirations for her.

  While Jackson waited for Iris to arrive, he called Deborah Dawson and asked her to bring Touie home in a trailer. He then called the vet to tend to the horse’s wounds. He made one other call as well. He called the library, where he reached Pamela Yow, and asked her to research lions and tigers and whatever kind of cat was even bigger. “Ligers,” Pamela told him. “That’s what Ted and Dolly are trying to raise. Devil cats. God didn’t make them and man shouldn’t.” Jackson also asked Pamela to try to locate an expert on big cats, someone he could talk to.

  Neither Deborah nor the large animal vet had arrived yet when Iris stormed inside, saying, “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs in the tub. She’s fine. Just calm down.”

  “Calm down my ass. Why didn’t she answer her phone?”

  “It broke. She dropped it in horse manure.”

  “Give me a gun.”

  “A gun?”

  “I’m gonna shoot her goddamned horse.” Iris never cursed unless she was on the verge of a meltdown.

  “Touie saved her life,” Jackson said, for Wade had told him the events, at least what he had seen of them, and Jesse, once she stopped crying, had filled in the rest.

  “I don’t give a damn. She’ll never ride him again.”

  Jackson had seen it often during the last days of marriage. When Iris fell into a black hole of anger, she lost touch with anything good in others that might buffer her words and actions. She wasn’t just mean; she was crazy at those moments. Was it going to happen now, he wondered?

  “Mom,” Jesse said softly from the top of the stairs. She was wrapped in a towel. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”

  “My god, Jesse,” Iris said. “I’ve been so frantic. The thought of you being chased by some wild cat, I –”

  “I’m cold, mom. I’m getting back in the tub. Come on up if you want.” Jesse turned around and left.

  “Maybe you can go easy on her,” Jackson said.

  “You have Dell kill that cat,” Iris told Jackson as she started up the stairs. “He’s the only one here who’s ever hunted real lions or whatever this is. Promise me.”

  “If Dell can kill it –” He paused when his phone rang. “If Dell can kill the cat, I’m all for it,” Jackson said, and then he answered his cell phone, saying, “Chief Hobbs.” He listened to Will Bailey describe how he found a tiger in his hog pen eating one of his sows.

  Seven

  Katy Osborne glanced at the man in the golf jacket. He had been fidgeting and scowling the entire time. She breathed deeply before returning to her book. This was the final page she would read. Afterwards, she would answer questions and then sign copies. The man would be trouble.

  She read again, her voice strong but soothing, almost seductive. When she finished, she closed the book, titled African Nights, and listened to the applause. There were some seventy-five people in Tattered Cover, Denver’s famed Cherry Creek bookstore, on a Saturday afternoon. Saturday night would have drawn a bigger crowd, but a reality TV star had nabbed the better slot. Katy’s first book, three years earlier, had sold well enough to get her a second one in print, but not a Saturday night reading. “If anyone has questions,” Katy said. Hands shot up. “Yes.” She pointed to a college girl. Young women were often eager to please and lobbed soft questions at her, easy to begin with.

  “How many other women are like you, you know, professional hunters and safari guides?”

  “None. About two hundred licensed professional hunters work commercially in Africa. They’re all men except for me,” Katy said. “Now, I realize some people oppose hunting for any reason, but hunting clubs and safaris were preserving Africa’s animals long before ecology groups even existed.” Katy ignored the few protests and pointed to a thirty-something man in a suit.

  “What’s the most dangerous animal you’ve encountered?”

  “Humans,” Katy replied.

  A mother-earth woman in her fifties was flapping her hands. “Next to the last row. Woman in the tunic.” Katy listened to her defense of Elsa and the lion cubs made famous in the Born Free books and movies. Every audience included someone who thought lions were merely oversized house cats. “What the Born Free story fails to mention,” Katy said, “is that one of Elsa’s cubs later ate a camp cook and another mauled a little boy.” There were gasps and moans. Katy waited before adding, “In truth, lions see people as only one thing – food. The question isn’t why they kill us, it’s why they don’t kill more of us.”

  The man in the golf jacket raised his hand. Here it comes, Katy thought. All her life she had been tested: as a ten-year-old orphan sent to an American boarding school; on safari where men focused on her looks rather than her skills; in Botswana where she was a tiny snowflake in a huge, dark continent. Tested and survived. “You, sir.”

  “How big can a lion get?” the man asked.

  It wasn’t the question Katy expected. “Up to eight feet with the tail,” she said. “Maybe three feet tall at the shoulders, and a male can weigh over five hundred pounds. A tiger can be a bit larger.”

  “So what kind of cat weighs a thousand pounds?”

  “None that I’ve hunted.” Katy smiled.

&
nbsp; “Well, my wife’s brother is an EMT in Idaho, and he says they have a cat that size running around. He says it killed a policeman there today, eviscerated him.”

  Katy sipped some water while looking at her literary agent, Janet Cook, standing in the back next to Stan Ely, head of ARK, an animal rescue organization. Janet shrugged, and Stan gave a wan smile. “When a lion or tiger charges you,” Katy said, “they certainly appear that size. But then lions and tigers don’t live in Idaho, do they?”

  “They do at Safari Land,” the man said smugly.

  Will Bailey’s rubber boots made a sucking sound in the muck. “Souie, souie,” the farmer said, whacking a big boar with a stick to drive him away. “Souie.” Jackson knew he wouldn’t be eating bacon for a while, not after watching Bailey’s hogs try to cannibalize the shredded carcass of the sow. “Pretty sure I hit it once, maybe twice,” Will Bailey told Jackson. “And I’m talking a Remington seven hun’erd with thirty-ought-six Corelokts. The tiger went down, then got up and run off, over that way.”

  Jackson looked south in the direction Bailey was pointing, thinking about what Wade and Jesse had said. “This cat, was it really big? Like ten feet?”

  “Naw. Half that size. Kind of skinny and starved. But that didn’t stop it from guttin’ a hog.” Bailey herded the last of his hogs into another pen and closed the gate. They were still grunting, noses in the air, sniffing the blood scent. “Who’s gonna pay for my sow, Chief Hobbs?”

  “I sounded like a fool in there,” Katy said as she got into the back of the rental car after signing books. The man in the golf jacket had not stayed for the signing. Most people did.

  “Everybody gets tripped up doing Q and A,” Janet said. Janet Cook was over fifty, but after two facelifts, you could bounce a ball off her cheeks. “Just forget it. Get ready for tomorrow. That man was a jerk.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” argued Katy.

  “I’ve heard of Safari Land,” Stan said. “Some mom and pop operation in Idaho. Not sure it’s still around.”

  Janet took out an IPad and tapped and touched the screen and a moment later said, “Here it is.”

  She passed the IPad back to Katy. “No mention of giant cats,” Katy said after reading the few sentences.

  “Told you. He’s a jerk. Forget it.” Janet then launched into Katy’s itinerary for the following day.

  By the time they reached the Oxford Hotel in downtown Denver, an older, European style hotel favored by Katy, Stan and Janet had forgotten about Safari Land. When they entered the lobby, Katy said, “What part of Idaho, Stan?”

  “Ah, come on, Katy. Let’s have a drink. Janet?”

  “Not me. Gotta get in a workout before dinner. See you both in a while.” Janet headed to the elevators.

  Stan raised his eyebrows and flirted a smile. Katy had met him three years earlier. He was handsome and muscular, and she had come close to sleeping with him. Stan had since married, but he was still intent on getting her in bed. She shook her head no. “Where in Idaho?”

  “East. Near Wyoming. Some dinky town.”

  Jackson sat with Will Bailey and his wife, Stella, at the kitchen table while he waited for Dell Tapper and two Buckhorn police officers to arrive. He asked for a coffee refill and was tempted by Stella’s offer of a second piece of apple pie, still hot from the oven. The food and drink had helped, but tiredness kept a stranglehold. So much had happened since he climbed out of bed some ten hours ago.

  He wanted to be with his daughter. He wanted to talk to Ted Cheney. He wanted to sit alone and grieve for Ed. He wanted to do many things, but hunting a wounded tiger was not one of them. Jackson looked at his watch; two hours of daylight were left. Lack of time was the reason he had invited Dell along. Despite his promise to Iris, he hated to involve Dell. “They should be here soon.”

  “I oughta go with you,” Will Bailey said.

  “Predators often return to their kill to finish feeding,” Jackson said. “So you’re as likely to find the cat by staying right here as we are out in the woods.”

  “What I told him,” Stella said. “Take care of your own. We got no business having tigers in Idaho anyhow.”

  A moment later Jackson heard two cars drive up. He thanked Will and Stella for the pie and coffee. He promised them the tiger skin if at all possible and then went outside. He found Dell removing equipment from the back of his Cadillac Escalade. His son was helping him.

  “What are you doing here, Shane?”

  “Chief Hobbs,” the boy said and looked to his dad.

  “Shane knows how to shoot, Jackson. He didn’t want to miss out on it. Hell, it’s tiger hunting.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I can take you along, Dell. I can’t allow a sixteen-year-old to go.” He thought about his earlier conversation with Iris. The condom still was in his pocket. He said to Shane, “Have you talked to Jesse? I don’t think she should go anywhere tonight.”

  “I was on my way to see her until Dad said –”

  “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Dell said, stroking the walnut stock of a .375 Holland & Holland Magnum, a bolt-action rifle. “Load it with three-hundred grain Winchester Silvertips, it’ll bring down anything short of an elephant or rhino.” Dell returned the .375 to the padded case and picked up the second gun. “A two-seventy Weatherby. A fine all-around sporting rifle.” He offered the rifle to Jackson. “If Shane’s not going, why don’t you use it?”

  “You guys got your deer and elk rifles?” Jackson asked his officers. Both Skip Tibbits and John Plaides answered affirmatively. Skip was balding while John had thick brown hair. Apart from appearance they were much alike: about thirty, married, kids, ex-Army, skilled hunters, good cops. “Think I’ll stick with the Stoeger twelve-gauge I got in my Jeep,” Jackson said. “In case we need an up-close gun.”

  “We won’t,” Dell said, “not if I get a clean shot.” Dell slid the Weatherby Vanguard into a soft case and zippered it and took up the .375 again. He handed Shane the keys to the Escalade. “You so much as scratch it, and you’ll wish you were staring down a tiger instead of me.”

  Shane looked so eager to leave that Jackson doubted if coming on the hunt was his idea at all.

  They started at the hog pens and crossed a long and wide potato field before climbing to a thicket of Big Tooth and Mountain maple. A smattering of leaves already were turning red and yellow. They followed the blood trail through the maples and beyond them, always going higher. Thirty minutes later Dell held up his hand to halt them. They had reached a patch of snowberry and juniper. Dell pointed some sixty yards ahead to a grove of blue spruce. He motioned for them to go forward slowly.

  Once they were hidden in the evergreens, Dell dialed in his scope for distance. During the walk he had told them all about the superior merits of his variable power scope over the usual 4X scope found on most rifles. While Skip and John sighted their inferior scopes, Jackson watched the thickly wooded area. Before long, he spotted four northern gray wolves, three adults and one adolescent, loping along.

  “It’s just wolves,” Jackson said softly.

  “You’re wrong,” Dell whispered. “See those young blue spruce about seventy-five yards up and to the right?” A second later, he said, “The tiger’s laying flat behind one. I can just make out the head.” Before anyone else could locate the tiger, if there was one, Dell’s gun roared. Jackson hadn’t put in his earplugs yet, and his ears rang.

  Dell said something to Jackson and started forward. Jackson motioned for his two officers to follow. The four of them fanned out as they approached the small trees, although not so far as to create a potential crossfire situation.

  Dell reached the area first. “Hell of a head shot,” he said, looking down at the cat. The top of tiger’s head was missing. His tongue stuck out and lay in the dirt. There were rips and bite marks in the dirty, loose skin. The tiger’s belly had been torn open by something other than gunshot.

  Jackson didn’t see how anyone could think this tiger
was longer than a car or how it could nearly bring down a horse or manage to kill the best man he had ever known.

  John knelt. “This cat’s been dead a while.” He touched its belly. “Wolves were already feeding on it.”

  While the water warmed in the shower, Katy selected an outfit for dinner, undressed, and stood naked before the mirror: she was thirty-five, average height, her body firm from trekking and ranch work, mostly firm anyway, her fair skin prone to freckles, her eyes hazel, and her dark blond hair longer than she wore it when on safari. Many thought her beautiful. She scanned her face and her body. In most species it’s the male that primps, she knew. She also knew that apart from looks, humans are like all other animals. All creatures are driven to survive and procreate. Africa taught her that.

  Katy had spent the past hour on the Internet, but her search had yielded little information about Safari Land. She found nothing about a big cat attacking anyone in Idaho today or yesterday or on any other day. Still, the man in the golf jacket bothered her. She wondered why. Or maybe it was not the smug man from the reading that bothered her at all. Maybe it was Stan flirting with her.

  Maybe Stan reminded her of how much she missed Jacques, the French photographer who had been her lover until a year ago, when Jacques had asked her to move in with him. As tempting as the offer was, for Paris was her favorite city, and she truly did care for Jacques, she knew that she would wither away if she gave up her life in Africa. Survival always trumps sex. Africa also had taught her that.

  Eight

  After stopping at Safari Land again and finding the entrance still padlocked and the phone unanswered, Jackson returned to Buckhorn. By the time he arrived, a crowd had gathered downtown to look at the dead tiger in the bed of Will Bailey’s truck. Gary Chen, a reporter for the county newspaper, was photographing the animal. In the twilight he was using a flash. Between flashes Jackson saw Iris and Dell, him towering over her, standing shoulder to shoulder in the front. Jackson drove on to the police station.