Indian Creek Chronicles by Pete Fromm

Author:Pete Fromm [Fromm, Pete]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Globe Pequot
Published: 1993-04-30T22:00:00+00:00

13

Late the next morning Brian stopped by and said he was going up to Cary’s, that they were going to hunt together today. He wondered if I was interested. Still wanting to see a mountain lion, I agreed to go along. Boone hopped peacefully onto the bed I made for her in the cab of the snow-covered pickup truck. She’d been in there a time or two, and seemed now to believe that I’d be back.

I crawled onto the snow machine behind Brian and we chugged upstream. His machine, he yelled back to me, wasn’t really strong enough for two people, but once on the packed trail it ran fairly well.

At Magruder Crossing we rousted out Cary and Phil. Brian told Cary he thought he’d seen a track on the way over, the path of a lion crossing the river. We hadn’t stopped and I hadn’t seen anything, and I wondered what Brian was talking about.

Cary’s friends were still in bed but Cary had his dogs loaded in no time; Phil took the back seat and they were off. Their big new machine was much more powerful and we struggled to keep up.

Only a few miles back toward Indian Creek the lead snow machine idled to a stop and we slid in behind it, our skis stopping just short of the peeling plywood dog box Cary towed. Cary stepped off his machine as if dismounting a horse. Brian pushed me back a little and I stumbled off so he could get up too. He met with Cary in front of the machines and I came up a moment later. Phil smiled at me as we all gathered around the lion track in the snow. He was wearing what looked like a second pair of Cary’s wool clothing, things that didn’t fit perfectly, and he looked at me while the others looked at the tracks. I was pretty sure he must be a client.

The snow was deep and light and the lion’s path was nothing like the dainty paw prints of a cat on a driveway. I could see marks where the lion’s chest scraped through the snow here and there, his legs punching deep holes. And even though the snow had fallen back into those leg holes, covering his footprints, I could still see the careful placement of each foot, each step in line with the last.

“Big tom,” Brian said.

Cary nodded and looked up into the trees where the trail led. “Real big one,” he said, glancing at Phil. He smiled widely. “This is the one you’re after.”

I kept looking at the track, the path of something big and heavy moving through deep, soft snow, and I wondered if there was any way to tell if the cougar was a male—a tom—or not. I didn’t really think it was possible. It was probably one of the things the guides added to the show.

“Want to?” Cary asked.

Phil said, “Sure. If you think we should.”

“Damn right I do,” Cary said, still smiling. “He’s not far.

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