He found the dead calf at mid-morning.
It has been mauled badly and part eaten, then partly covered with debris. He only found it from the massive blood stains on the grass and drag marks. The tall lanky cowboy called Slim by his friends, stepped down from the saddle to examine the dead calf nore carefully. It had been the second one that week.
The hands of the Double B ranch had moved some of the stock up to the higher grass to take advantage of the good grazing in the mountain valleys. Now they were loosing some of the spring calves. To Slim it looked like a couger kill. He took a deep breath and knew what he had to do. Stepping back up into the saddle again he headed up into the timber to see if he could get an idea where the big cat had holed up.
Following faint deer trails, he rode up through the aspens till he was in rough boulder strewn ground. There he got off his horse and looped the rains loosely over a branch of a bush, and spoke softly to the dapple grey horse that was his favorite.
"You hold on here for a bit 'ol hoss. If I don't come back, you can pull off of there easy enough."
He reached into the saddle bag and fed the horse a handfull of the oats and a carrot, stroking the neck of his mount. Then he eased out the Winchester carbine and started off up hill into the rocks. Walking slowly, stepping lightly he paid attention to the ground in front of him, stopping to scan the area in front of him now and then. It was less than an hour later he found the track.
It was in a soft spot between some rocks, and was clear in the pale sand. Slim put his hand down on top of the track, and was shocked at the size almost as large as his own hand. It was a big cat. He leavered a round up into the chamber of the Winchester and set the hammer at half cock, then started moving up the rocky ground. For the next hour he slowly made his way up the mountain, moving, then stopping and watching the rocks in front of him carefully. He was almost to the timberline now, and the wind made a soft sighing in the aspens.
He was working his way over a flat spot on the shoulder of the mountain when he had the feeling. It was a sense of dread forboding, and to his dying day he would say he didn't know why he turned around. Standing stock still, he slowly turned his head to look in back of him, and there, was a large mountain lion crouched in the act of stalking him, not a dozen yards away. It sprang at him in a flying leap.
Slim threw himself down and to the side, letting go of the Winchester and yanking out his Smith and Wesson number three American. As the cat landed where he had been standing, he thumbed off three rounds of the .44's. The heavy slugs punched the cat hard, and it went down thrashing around on the ground, and Slim took aim and fired two more shots into the cat. It went still in death as the last of the 44's went in.
Slim stood up on shaky legs and broke open the Smith and Wesson and tried to reload the spent shells. He dropped a couple of them because of his hand shaking, then he sat down on a boulder and took out his pipe to have a smoke. He dropped some tobacco, but got a smoke going and he looked at the cat.
"You damm near got me, catamount. I don't thnk I've had this close a call since Colonel Mosby and us ran headlong into that Yankee cavelry patrol outside of Warrenton. Maybe I'm gettin too old for this exitment."
The smoke calmed him down, and Slim examined the cat. Yellow worn down teeth, with a broken of fang told him it was an old cat, unable to hunt the game anymore. It had come down to feed on the easy spring calves of the Double B beef.
"Okay, you near got me, I ain't going home without a pelt, you sunofa..."
Slim took out his pocket knife. He had bought the new knife just last year on a drive to Trinidad, and it was the new pattern called a premium stock knife. He pulled open the main clip blade went to work, carefully skinning the mountain lion. The razor sharp knife slit down the belly, and then the inside of the legs. Switching to the spey blade he worked carefully around the paws, keeping the claws intact. When he was done he took and spread out the fresh skinned hide and scraped away at the loose tissue till he had it as clean as he could get it there. He'd get Ramon the Vaquerro to help him, the old Mexican knew more about hides and leather than anyone else on the ranch. Rolling it up he made his way back to his horse.
It was a couple hours after dark when he rode into the ranch yard. Some of the hands were lounging on the porch of the bunkhouse when he rode up, and they gathered around in exitement when they saw what he untied from his saddle and shook it out. They ran hands over the soft fur, looking at the bullet holes. Ramon examined the hide carefully.
"Si, amigo, this will look good on the wall. You shoot many times eh?" he remarked, fingering the hide. He looked closely at some dark grains on his finger tip and smudjed them between thumb and finger. "Powder grains. You were very close, mijo."
"He near got me, Ramon. I wouldn't want to do it again like that."
The old Vaquerro was quiet for a moment. Then he said,
"When I was a little boy back in Mexico, there was a man who was a hunter. He would go into the Sierra Madres after the puma and jaguar because the hides would bring many pesos. I remember him saying that when you go after a big cat, you always keep one eye behind you, because the cat is always the hunter. Never the hunted."
It has been mauled badly and part eaten, then partly covered with debris. He only found it from the massive blood stains on the grass and drag marks. The tall lanky cowboy called Slim by his friends, stepped down from the saddle to examine the dead calf nore carefully. It had been the second one that week.
The hands of the Double B ranch had moved some of the stock up to the higher grass to take advantage of the good grazing in the mountain valleys. Now they were loosing some of the spring calves. To Slim it looked like a couger kill. He took a deep breath and knew what he had to do. Stepping back up into the saddle again he headed up into the timber to see if he could get an idea where the big cat had holed up.
Following faint deer trails, he rode up through the aspens till he was in rough boulder strewn ground. There he got off his horse and looped the rains loosely over a branch of a bush, and spoke softly to the dapple grey horse that was his favorite.
"You hold on here for a bit 'ol hoss. If I don't come back, you can pull off of there easy enough."
He reached into the saddle bag and fed the horse a handfull of the oats and a carrot, stroking the neck of his mount. Then he eased out the Winchester carbine and started off up hill into the rocks. Walking slowly, stepping lightly he paid attention to the ground in front of him, stopping to scan the area in front of him now and then. It was less than an hour later he found the track.
It was in a soft spot between some rocks, and was clear in the pale sand. Slim put his hand down on top of the track, and was shocked at the size almost as large as his own hand. It was a big cat. He leavered a round up into the chamber of the Winchester and set the hammer at half cock, then started moving up the rocky ground. For the next hour he slowly made his way up the mountain, moving, then stopping and watching the rocks in front of him carefully. He was almost to the timberline now, and the wind made a soft sighing in the aspens.
He was working his way over a flat spot on the shoulder of the mountain when he had the feeling. It was a sense of dread forboding, and to his dying day he would say he didn't know why he turned around. Standing stock still, he slowly turned his head to look in back of him, and there, was a large mountain lion crouched in the act of stalking him, not a dozen yards away. It sprang at him in a flying leap.
Slim threw himself down and to the side, letting go of the Winchester and yanking out his Smith and Wesson number three American. As the cat landed where he had been standing, he thumbed off three rounds of the .44's. The heavy slugs punched the cat hard, and it went down thrashing around on the ground, and Slim took aim and fired two more shots into the cat. It went still in death as the last of the 44's went in.
Slim stood up on shaky legs and broke open the Smith and Wesson and tried to reload the spent shells. He dropped a couple of them because of his hand shaking, then he sat down on a boulder and took out his pipe to have a smoke. He dropped some tobacco, but got a smoke going and he looked at the cat.
"You damm near got me, catamount. I don't thnk I've had this close a call since Colonel Mosby and us ran headlong into that Yankee cavelry patrol outside of Warrenton. Maybe I'm gettin too old for this exitment."
The smoke calmed him down, and Slim examined the cat. Yellow worn down teeth, with a broken of fang told him it was an old cat, unable to hunt the game anymore. It had come down to feed on the easy spring calves of the Double B beef.
"Okay, you near got me, I ain't going home without a pelt, you sunofa..."
Slim took out his pocket knife. He had bought the new knife just last year on a drive to Trinidad, and it was the new pattern called a premium stock knife. He pulled open the main clip blade went to work, carefully skinning the mountain lion. The razor sharp knife slit down the belly, and then the inside of the legs. Switching to the spey blade he worked carefully around the paws, keeping the claws intact. When he was done he took and spread out the fresh skinned hide and scraped away at the loose tissue till he had it as clean as he could get it there. He'd get Ramon the Vaquerro to help him, the old Mexican knew more about hides and leather than anyone else on the ranch. Rolling it up he made his way back to his horse.
It was a couple hours after dark when he rode into the ranch yard. Some of the hands were lounging on the porch of the bunkhouse when he rode up, and they gathered around in exitement when they saw what he untied from his saddle and shook it out. They ran hands over the soft fur, looking at the bullet holes. Ramon examined the hide carefully.
"Si, amigo, this will look good on the wall. You shoot many times eh?" he remarked, fingering the hide. He looked closely at some dark grains on his finger tip and smudjed them between thumb and finger. "Powder grains. You were very close, mijo."
"He near got me, Ramon. I wouldn't want to do it again like that."
The old Vaquerro was quiet for a moment. Then he said,
"When I was a little boy back in Mexico, there was a man who was a hunter. He would go into the Sierra Madres after the puma and jaguar because the hides would bring many pesos. I remember him saying that when you go after a big cat, you always keep one eye behind you, because the cat is always the hunter. Never the hunted."
Last edited:
:thumbup: Rourke, Hemingway Grey?:thumbup:
