HUNTED

The man was stealthy and impressively silent as he stalked me. It was not his fault the wind had changed direction and I’d caught the scent of gunpowder and freshly oiled steel. I stood still as a statue as the wind changed direction again, it howled through the treetops, and whistled through the elderberry brush, taking the stink of the man with it.

He and more of his kind camped out in the cabin at the edge of the mesa. They drank whisky into the night and smoked skunky tobaccos…apparently, they never bathed either, strong was their scent. Surrounding the mesa were patches of my favorite delicacies: daylilies, hydrangea, succulent hosta, and walls of blackberry, punctuated by short bushy huckleberry. The mesa was my food court.

Tip-toeing into the field at pre-dawn, I was able to feast until the human men in the cabin awoke. They awoke boisterously. They drank coffee and fried various forms of pig. Time to flee.

Now I was being followed and for the life of me, I couldn’t shake this stinky man. This hunter. He just kept coming and coming. For him, I sensed it was more of a game, a challenge; he wanted my head on his wall. My impressive antlers may make me king of my herd, but they put a target on my torso- this one would never chance a head shot.

The hunter was relentless. Every time I stopped and listened, I detected him not far behind. I know I’m faster through the woods, but this human was…scary in his determination. I headed towards the river, certain I could lose him downstream a ways. The clear rushing water had taken on the chill of the coming winter like the foreshadowing of my death.

I shivered, shook the doomsday thoughts from my head, and minded my footing on the rocky riverbed with a renewed lust for life. After a mile or so, the surge of the water intensified, pulling me with it through chest deep white rapids. Just before the land gave way and the river turned vertical, I leapt to the shore. It was then, as I stood frozen as wood, listening, that I realized that although the river hid evidence of my passage, it was intensely loud in my ears making it impossible for me to discern the splashing of footfalls from the rush of the rapids. Better to keep moving up the bank and into the woods.

Once high above the river I decided to double back because the wind was coming from that direction, I would smell the hunter long before he…

…one thing that stinks more than that hunting man does is a mountain lion. There was a large male heading towards me. I had no choice but to turn another direction, not back along the river, but deeper up into the woods. Was the big cat able to hear my footfalls? Had the hunter found my exit trail from the river before the falls? It was then that I felt distress at the unfairness of life, the utter despair that only a creature at the bottom of the food chain feels.

As if the cat could hear the heavy thoughts weighing me down, it roared mirthfully as if to say, “I know where you are, and I am coming.” Screw tiptoeing silently. I picked up my pace and bounded through the woods- the snapping of branches, the pounding of hooves- crashed like thunder in my ears.

***

The man gripped the butt of his rifle when he heard the animal crashing through the trees above him but relaxed when he realized the large buck was nowhere in sight. ‘It has to be that big-ass buck. Might even be a twelve pointer!’ he thought excitedly. He had followed the river’s edge, eyes keen for hoofprints or disturbed foliage. The going was slow, the bank was often amassed boulders slick with moss. He had been about to turn back, cross the river at a shallow point, and search the other shore for signs of the buck’s passage. He had been resigned to believing he probably lost the big buck. ‘No matter. A bummer… but these woods are full of whitetails this time of year.’ He was in his element. The fun was all in the chase after all; the head on his cabin wall would reignite the memories of this fine day.

Then the crashing through the woods perhaps a quarter mile ahead. ‘I am hunter, hear me roar!’ “Hahahaha!” He followed the diminishing din.

***

The mountain lion lost the scent of the deer when the wind changed directions. But he didn’t need to follow his sensitive nose…he had a visual. The large buck was below him and ahead perhaps 200 yards. He understood that the deer had caught his heavily musky scent when it suddenly panicked, changed direction, and fled further into the woods. The cat picked up its pace in order to keep the deer in sight.

Twice he nearly quit following the buck when first a rabbit and then an opossum was detected huddling and shivering nearby in the underbrush. He was hungry and the small animals would be easy prey. But…the mountain lion was impressed by the rack the big buck sported. He needed and craved a challenge; his cubs were hunting on their own now and preferred the company of their mother. The big deer was his size in body, he had sharp claws, the buck had those impressive antlers. The mountain lion was curious and exhilarated at the thought of pouncing upon his back from a hidden perch…and feeling the beast buck and twist under him. His thoughts were vaguely sensual in nature. The idea of sinking his fangs into the buck’s neck and tasting the hot blood running down his throat drove him wild with the desire to stalk the poor doomed beast.

***

I heard the mountain lion coming after me. I thought as I bounded, ‘I have a weapon. I can impale the beast. He will try to pounce upon my back, that’s what deer I’ve known swear true, “…they pounce from above. They attack the neck. Buck them off and stab them with those antlers that have been so heavy on your head. When the time comes, be not the bottom but the top.”

I had circled around to nearly where I’d started from. I detected no man. I detected no mountain lion. My breath was heavy as I snuggled into the dead grass to rest. The sun was setting. And just as I started to relax…a BOOM louder than thunder filled my peace! The bullet hit the tree behind me! I heard the hunter’s deep breathing as he ran towards me and didn’t waste time leaping into the woods, putting a wide based pine between myself and his line of sight.

BLAM! The pain was intense! He’d shot my backside, the only part visible, I was sure. The man was a good shot and I felt hot blood run down my haunches and over my hooves. I was done for. I could not move without intense pain. The hunter was raising his long gun again, aiming at my heart.

I would impale the man. It was my last card, I had to play it. I charged the man, he with rifle raised…he fired!

His shot went skyward when the mountain lion pounced upon him!

With swift slashes, the enormous cat tore the man’s chest into strips of bloody pulp. The cat ripped the man’s throat open, the bearded head lolled back against his shoulder blades, exposing the crushed white vertebrae. I stood mesmerized with legs shaking like elm leaves in a gale, the pain forgotten, most likely chased away by shock. The cat turned its head to me and stared into my eyes for a few very long seconds. Then he nuzzled into the gory ravine of the neck and began lapping up the warm blood. As I backed away, keeping an eye on the cat, I heard the rumbling of a vehicle’s engine- perhaps one of those trucks with the thick treaded tires that the hunters preferred. I was about to panic again- oh, the panicky nature of my kind, it’s in our blood- when I realized the noise was the cat, it was purring…

…and ignoring me as I made my way out of his sight and down to the river to cleanse my wound.

For the next week I laid low down by the river, I bathed twice a day to keep the wound clean. It appeared to be only a graze- a deep runnel over my left haunch that would leave an impressive scar. Such a scar was admired by the does and envied by the bucks; come spring, I may just sire an entire herd with a harem of fluttery-eyed does at my beck and call.

When fully healed I chanced a voyage back to the cabin with the succulent yard. It was the tail end of winter, one could sense the spring coming- the lightness in the air, the happiness of the birds, the excited chittering of the burrowers. The yard was devoid of my smorgasbord of tasty plants, they were but dried brown husks with the last of the season’s snow melting and dripping like softly pattering rain. The thin crust of snow on the ground was patchy and wet. The cabin itself stood dark and cold and dead. No revelry, no shouts and laughter…no life. The chimney spouted no smoke. In my many years -eight I think- I’d never seen the cabin so devoid of human inhabitation this time of year, curious. I had an epiphany then that this cabin had belonged to the man that had been killed -slaughtered- by the cat.

I had never dared to step up close to the place, the human stink had instilled a deep fear in me, stemming from my ancestors, passed through our genes, the primal fear of death was deep. The surface fear was somehow more profound, the fear of having your head mounted on a wall as a trophy. I’ve had herd members -family- that have seen their mother’s or father’s, or sibling’s head mounted on a wall. Those deer are never quite right in the head after that.

So, I gathered my courage, fueled by my certainty that this place was that of the dead man and now deserted. I peered into the wide window by the front door. It was not yet sunset but close. The angle of the sun was low so that it came in through the window and illuminated the main room of the cabin splendidly…hmmm…perhaps horridly.

There were two couches, chairs, and a kitchen nook to the back in the shadows. There were stairs going up to a loft and a small, illuminated room underneath the stairs that I sensed was the bathroom. There was an impressive fireplace of river stones that commanded the wall directly across from me. Even through the windowsill, I could smell the wicked scent of previous fires. As my eyes adjusted to the shadowy interior, I made out the horror upon the walls.

A ten-point buck’s head and rack was the largest, ‘no wonder the man wanted mine so badly.’  Then a boar, and another buck who looked vaguely familiar. There was a flock of birds- a pheasant, a pea hen, a wild turkey, and a Canadian goose. I had been sad but now I was angry. ‘Really? You big bad man with a gun. What did these creatures have to fight with against you? You’re such a sorry excuse for an earth dweller to feel big, killing those so small and defenseless. Trophies! Bah! You make me sick.’

Then, just as I was about to turn away- I just couldn’t look anymore- it hurt my heart…I saw on the wall to the right just above the kitchen nook, the head of a mountain lion. I can’t tell male from female other than their scent, but I had a feeling that big cat that chose the hunter over me knew this one. The pieces fell into place. That look in the cat’s eyes when it stared at me while poised over the bloody body…had been sad and…had held a glint of something steely.

At the time, I’d thought the lion’s stare was ominous, like it was saying, “you’re next.” A deer is the most paranoid of all creatures I swear.

Now I understood it was simple satisfaction.