Authors: P.T. Deutermann
The Cat Dancers (29 page)
Mitchell snorted. “Cub meat.”
“You hunt down the cat?”
“Hell no. Cat was just doin’ what she was supposed to, protectin’ her den. If there’s a den, there’s cubs. Carl said he tole each one of them sumbitches, ‘If the cat wins, the cat wins, and you lose. That’s it. Otherwise, this ain’t got no point.’”
“Damn,” Cam said quietly, but he was beginning to understand. Carl, or whoever he was, had turned this deadly little game into an initiation of some kind. But who were these guys? And initiation into what?
“But doesn’t that make the cat a man-eater?” Cam asked. “I mean, what if she gets a taste for it?”
“‘Gets’?” White Eye said. “Mister, they’s already got the taste for it, best I can tell. Look at them cats out there in California. They’s eatin’ folks right and left. And why not? They don’t call ’em mountain lion for nothin’. And besides, look at it this way: Most wild animals ain’t gonna fuck around with no damn panther. So here comes this twolegged animal, bangin’ around on the cat’s ground, don’t seem to know the fuckin’ rules, no respect. Panther’s gotta do somethin’ about that, ’cause, way he figgers, if it ain’t actin’ like prey, then it’s gotta be a predator, right? Pretty fuckin’ logical, I’d say.”
“Why do you have one around, then?”
White Eye smiled. “I like ’em. First one I found as a cub up on the Tennessee line twenty-odd years ago. Little fucker, mewin’ up a damn tree and starvin’. No claws up front. Got away from some breeder, I figger. Put him in the house, raised him up like a house cat. Used to have me some fun when strangers would come round my place, specially after he growed some. Thievin’ white trash comes around at night to steal him one a my chickens? Runs into Night-Night in the barnyard? Come daylight, I’m gonna find me fifty feet a goose shit ’cross my yard.”
They entered the narrow pass, straddling a blackwater creek running between the two elevations. They came out into a smaller meadow, with the full expanse of Catlett’s Bald rising in a sheer face right in front of them. Cam thought it looked like the pictures he’d seen of EI Capitan in Yosemite Park. There was a stand of densely packed tall pines to the left, and the ground rose to the south behind the pines, where there were large bare deciduous trees climbing that slope toward the bald. White Eye stopped the vehicle in the middle of the meadow, but left the engine running. The moonlight was bright enough that the pine trees showed their intense green color.
“Get your gear on,” he said. “Time to show you somethin’ about cat dancin’.”
CAM OPENED HIS DOOR and got his coat and overboots on while White Eye did the same. Cam looked at his watch. It was 3:30 A.M., but Mitchell’s grainy coffee brew still had him wide-awake. He put on gloves, a black watch cap, and then an adjustable ball cap on top of the watch cap. He patted the gun to make sure it was in his pocket, then quietly transferred the three bullets to the coat pocket from his trouser pocket when White Eye wasn’t looking. He stood down into the snow, as did White Eye.
“You going to leave it running?” Cam asked.
“Yep,” White Eye said. “Runs good, but sometimes she don’t start so good.”
Cam followed in White Eye’s tracks as they set off for the stand of pines about two hundred yards away. Mercifully, there was no wind, so the temperature didn’t seem that bad. The sound of their boots crunching through the snow filled the night air as they approached the pine stand. White Eye walked right into the pines, which looked a lot like the Leyland cypress Cam had planted around his house, with dense branches reaching all the way down into the snow. Cam followed him in, pushing a little to keep up as the other man’s figure disappeared into the mass of greenery. They’d penetrated about sixty feet when Cam broke into a small clearing. White Eye was waiting for him.
“Right here,” he said, and Cam looked around, not sure of what was coming next.
“What are we doing?” Cam asked.
“Gonna show you somethin’ about trackin’ a big animal out here in the real woods,” he said. “You wait here. I’m gonna go back, move that vehicle back into that little pass,
and then I’m gonna come back through these here pines on foot. Not the same way we come in, okay? I want you to sing out when you hear me comin’.”
and then I’m gonna come back through these here pines on foot. Not the same way we come in, okay? I want you to sing out when you hear me comin’.”
“That’ll be never,” Cam pointed out. “This soft snow and everything.”
White Eye shook his head, stepping around in the clearing, the crunching sound evident. “Got us ice crust in here,” he said. “Even so, I’m gonna come back in here and tap you on the shoulder ’fore you hear a fuckin’ thing.”
“And why are we doing this?”
“Cause you don’t understand how good I am at this shit,” the old man said. “You gotta ’preciate how hard this is ’fore I take you to see a real panther.”
Cam looked at him. “That’s where we’re going? To see a wild mountain lion?”
“You wanted to know what cat dancin’s all about, right? It’s about lookin’ a wild one in the face, so that’s what I’m gonna show you, mister. But first, I gotta see if you got any wood sense whatsoever. You stay here in this clearin’, and don’t go wanderin’ off.”
White Eye turned on his heel and disappeared back through the pine branches, leaving Cam to watch his own breath condense into tiny ice crystals in front of his face. He waited for a minute, trying to hear the other man’s progress through the pines, but now he heard absolutely nothing. Of course, White Eye might have stopped three feet into the dense pines to see what Cam would do, so Cam did nothing for a couple of minutes but move to the center of the clearing. It was twenty feet on every side to the nearest pine tree, so there was no way in hell that guy could come out of the pines and tap him on the shoulder without Cam seeing him first.
Then he heard the Bronco’s engine rev up in the distance and the sounds of the vehicle turning around. Based on the sound, which was difficult to locate through all the greenery, the Bronco was indeed going back to the entrance to the meadow, although it seemed to be taking an awfully long time. He fished the .45 out of his pocket and fed the three bullets into it, checking the action to make sure everything was
working. The metal was cold, and the cylinder turned sluggishly, but it did turn, and that was all that counted. He put it back into the pocket with a button flap on it and secured it. He listened for the Bronco, thought he could still hear it. It seemed a long way off.
working. The metal was cold, and the cylinder turned sluggishly, but it did turn, and that was all that counted. He put it back into the pocket with a button flap on it and secured it. He listened for the Bronco, thought he could still hear it. It seemed a long way off.
Has that crazy old bastard left me out here? he wondered. He looked up at the sky for any signs of snow, but it was clear as a bell and filled with a million enormous stars. He pushed up the front of the watch cap and listened hard. He thought he could still hear the Bronco, but it could also have been his imagination. But clearly, White Eye had gone beyond the edge of the meadow. He left his ears uncovered, the better to hear the man coming back. And he would hear him, because the air was so still he could hear the fabric of his coat rising and falling with his own breathing. His right hand unconsciously patted the lump in his coat pocket.
Maybe I should move out of the clearing, get myself into the dense pines, instead of sitting out here in the middle, waiting to be tagged, he thought. But then he realized there was no way to do that without leaving a trail of footprints, which would point right at him. Well then, maybe—He stopped thinking and listened. He’d heard something out there.
He cupped his hands behind his ears and slowly turned his head like a radar antenna, trying to focus on that sound. Not footsteps, not the Bronco, something else. Then he heard it again. A low cough, overlaid with something else, something deeper. Coming from—where? There was absolutely no way to tell. And it was a sound he’d heard before. But where? Recently, he knew. And then he knew what it was.
Night-Night.
He’d forgotten all about White Eye’s panther, who had spent the last few hours trotting along behind Mitchell’s vehicle. Working up an appetite? Son of a
bitch
!
bitch
!
He heard another sound but couldn’t make it out. Whatever it was, it sounded closer. He decided not to hang around in the clearing anymore, not if that damned cat was coming.
He thought frantically about which way to go. He and White Eye had come in from the meadow, and their tracks would still be visible. In the other direction, up the slope, were trees—real trees, with big strong branches. He stood no chance against the cat if it could catch him in this tangle of pines. But up a tree, with a .45? Much better odds.
He thought frantically about which way to go. He and White Eye had come in from the meadow, and their tracks would still be visible. In the other direction, up the slope, were trees—real trees, with big strong branches. He stood no chance against the cat if it could catch him in this tangle of pines. But up a tree, with a .45? Much better odds.
If
he could get there.
he could get there.
He put his back to their original tracks and plunged into the dense pines, pushing his way through them for about fifty feet and then stopping. He turned around to see if he’d been going in a straight line, but the pines immediately blocked his view. He was pretty sure he was going straight, but it was very difficult to tell in the woods. He listened for sounds of the cat but heard nothing but his own labored breathing.
Go, he thought. Now.
He turned again in what he thought was the direction of the big trees and started pushing again, ignoring the sharp stings of needles on his face. He knew he was making some noise, but he no longer cared. He had to get out of this maze of green branches. It felt like the damned trees were closing in on him, resisting his efforts to escape, even as his brain told him to stop that shit.
After three minutes of effort, he stopped to listen again, this time for more than just a few seconds. He tried to slow his breathing. He wondered what the altitude was up here, then remembered his ears popping more than once on the way up. He should have come out of the grove by now.
Another cough.
That way. Closer.
Cam looked down at his feet to establish his direction, and he felt his face redden when he saw the two sets of tracks. He was standing in two sets of tracks. He’d gone in a goddamned circle. He felt sweat on his forehead, despite the freezing air. Now what?
Climb a tree. Climb up and see which way was out. But that wouldn’t work. The pines would simply bend over the moment he got halfway up.
The stars. Use the stars. Pick a star and keep it in front of you. But
which
goddamned way?
which
goddamned way?
Any
damned way. Any straight line, but he had to get out of this jungle. Even if it brought him out in the meadow, he could see again. But so could the cat.
damned way. Any straight line, but he had to get out of this jungle. Even if it brought him out in the meadow, he could see again. But so could the cat.
The fucking cat doesn’t have to see, he realized. It
knows
where you are.
knows
where you are.
Then he realized his left foot was higher than his right foot. He was standing on a slope.
Uphill. The oak trees were above the pine grove. Go uphill.
Trying desperately not to panic, he turned in the direction he thought was uphill and began to push through in earnest now, not even trying to be quiet anymore. Just when he was about to give up and try navigating by the stars, he broke out of the pine grove, right in front of the blessed oak trees.
He stopped and looked carefully up and down the line of greenery marking the top edge of the grove. It was a good hundred yards of open snowpack to the nearest tree.
He tried a step.
Deep
open snow.
Deep
open snow.
He listened, but there were no more sounds coming from within the pine grove. Where was that damned thing? Just inside the tree line, waiting for him to move out into the open? His mind formed an image of the great tawny beast loping across the snowpack behind the Bronco with perfect ease, doing it for miles and miles.
He scanned the trees ahead and extracted the .45. Had he put the rounds in the right chambers? If he cocked the hammer, would he get a bullet cycling under it, or an empty chamber?
Gotta move sometime, he thought. He stared at the distant trees, trying to pick one out with branches low enough to get into. He spotted a likely candidate, then turned around so he could walk backward up the hill, keeping the entire pine grove in his sight. He held the .45 close to his belly to keep it warm as he trudged backward up the hill, trying hard not to look over his shoulder to see what might be behind him. It was tough going as the hill steepened, and the snow felt like it was three feet deep, even though he knew it wasn’t.
He stopped, breathing hard as he thought he saw something
move out on the far right corner of the grove. He stared hard, his eyes watering with the effort, but there was nothing there. He scanned the whole grove again, watching for any signs of movement. Nothing. He looked over his shoulder. His target tree was twenty feet away. It was bigger than he’d thought, with a huge gnarly trunk some seven or eight feet in diameter.
move out on the far right corner of the grove. He stared hard, his eyes watering with the effort, but there was nothing there. He scanned the whole grove again, watching for any signs of movement. Nothing. He looked over his shoulder. His target tree was twenty feet away. It was bigger than he’d thought, with a huge gnarly trunk some seven or eight feet in diameter.
Behind which was—what?
Look at the snow, his brain told him. He did. No tracks near the tree.
He scanned the pine grove again, his eyes moving from left to right, even as he started moving backward again, his mind chanting a simple mantra: There’s nothing behind you except that tree. No tracks, no cat. Damned thing can’t fly.
He kept watching the pine trees, staring hard into those deep shadows at their bases. Wrong, he told himself; watch the tops. If something’s coming through those trees, the tops will stir.
And, oh shit, they were—right in the middle of the grove, right where he’d come out. Tiny little movements in the moonlight, but the tops were definitely moving. Something coming through there. And there were his own tracks, pointing right at him.
Night-Night? Or White Eye? Both?
Then something slammed into his back and he let out a little yelp before he realized he’d backed into his tree. He took one last look around, jammed the gun back into his pocket, and started trying to climb it. The limbs, which had appeared to be close to the ground before, were not so close now that he was right here. He circled the tree, searching for a handhold, looking frantically at the next tree, and then one on the other side, then back at the pine grove.
Where the big cat had just come out of the grove and was bounding up the hill, right toward him, eyes flashing in the bright moonlight.
Propelled by a sudden blast of adrenaline, he crouched down into the snow and then leaped straight up, high enough that he could grab a small branch, which broke, dropping him
into a heap in the snow. Peering out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the cat was halfway up the hill, coming strong, right for him.
into a heap in the snow. Peering out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the cat was halfway up the hill, coming strong, right for him.
He jumped again and grabbed the stub of the broken branch. This time, it held and he did a one-armed pull-up into the first branch junction. With a second handhold, he was up, off the ground, and scrambling higher.
The cat screamed at him from beneath the tree, causing him to lose his footing and almost fall. He scrabbled around the trunk, looking for more branches, discarding his gloves to get a better hold, while the panther growled at him as it circled the tree, looking up at him—and at the branches.
Oh shit, Cam thought as he pulled himself up into the third tier of branches, some twenty feet above the ground now. Cats can jump. And climb.
He kept circling the trunk now, not trying for any more height but, like a squirrel, attempting to keep the trunk between him and the cat’s sight line. The panther circled below, more patiently now, watching him, silent as it concentrated on its prey, its breath making little puffs of vapor.
Fucking thing’s working it out, Cam thought. Picking which branch. That bastard’s coming up here.
He found as secure a position as he could and put his back to the huge old trunk and his legs out on two separate wide branches. He drew the .45. The walnut grips were cold in his bare hands, and he knew better than to touch the metal.
The cat circled one more time, came around to the side where it had a clear view of Cam, and sat down on its haunches. For an instant Cam thought it had decided to give up. And then it came straight up in one graceful leap to grab onto the trunk with all fours at the same branch intersection Cam had first grabbed. It hung there for no more than a split second, then pulled itself onto the branch stub, never taking its eyes off Cam, not even looking where it was placing its enormous feet, its claws tearing off bits of bark that rained down on the snow.
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