Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [1]
Bingo. My first target was two hundred yards out. Before I pulled the trigger, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, snatching my kill right out from under me. The prairie dog’s surprised screech echoed across the plains. A flurry of panic ensued among the critters as they retreated to hidey-holes.
Their collective caution lasted roughly two minutes. Sleek heads popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Several brave animals stretched tall, aiming twitching noses to the sky, letting the sun tan their hides.
Suckers.
I zeroed in on one fat rat and fired. The body exploded into hunks of pinkish-red parts. I inserted another bullet, engaged the bolt, and nailed a slow mover; chunks of fur-covered meat rained down. After a quick reload, I picked off another one, ignoring me, on the opposite ridge. Bad choice, Alvin. I chambered another round and bang. Bye-bye, Theodore. Never turn your backs when danger lurks, boys.
My last target—dubbed Simon—decided to run. I clipped it from the back. The headless body went rolling in a ball of bloody fur and dust. Five for five. Not bad.
I reloaded while I waited for the scavengers to come.
Contrary to popular belief, gunshots don’t scare away larger predatory animals. In most cases the sound of gunshots is like ringing a dinner bell—bringing them in for easy pickin’s. Nature’s version of fast food. A meal without the work of hunting it down.
Damn coyotes were thick around the herd this time of year, preying on new calves. Any time I could put a bullet in a coyote, I’d take it. They weren’t funny, misunderstood cartoon creatures but a threat to our livelihood. Worse, scabies thrived in the coyote dens, and it passed like wildfire. An infected mother birthed an infected litter. A mangy, scabies-ravaged coyote was just plain gross—matted fur and oozing sores clinging to a bag of bones. Nasty shit. Shooting them was doing them a favor.
With the cartridge chambered, I re-sited my scope and waited for a flash of reddish-orange fur to dart into view. Come on, Wile E. Coyote; give me something challenging to shoot.
Nothing.
No big deal. I could wait. Inhaling the vegetative scents of sun-warmed mud, decomposing leaves, and the sharpness of fresh leaf growth, contentment and a wave of sleepiness flowed over me.
My contentment lasted a mere minute or so. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. A communal silence surrounded me—no birds, no buzzing insects, even the air had gone still.
Something was out there, behind me.
My mind flashed to a predator that commanded that type of respect.
A mountain lion.
Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was there. I’d bet money it was female. A very hungry female, if she’d ventured out in the wide-open spaces of prairie rangeland in broad daylight.
Fear tightened my skin.
I leveled my breathing, trying not to envision myself getting pounced on and becoming catnip.
How does it feel when the predator becomes prey?
Not good. Seriously not good.
I’d heard talk among the bar regulars who hunted. The mountain lion population in the Black Hills had quadrupled in recent years due to an abundance of game that were their dietary staples: deer, rabbit, and turkey. Several reports of mountain lion sightings in the wooded areas within Rapid City, Sturgis, and Spearfish city limits. Occasionally, local TV stations ran stories where pet owners had witnessed their small domestic dogs carried off by a lion. Chained dogs were an easy target, as were cats. Some ranchers in the Northern Hills reported missing sheep. A few larger hunting dogs had been mauled and left to die.
Nothing to eat over here, Ms. Lion, move along.
I’d spent my life dodging bullets, returning fire, living the “kill-or-be-killed” motto, seeing danger in every shadow. I’d lost track of the times I believed I wouldn’t make it out of a situation alive. But somehow, I always did. Somehow, that fear had almost become . . . comfortable. Expected. Routine.
This fear? Anything but comfortable.
A blur of a tan fur entered the sights of my scope. In all the years I