by Chris Pike
Dillon shrugged. “I guess she’s a…” he paused for effect, “…scaredy-cat?” He waited for Holly to roll her eyes. She didn’t disappoint him.
“Not funny,” Holly said.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist it. I’m sure Tiger is okay and probably went hunting for extra food.”
“Probably.” Holly wasn’t convinced because it wasn’t like Tiger to wander off for long. “See you in a bit.” She shut the door behind him and glanced at Buster. Shaking her head, she huffed, “Men.”
* * *
Walking along the hardened ruts of the dirt road leading to the back of the ranch, Dillon scanned the pastures and woods, searching for signs of the buck.
Due to the lack of rain, tracks were difficult to see in the ruddy soil. He was able to identify a raccoon track by the long fingers pressed into the dirt. A rabbit had passed by, and from the long stride of the prints, a coyote had been chasing it. Gauging from the size of the tracks and Dillon’s limited knowledge, it had been a large one, though the track appeared different than a normal coyote.
Dillon squatted on his heels and studied the large print, tracing the outline with his hand.
Odd, he thought.
His mind went over different animals that could have left it. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and apprehensively checked his surroundings. Walking deeper into the ranch, the road drifted to the south before veering west toward the branch. While Dillon walked, he was mindful to keep to the undisturbed soil which softened his steps.
The sound of wings flapping caused him to take notice. A buzzard that had been sitting a few feet from the road lifted its head from the carrion, its eyes tracking the man walking on the road.
When Dillon breached that invisible line of no return, the buzzard clumsily flapped its wings to gather enough lift. The large bird flew awkwardly to a mid-sized tree where it sat perched on a branch, preening its feathers.
Deciding to inspect what type of carrion the buzzard was dining on, Dillon stepped off of the road and into high grass. It crunched under his boots.
Walking a few feet he stopped, his mind struggling to make sense of the gruesome scene.
The high grass had been tamped down, and stripped gray and white fur was scattered about, partially obscuring the bloody remnants of an animal skull. Bones had been picked clean and when Dillon pushed away the fur concentrated over the skull, he flinched and jumped back.
“Oh.” He choked at the sight, and swallowed bile that had risen in his throat. The jaw with sharp, pointy teeth and whiskers could only mean one thing.
“Tiger,” he said.
Dillon sighed heavily, letting his eyes roam over the land, for what he wasn’t sure. “You poor cat. Ending up as coyote food.”
He pondered how to tell Holly. She had such a soft heart for the cats and, Dillon hated to admit, so did he. Life was hard in the wilderness, especially for smaller animals. For a moment he thought about the food chain and how it wasn’t any good to be on the bottom. Tiger hadn’t stood a chance against the bigger predator. He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat as sadness washed over him at the loss of his pet. As soon as he returned to the house, he’d have to tell Holly to keep Princess inside.
He’d come back later and bury what little bones and fur was left of Tiger.
Stepping away from the ghastly sight, Dillon resumed walking toward the natural blind. When he came to the tightly woven stand of saplings, vines, and bushes, he pushed through an opening and sat down on the canvas stool.
Scanning the open field, his eyes drifted eastward to the far end of the seasonal branch. A bitter chill was in the air announcing the coming long days of a cold winter.
Dillon tugged down his hunting cap.
Westward was the waning light, casting a pale gold upon the land. A gust of wind brushed the land and Dillon turned in the direction of the rustling leaves settling into a thick brown carpet along the slope of the branch.
He saw movement and lifted the rifle. It had only been the flash of a brilliant red male cardinal flitting through the bramble that had caught his eye, so he lowered the rifle.
Bundled in his coat, Dillon lifted an ear flap of his hunting cap, taking in the silent sounds of the woods. Even in the cold weather, animals foraged for food. An hour earlier, a nine banded armadillo skittered across a path and darted to its den, hidden by the roots of a massive oak.
Dillon sat so still a nervous rabbit hopped next to him, unaware of the statue of a man peering down at him. Amused by the twitchy rabbit, Dillon tapped his foot which sent the rabbit scurrying.
Time passed, the woods became eerily still.
Something strange was going on, because for the past thirty minutes there had been no animal movement. Even the comforting melodies of song birds had quieted.
Just a while longer, he thought.
Dillon had seen that big buck earlier in the week during one of his daily forays inspecting the five hundred acre ranch. He followed the tracks through underbrush and deadfalls and finally to the branch where he had lost the trail. Deer were creatures of habit, following old trails, keeping to the shadows and the cover of fall foliage. The buck had to be smart to live as long as this beauty did, walking the safe trails away from hunters.
Daylight waned in the late hour, gray clouds hanging low over the land. A crow glided across the darkening sky, cawing as it went. Another one joined in and Dillon tracked the pair landing in a faraway tree.
Movement at the branch!
Dillon swiveled his gaze, awed at the size of the buck.
With weighty trepidation the magnificent buck stepped out from the dark tree cover. It snorted and tossed its head covered with a full rack of antlers. Its tail switched nervously, showing the white fur. For a long moment it stood like a product of a skilled taxidermist, glassy eyes staring in Dillon’s direction as if sensing another pair of eyes was watching it.
Satisfied there was no immediate danger, the deer stepped out to graze.
Dillon exhaled and slowly raised his .30-06 to where he had a clear shot. He peered through the sights, the crosshairs square on the deer. He put his index finger on the trigger, breathed out, ready for the shot.
The deer jerked its head up and glanced back to the shadows lining the branch. The tail swished faster, leg muscles rippled and the moment the deer understood the deadliness of the situation—that a predator lurked nearby—that moment it was about to leap, Dillon took the shot.
The rifle shot rent the silence of the woods, echoing along the contours of the branch.
The crows scattered, and a flock of doves roosting in an evergreen tree took flight, away from the crack of the rifle, away to safety.
The deer fell dead.
The shot had been perfect.
Dillon slung the rifle over his shoulder and emerged from the blind, his footfalls upon the land quick and purposeful.
Coming to the deer, he gazed at the beast prone on its side, a trickle of blood staining the tan hide. Dillon felt neither remorse nor satisfaction, only the knowledge their bellies would be full for the coming month.
He mulled over whether or not to field dress the deer where it fell. Considering the waning light and the fact he had not brought a lantern with him, he decided to drag it back to the house. Taking out a length of rope, he tied it to the antlers. Dragging it would be hard work, and he cursed himself for not stashing a wheelbarrow near the blind. Dragging the one hundred fifty pound buck was the best he could do.
Slinging the .30-06 over his shoulder, Dillon steeled himself, took the rope with both hands, and with a tremendous heave he moved the deer. Foot by agonizing foot, he struggled to drag the deer across the uneven terrain dotted with fire ant mounds and clumps of grass, and onto the ruts of the road, packed hard by countless trips of a ranch truck over the years.
Breathing hard, he stopped for a moment in the shadows of a large oak. He drew the back of his hand across his forehead where beads of sweat had formed. The s
un slipped lower across the horizon, casting winter shadows across the land.
The woods were strangely silent.
The hair on the back of Dillon’s neck prickled, sending a shiver throughout his body, and an intense foreboding captured him.
Shaking off the feeling, he pulled down on his hunting cap and adjusted the thick collar of his coat over his neck to ward off the chill. Taking the rope in both hands, he began to drag the deer again.
A powerful force knocked Dillon off his feet.
He was violently thrown to the ground, the air knocked out of him. His face mashed down into the weeds on the side of the road, and he struggled to catch his breath.
For a moment he thought a tree limb had slammed into his back, that was, until he heard growling and hissing.
Dillon’s mind worked in overdrive trying to identify the animal.
Struggling to rise, he again was slammed to the ground, and this time, a biting pressure clamped down on the back of his neck. The pressure increased, yet Dillon felt no pain.
He clawed and struck at the attacker, his hands brushing against short, wiry hair. Somehow he managed to turn his head, catching a glimpse of the beast.
Amber eyes rimmed in black locked on his, the ears were flat against its tawny head, and the beast opened its mouth into a snarl, showing its teeth.
It was a mountain lion, and it was massive!
When Dillon tried to rise the lion jumped on him again and sunk sharp teeth meant for grinding and slashing into the collar of his thick jacket.
Dillon was pinned face down.
It was a fight to the death. With wild abandon, the mountain lion slashed and bit into Dillon’s thick winter coat.
The .30-06 had been knocked away, out of Dillon’s grasp. His Glock had been left at the house.
Think!
The knife!
Dillon struggled to release his hunting knife from the scabbard, but with the powerful animal pinning him down, he couldn’t get to it.
Think!
His assisted-opening razor sharp Kershaw knife with a three and a half inch blade was in his back pocket. He reached around, pulled it out, and flipped it open.
For a brief second the animal halted its attack.
Dillon heaved his body over to where he was facing the mountain lion head on.
He brought up his Kershaw.
The lion opened its mouth wide and lunged.
Dillon made a defensive move with his left arm which the lion sunk his teeth into.
With the mountain lion’s neck exposed, Dillon thrust the knife into the soft part of the neck where he thought the carotid artery would be.
The lion screamed, yet it refused to relinquish the hold it had on its prey.
Dillon pushed harder and sliced backward, opening the neck.
Blood gushed out of the lion’s neck and onto Dillon, staining his jacket in crimson.
Dillon held the knife steady, the blade still thrust deep into the lion’s neck.
Seconds ticked by which seemed like hours. The lion panted and its grip on Dillon’s left arm loosened. Legs and claws slashed listlessly.
The lion’s strength waned as sure as the sun was setting, and as the sun slid further beneath the horizon, the lion gasped one last time for air then fell silent.
A buzzard sitting high in a nearby tree watched the attack with vague curiosity. Turning its head, it casually resumed preening itself.
Dillon pushed the dead mountain lion off of him. Stunned and with adrenaline still rushing through him, he laid back down on the cold ground. He concentrated on breathing to calm his racing heart.
Breathe.
He felt around his neck checking for puncture wounds, and miraculously, there were none. His collar was all torn up and shredded, and no telling what had happened to his hunting cap. He did have a nasty scratch on his neck, but with a good cleaning and antibiotic ointment, it would heal.
His thick coat now covered in blood had saved him from a slashing by the lion.
Dillon moved his arms and legs, and flexed his fingers, testing them for injuries or broken bones.
Somehow, he had come out mortally unscathed.
The odd happenings of the past few days now made sense: the horses pacing restlessly, Tiger missing, Princess acting odd, the hair on his neck standing up, lack of animal activity, and even Buster acting protective.
Dillon wasn’t sure how long he lay on the ground. Maybe five minutes, maybe ten. However long it had been, the night had become darker, and without any ambient light from the moon or stars, Dillon got on his hands and knees and crawled around, searching for his rifle. Finding it, he kept it near as he went about the process of rigging up the rope to the deer so he could drag it back home.
From his knowledge of mountain lions they were solitary animals only until it was mating season. And with spring a few months away, a female lion could be near. He would need to be vigilant whenever outside because a hungry mountain lion with cubs would kill about anything.
Dillon’s eyes flicked to the mountain lion, studying it to make sure it was dead. In life it was a magnificent beast, in death, nothing.
It had been a massive animal in the prime of its life, obviously healthy with a thick coat, possibly weighing close to what Dillon weighed. He bent down on one knee and tentatively lifted one of the lion’s lips, still warm and supple. The teeth were sharp and unbroken, gums healthy.
Rising, Dillon stood there a moment and ran his hands over his stubbly beard, thinking.
He was going to drag that son of a bitch home come hell or high water, because that lion would make one mighty fine rug.
The End
About the Author
Chris Pike grew up in the woodlands of Central Texas and along the Texas Gulf Coast, fishing, hunting, hiking, camping, and dodging hurricanes and tropical storms. Chris has learned that the power of Mother Nature is daunting from sizzling temperatures or icy conditions; from drought to category five hurricanes. Living without electricity for two weeks in the sweltering August heat after Hurricane Ike proved to be challenging. It paid to be prepared.
Currently living in Houston, Texas, Chris is married, has two grown daughters, one dog, and three overweight, demanding cats.
Chris is an avid supporter of the Second Amendment, and has held a Texas concealed carry permit since 1998, with the Glock being the current gun of choice. Chris is a graduate of the University of Texas and has a BBA in Marketing. By day Chris works as a database manager for a large international company, while by night an Indie author.
Got a question or a comment? Email Chris at [email protected]. Your email will be answered promptly and your address will never be shared with anyone.
Unknown World
Book 3
Chris is currently working on Unknown World which will be a standalone book based on characters introduced in Book 2. Stay tuned for the story of Chris Chandler and Amanda Hardy as they encounter dangerous obstacles on their way to Austin. An early 2017 publication date is planned. A sneak peek is available, so email Chris if you’d like to sample it.
Next in the series will be the story of Garrett, who was also introduced in Book 2. Garrett is a natural leader and people will look to him for guidance in the new world.
Also, an epic sci-fi series has been rattling around in Chris’s head for years, so hopefully that story will come to fruition sometime in late 2017 or early 2018.
Before You Go…
One last thing. Thank you, thank you, thank you for downloading this book. Without the support of readers like yourself, Indie publishing would not be possible.
I’ve heard from a lot of my readers, and for those who have written me, you know I always answer your emails. You have taught me a lot with your expertise in electronics, medicine, and basically how things work which is especially needed for your mechanically challenged author. Your encouragement has inspired me to keep writing. Thank you.
Another way to show your support of an
Indie author is to write an honest review on Amazon. It helps other readers make a decision to download the book. A few words or one sentence is all it takes.
So please consider writing a review. I will be forever grateful.
Also, this book has been edited, proofed, and proofed again, but mistakes or typos are bound to happen. If you find a mistake, email me at [email protected] and it will be corrected.
All the best,
Chris
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
The Hunted
