Cowboys Are My Weakness by Pam Houston

Author:Pam Houston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Epub3
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2018-11-12T00:00:00+00:00

We never saw those five big rams again, but on the second-to-last day of James’s hunt we got close enough to some new rams for another stalk. We had the wind in our favor but only a few hours till dark. We crawled like soldiers for what seemed like a long time, the only sound besides the river James’s rhythmic grunting every time he lifted his belly out of the mud.

We got into shooting position with just enough light, Boone talking softly into James’s ear, James positioning his body, then his rifle, then his body again. There were eleven rams in front of us, eight high and five low. At least four or five of them were full curls. I was trying to decide which one was the biggest when the gun fired sharp and loud, and then fired again.

“Don’t shoot again!” Boone said, his voice angry. “Watch that ram.”

And we all watched as one of the five lower rams ran down the gravel bed, his front legs splayed and awkward.

“Let me shoot again,” James said. “Let me shoot at another one.”

“We need to see if the one you shot at is hit,” Boone said, calm again.

“He ain’t hit,” James said.

“He is hit,” I said.

“At this point I can’t tell,” Boone said.

James cocked his gun.

The ram hobbled farther down and out of our view. James and Boone kept talking, talking themselves into the fact that the ram wasn’t injured, but I knew it was. I knew it the way a mother knows when her child’s been hurt.

“That ram’s been hit,” I said again. “I just don’t know where.”

First one and then three other rams ran down to join the first.

“I didn’t see any blood,” Boone said. “I think he’s okay.”

“He’s not okay,” I said, loudly now. “Do you hear me?”

Both men turned suddenly, as if remembering my presence for the first time, and then just as suddenly turned away.

“Let’s see if we can get closer,” Boone said. And then, after all that crawling, Boone stood up and strode across the moraine towards where the five lower rams had disappeared. James and I followed. The eight rams above us watched for a minute and then started climbing, slowly but steadily, up to the top of the ridge. The sun had set behind that ridge hours ago, but the Alaskan twilight lingered and lit the backdrop as the rams, one by one, topped out and filled the skyline, each one a perfect black silhouette against a bloody sky.

One of the five lower rams ran up to join the herd on the skyline. We came over a ledge and saw three more, not fifty feet below us.

“This is my kind of shot,” James said.

“Not yet,” Boone said. The three rams walked out in full view. None of them was bleeding.

“The first two are full curls,” Boone said. “Fire when you’re ready.”

“We’re still missing one ram,” I said. “The injured ram is still down there.”

Boone didn’t even turn around. His hand silenced me. The gun fired again and the first ram went down.

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