Thoroughbred bloodlines.
"He's seven-eighths pure."
"Good mountain feet?" Jade nodded. "Bet you'd take five thousand for him," she said roguishly.
"Bet I wouldn't."
The horse trader's gleam left her eye. 'Where are you going with all that calf meat?"
"I'm after a cougar."
"Tracking him?" the girl asked, probing her tender ankle and wincing again.
Jade smiled. "I'm not that good. I did track him awhile last fall with dogs, so I know approximately where to find him."
"You're not going to kill him, are you?"
"I have to, or risk losing seed stock."
The girl pouted, looking at one of the rifles he had with him.
"I don't like the idea of you shooting him. They're all disappearing, you know. They'll be extinct before long."
"I'm in business. And this cougar's hurting me."
She tried to flex her foot. "You wouldn't happen to have some Epsom salts with you? Bigeliol? Traileze? I'll try anything to bring this ankle down." She looked from Jade to the diggers, who were probing layers of marl for ancient femurs and toe bones. "Oh, well. We're all going the way of the dinosaur anyway. It's gobble and chew and swallow and shit, and to hell with who gets shit on."
"Miss, you just hang in there," Jade told her, and remounted his bald-face horse, Rimfire out of Fire's Fancy.
The girl looked up at Jade, and into his eyes. "Maybe I could come around and visit you and your horse sometime."
"You just better do that," he said, not concealing his admiration for her. She was pretty and discontented and at loose ends–and less than half his age, which was why he didn't tell her he would pick her up on his way back down. He wondered if he should have. He was another quarter mile up the mountain before it occurred to him that he hadn't asked her name.
He drank some brandy from his pocket flask and thought about the cougar he had seen only once, months ago, moving cannily but without great speed a few hundred yards ahead of some untrained and eager dogs. The cougar lost them easily, left them bugling in runabout circles at the base of a shale cliff.
Through binoculars Jade had observed something conservative, perhaps arthritic about his movements. Even after a mild long summer of what should have been easy pickings, he looked shrunken, a derelict mooching around in thrift-shop fur. Undoubtedly he lacked the flash and pounce to pick off small game, pika and pocket gopher and yellow-bellied marmot, and with his instincts compromised by old age, his wind unsound, the long watchful stalk after roving herds of mule deer was beyond his abilities.
Jade reasoned that the cougar had survived the winter only because of some strange, Chinook-dominated January weather. Thawing and quick refreezing mired many of Jade's winter range cows, so the cougar had feasted and grown fat on these helpless animals. Now in balmier months he probably spent a great deal of his time draped dozing in sunlit trees, descending from his subalpine retreat to score the welfare beef in the lowlands, gumming it if he had to, returning home with a drunkard's belch and a pleasant opinion of life.
The calf Jade had with him was more than a day ripe, and though it was still sound enough, it was meat which an aggressive young predator wouldn't touch. He dragged it for almost a mile behind his horse, hoping he was close enough to the cougar's lair to attract him. He left the carcass near a trickling creek that would be roaring with meltwater in another week. Here he found cougar tracks everywhere, some only a few days old.
He rode to higher ground, to a cirque from which he had a downwind view of the creek and the dead calf lying open in the sun a few yards below some dense juniper. Farther on he found a small meadow with spring grass and wild flowers pushing through the worn-out snow cover and left his horses there. He went back to the cirque with his rifle, a Winchester M70, improvised a bench rest, and settled down to wait, hoping that the buzzards, already visible in
"He's seven-eighths pure."
"Good mountain feet?" Jade nodded. "Bet you'd take five thousand for him," she said roguishly.
"Bet I wouldn't."
The horse trader's gleam left her eye. 'Where are you going with all that calf meat?"
"I'm after a cougar."
"Tracking him?" the girl asked, probing her tender ankle and wincing again.
Jade smiled. "I'm not that good. I did track him awhile last fall with dogs, so I know approximately where to find him."
"You're not going to kill him, are you?"
"I have to, or risk losing seed stock."
The girl pouted, looking at one of the rifles he had with him.
"I don't like the idea of you shooting him. They're all disappearing, you know. They'll be extinct before long."
"I'm in business. And this cougar's hurting me."
She tried to flex her foot. "You wouldn't happen to have some Epsom salts with you? Bigeliol? Traileze? I'll try anything to bring this ankle down." She looked from Jade to the diggers, who were probing layers of marl for ancient femurs and toe bones. "Oh, well. We're all going the way of the dinosaur anyway. It's gobble and chew and swallow and shit, and to hell with who gets shit on."
"Miss, you just hang in there," Jade told her, and remounted his bald-face horse, Rimfire out of Fire's Fancy.
The girl looked up at Jade, and into his eyes. "Maybe I could come around and visit you and your horse sometime."
"You just better do that," he said, not concealing his admiration for her. She was pretty and discontented and at loose ends–and less than half his age, which was why he didn't tell her he would pick her up on his way back down. He wondered if he should have. He was another quarter mile up the mountain before it occurred to him that he hadn't asked her name.
He drank some brandy from his pocket flask and thought about the cougar he had seen only once, months ago, moving cannily but without great speed a few hundred yards ahead of some untrained and eager dogs. The cougar lost them easily, left them bugling in runabout circles at the base of a shale cliff.
Through binoculars Jade had observed something conservative, perhaps arthritic about his movements. Even after a mild long summer of what should have been easy pickings, he looked shrunken, a derelict mooching around in thrift-shop fur. Undoubtedly he lacked the flash and pounce to pick off small game, pika and pocket gopher and yellow-bellied marmot, and with his instincts compromised by old age, his wind unsound, the long watchful stalk after roving herds of mule deer was beyond his abilities.
Jade reasoned that the cougar had survived the winter only because of some strange, Chinook-dominated January weather. Thawing and quick refreezing mired many of Jade's winter range cows, so the cougar had feasted and grown fat on these helpless animals. Now in balmier months he probably spent a great deal of his time draped dozing in sunlit trees, descending from his subalpine retreat to score the welfare beef in the lowlands, gumming it if he had to, returning home with a drunkard's belch and a pleasant opinion of life.
The calf Jade had with him was more than a day ripe, and though it was still sound enough, it was meat which an aggressive young predator wouldn't touch. He dragged it for almost a mile behind his horse, hoping he was close enough to the cougar's lair to attract him. He left the carcass near a trickling creek that would be roaring with meltwater in another week. Here he found cougar tracks everywhere, some only a few days old.
He rode to higher ground, to a cirque from which he had a downwind view of the creek and the dead calf lying open in the sun a few yards below some dense juniper. Farther on he found a small meadow with spring grass and wild flowers pushing through the worn-out snow cover and left his horses there. He went back to the cirque with his rifle, a Winchester M70, improvised a bench rest, and settled down to wait, hoping that the buzzards, already visible in
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