Hunted

[KHickam]

Dawn was breaking,  the lad pulled the scarlet capote, tighter around himself and cinched the wide leather belt around his waist.  It was going to be a blue bird spring day. The Lakota called this the "Moon of the greening grass," but this far north and west,  snow and frost were common even in the middle of spring. He had chosen to scout an area near the confluence of the great river of the northwest called the Columbia, and one of it's tributaries called the Spokan.  He had been told of a large creek that flowed into the Spokan near the Columbia that was abundant with fish and game.  He slipped through the forest easily on moccassined feet making little noise, picking his way carefully up the creek that matched the description he had been given.  He came to a series of small ponds that had been dammed by beavers, exactly like the old hunter had described at rendevous two weeks earlier.

Slipping up to the pond edge he saw many large trout cruising the depths of the pond. Resting his iron mounted southern rifle against a nearby tree, he slipped his knapsack of his shoulders and took his fishing kit from the inside pocket of his knapsack.  He looked around quickly and found a old, rotten log and using the handle of his tomahawk was able to turn the rich soil underneath and find about a dozen earthworms.  Opening his fishing kit he took out a length of linen line about  twice the length of his arm span, and tied a forged iron hook on the line, he also attached a small cork about 2 feet from the hook and  splitting a small buck shot from his pouch with his knife he attached a weight to the line, squeezing it shut with his teeth.  He cut a willow pole with his tomahawk and attached the free end of the linen line to it.  

As he fished, he watched young beavers swimming in one of the lower ponds, as well as sleek, shiney furred otter sliding into the water as they frolicked and played with one another. He heard an eagle cry and looked up to see a bald eagle floating on the air currents against the deep, blue sky.  Across the pond in a tall, dead snag was an osprey nest with a pair of the fish eagles tending their nest. He had numerous bites but in the end he managed to land four pan sized trout.

He dried his linen line as he used his knife to clean the fish.  When the line was dry he carefully rolled it into  the fishing kit discarded his pole and cut a small willow with a fork at the end and threaded the other through the gills of the fish. He replaced the fishing kit in his knapsack.  Inside the knapsack, rested another pair of breeches, wool leggings, as well as his capote that he had taken off early in the day as the sun warmed the forest. His favorite a cotton checked shirt an an extra pair of sideseam moccassins that were made from braintanned elk and sewn for him by a pretty indian girl who lived not far from the post, rested on top of his gear.  He made a mental note to ask her to the post dining in, next time he saw her.

He hoisted the knapsack on to his back and adjusted the fit, picked up his rifle resting against a tree and checked to ensure the cap was in place.  And continued on to find a suitable camp site for the night.  

He found beautiful spot to camp for the night on the top of a small hillock with creek on his left and a wooded draw on his right.  He took out his tinder and flint and steel and shortly had a nice fire going with which to roast his fish on.  As the trout roasted on a green willow skewer he untied his bedroll from the bottom of his knapsack, took out his capote and laid it out to serve as a pillow and took out his brass kettle, added water from the creek.  Bringing it to a rolling boil.  To this he added some rice and onions.  

He placed two roasted fish in a trencher along with the rice and onions, and thoroughly enjoyed his meal as the sun was setting over the mountains to the West.  He felt very pleased with himself figuring he covered close to 10 miles this day as well as catching his supper and he enjoyed the delicate flesh of the trout immensely because of this.  As the fire crackled nearby he read his Psalms reader by the soft light of the camp fire and coyotes howled in the distance.  He stoked the fire one last time to ward of the chill of the early spring night, and crawled beneath the heavy wool blanket close to the fire resting his head on his bundled up capote.  

The sounds of the crickets cripping, frogs singing, and coyotes howling lulled him to sleep.  Around midnight, he was awakened by a feeling he was being watched, perhaps it was a primevil sense of danger.  His eyes scanned the dim light, as his fire had died down and his ears strained for some hint of noise or something amiss.  Instinctively, he reached for his rifle laying next to him inside his bedrooll as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw two glowing eyes at the edge of the illumination provided by the dying fire, and the accompanying low growl - made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He rolled out of bed suddenly, yelling and bringing his rifle to his shoulder.  The beast startled apparantely, by the sudden movement and yelling turned tail and disaapeared into the night.  The light had been too dim for the lad to make out the type of animal it was, he suspected a coyote or perhaps a bobcat.

Nevertheless, he found a large pitch filled log nearby and stoked the fire with it and other wood lying about.  He took the extra precaution of resting his rifle well loaded with a stout charge of blackpowder and ball outside his blanket and within easy reach.  He laid back down but was only to able to sleep fitfully.  Once again, he was roused out of a light sleep by an innate sense of danger.  The fire was still giving off  light and as he scanned the edge of the fire light he was greeted by a blood chilling sight.

Standing not 30 feet from the campfire and his bedroll.  Lightly illuminated by the glow of the fire was - a large cat, small ears and light colored fur - he had only heard about such creatures from his Pa - it was a cougar!  He felt that this cat was making ready to make a meal of him, he slowly brought his rifle up, depressing the trigger as he cocked the hammer to alleviate the noise of the sear engaging the tumbler.  The cat was partially visible and he could only make out a small portion of the chest - he sighted down the barrel as the cat crouched, perhaps making ready to spring on him and fired.  Before the smoke had cleared he had rolled and moved to put the fire between he and the cat as he poured a charge from his horn and rammed a bare ball down the barrel.

He heard some thrashing below in the forested draw and some unbelieveably frightening growls, hisses and screams, for a time then all was quiet, not even the crickets chirpped.  The lad stoked the fire and waited out the rest of the night with his back against a large pine tree.  The  next morning he investigated the draw and prayed he would not meet a wounded cat.  His rifle was at his shoulder and ready as he slowly made his way down into the gully.  He found a large blood trail and was encouraged by the sight of the bright colored blood.  Moving past a deadfall he was startled by the sight of of the cat lying dead 10 feet in front of him.  The cat had glazed over eyes and had been dead for a while.  Relieved, the lad lowered his hammer to halfcock, and cradled his rifle as he went over to examine the cat.

He was not large perhaps 60 lbs, and he looked thin. He didn't know why the cat was stalking him because overall he looked healthy.

Back at post, when he related the story to an experienced hunter .  He was told that the cat was probably a young, tom cat that had just been pushed out by his mother and was probably hungry and drawn to the smell of the cooked fish.  The lad regretted having to shoot the young cat, but truly felt that the cat was going to attack him, and he learned a valuable lesson about keeping a clean camp.  The hunter in the dark of the night had become the hunted.

[old salt]

A very good storie and one of the reasons I do not camp in the same spot
I eat.

[Hawken50]

  Excellant.Reminds me of someone.

[Bulldog lady]

Thank you- my day is now complete with a story!    you say you can't write?  I believe if someone gave you a picture you could make an enjoyable story out of it, keep them commin, at your creative leasure,  Great job