Mountain Majesty 8 Page 2

  Today was the day Second Son had looked forward to. She had arrived before first light. After tethering her mare, Shadow, she had concealed herself on the far side of the ridge, near the crest. It was the ideal place to wait since it overlooked the pool where the Little Horns regularly drank.

  Now, her ash bow in hand, Second Son watched the seven males closely. There were no females in this herd. The sexes stayed apart except during rutting season, which began during the Long Night Moon. She had seen the herd of females only once, high up. It appeared that they had more sense than the males and always stayed well out of reach.

  Three of the bigger Little Horns were at the water’s edge. One had stepped into the pool and stood there with its muzzle dipped low. Yet another had crossed two thirds of the way to the far side. Once it climbed out, it would be directly below the low ridge and well within bow range.

  Second Son could imagine her husband’s surprise when she placed her prize at his feet. The blond giant had mentioned again just a few days ago that he thought she was wasting her time.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Cleve had said. “But every trapper hereabouts tells me that it’s impossible to kill one of those critters. Many have tried and all have failed. You’d be better off going after deer or buffalo.”

  Her husband had laughed in that playful way he had and given her a hug, which turned into a wrestling match when he tried to tickle her. She did not like being tickled and he knew it. But husbands had a knack, as Cleve had once put it when talking about a relative of his, of letting words go in one ear and right out the other.

  Why that should be, Second Son did not know. But no matter how many times she told him not to tickle her, every now and then he would do it. It was enough to make her want to hit him over the head with a war club. Fortunately for Cleve she loved him, so she couldn’t. But there were times when she was strongly tempted.

  The large male gained the near bank, bringing the warrior woman’s reverie to an end. She tightened her fingers on the arrow and eased up onto her knees. By design she had positioned herself between a bush and a scrub pine so her silhouette would not stand out against the sky.

  The Little Horn began to munch the sweet grass. Second Son elevated the bow and carefully pulled the sinew string back toward her right cheek. She went to sight on the mountain goat’s chest, then stiffened when she detected movement out of the corner of her left eye.

  The Cheyenne woman was not the only hunter abroad that day. Slinking toward the pool, belly low to the ground, tawny form rippling with sleek sinew, was a male painter, as Cleve called them. The big cat had not spied her. Its whole attention was fixed on the very mountain goat the warrior woman was on the verge of slaying.

  Second Son was not about to let the Little Horn be taken right out from under her nose. She had put too much time and effort into this hunt. She would not be denied.

  Quickly sighting down the shaft, Second Son steadied her arms, held her breath, and just as the mountain goat raised its head to stare suspiciously toward the high weeds that screened the painter, she let the arrow go.

  The shaft flew straight and true, its barbed point glittering in the sunlight. It caught the goat between the ribs and sheared through hide and muscle to penetrate a lung and its heart. In sheer reflex the male managed to whirl and take several swift steps before death crumpled it in midstride. In a flurry of whirling legs and pointed black hooves, it tumbled end over end, coming to rest at the water’s edge.

  Instantly the rest of the herd fled. They were across the clearing and to the base of the mountain in the blink of an eye. Up the slope they streaked, weaving as they ran.

  All this Second Son barely noticed. She was more concerned with the painter, which had stood when the herd spooked and was studying the animal she had shot, its long tail twitching excitedly. Taking the two steps needed to bring her to the top, she nocked another shaft, her fingers a blur.

  The painter was on the move again, closing on the body, its head tucked low to its shoulders, that tail now as straight as one of the warrior woman’s arrows.

  Second Son whipped the bow up. It was short and thick through the middle and much more powerful than it appeared. Cleve had been surprised the first time he had tested its strength, commenting that he’d had no idea she was as strong as Samson, whatever that meant. Swiftly she took aim on her competition but could not see it clearly for the grass.

  Seconds later the painter padded into full view. It glanced once at the fleeing herd, then at the dead goat.

  “Ho! Stupid cat!” Second Son called out in the tongue of the Tsistsistas. “That one is mine! Go find yourself another meal!”

  The painter whirled at the sound of her voice and cut loose with a rumbling snarl, its thin lips pulled back to reveal its tapered fangs.

  “You heard me, cat!” Second Son challenged. “Leave this place or die! The Little Horn is mine.”

  She did not really expect the painter to dispute her. These couguars, as the Frenchmen she had met were fond of calling them, were timid at heart, and would rather run from a person than fight. Many times she had encountered them. Never once had one come after her.

  Which made Second Son all the more amazed when this specimen did just that. Venting another snarl, it flashed up the slope in a blur, covering fifteen feet at a leap. She angled the bow to compensate.

  Since the cat was charging straight at her, it did not present much of a target. Second Son had a choice between its head and its chest, which was really not much of a choice at all because its skull was thick enough to deflect an arrow. She aimed squarely at the center of its chest. When the cat had covered half the distance, she sent the shaft flying.

  A cougar’s reflexes are second to none. This one tried to avoid the arrow by swerving to the side, but the shaft was going too fast and embedded itself in the big cat’s flank. The predator whipped around as if kicked by a mule. It paused for the briefest of moments to glare at the feathers jutting from its hindquarters. Then, with a piercing cry, the painter sprang higher. Its features were distorted in bestial rage the likes of which few human eyes had ever witnessed.

  Second Son was ready. She had drawn a second shaft from her quiver and notched it. There was less time to aim, but she did not need much. Years of practice enabled her to rely on instinct as much as skill. She simply trained the arrow on the cougar and released the string.

  At the very instant that the warrior woman fired, the painter leaped at her, its front legs outstretched, its wicked claws unsheathed and curled to rip and tear. The leap saved its life, for the shaft struck it low in the chest instead of in the center. The point dug a furrow the length of its stomach but did not strike any vital organs.

  Suddenly the cat was on her. Second Son spun, swinging her bow as if it were a club. She hit the painter on the side of its head with enough force to send it tumbling. But it recovered in the blink of an eye and whirled to confront her, its teeth bared, its ears flattened, its tail lashing the air like a whip.

  Second Son knew she was in a desperate situation. The cat was as long as she was tall and outweighed her by many pounds. It had teeth and claws as sharp as any knife ever made, backed by muscles of virtual steel. All she had was the bow with no arrow nocked to the string and her long butcher knife in a beaded sheath at her side.

  Pain drove the painter to try to finish her off quickly. It closed in, its front paws flashing, seeking to slice into her legs. The warrior woman backpedaled and brought the bow down on top of its head with all her might. It had the desired effect of causing the cat to retreat, but as it did, the cougar swung a paw and clipped the bowstring. Just like that, the string was nearly severed, rendering the bow next to useless.

  Second Son glanced down the ridge at her horse. If she could reach Shadow, she had a chance of outrunning the cat. Yet once the painter realized the mare was there, it just might go after Shadow instead.

  Now the beast circled slowly, its body held so close to the ground that blood from its belly wound smeared the earth. It favored its left hind leg, where the other arrow was half-buried. Apparently it had learned the hard way not to take her lightly and was not going to rush in again until it saw an opening.

  The Cheyenne woman backed away just as slowly. She contrived to circle lower so she would be that much nearer the mare. As yet the cat had not noticed the horse, but it was just a matter of time before it would. She wished that she had a lance. Or, better yet, she wished that she had listened to Cleve and let him buy her a brace of pistols and a rifle to have for her very own. She had declined because she had always used the traditional weapons of the Tsistsistas and they had always served her well. Now she wondered if perhaps she had been too hasty in her decision.

  The cat took an abrupt swipe at her thigh. Second Son blocked it with the bow. But as she swung, her left foot stepped onto a loose flat rock, which slid out from under her. Before she could stop herself she fell backward, landing hard on her shoulders, and went sliding down the slope. Dust spewed out from under her. Frantically she tried to stop, but she kept gaining momentum. She careened off a boulder, racking her shoulder with torment. A rending snap told her the bow had broken.

  Still sliding, Second Son was only vaguely aware of the cougar following her down. It did not like the dust that flew up into its face, and kept tossing its head and hissing.

  Then Second Son came to a jolting stop against a log. She pushed onto her knees to find the painter in front of her and a boulder to her right. Off to the left a dozen yards stood Shadow, watching with head raised and ears pricked. She hardly was able to set herself before the cat screeched and launched itself at her chest.

  A piece of ash as long as Second Son’s arm was all that remained of the bow.
Where it had broken, the hard wood bore a jagged point. It was not much of a weapon, but it was all she had, so she drove it up and in even as she ducked under the beast’s raking paws. The point cut into its chest but did not stop the cougar from coming down on top of her. A paw hit her a glancing blow on the shoulder, enough to flatten her, slicing through the buckskin and into her flesh.

  Second Son did not scream in terror. She did not cringe or succumb to numbing fear or do any of those things that many would have done. She was a warrior in the Burning Heart Band of the Tsistsistas and warriors did not show fear to their enemies. Warriors fought on until they prevailed or life left them. That was the warrior way.

  So as the cat came down on her, Second Son’s right hand swooped to her sheath and the butcher knife leaped clear. She thrust the blade into its chest at the very moment a second swing of a huge paw opened up her side. Then the heavy painter slammed down and there was not enough room for her to move her arm to stab. She was effectively pinned, at the animal’s nonexistent mercy.

  Her fate seemed sealed. Yet as the cougar went to take a rending bite out of her throat and its hot breath fanned her face, it unexpectedly let out a yowl of pain and jumped up off her.

  Second Son lost no time in pushing to her feet. She saw the cougar spinning and leaping and pawing at its own chest in a frenzied attempt to dislodge the piece of ash, which had driven deep into its body when it pounced on her.

  The beast was distracted. Second Son took immediate advantage, pivoted, and sped to Shadow. The mare knew what was in store and was poised for flight. It took but a moment for Second Son to unwrap the reins from the bush to which they were tied and swing up. With a jab of her heels she goaded the faithful horse into a gallop. They flew like the wind down the slope.

  A glance back showed that the painter had dislodged the ash and was in pursuit. Second Son knew that the big cats were fast over short distances but lacked stamina. If she could keep ahead of it long enough, she would escape.

  The cougar began to gain. Shadow was galloping all out and could not go any faster. Second Son held the bloody butcher knife ready to use should the painter overtake them. She did not take her eyes off the beast as it hurtled toward them at unbelievable speed.

  Tense moments went by. Shadow held her own. The cat put on one last burst of speed and came within reach of the mare’s legs. It lashed out and missed. By purest chance one of Shadow’s pounding hooves slammed into its temple and sent it rolling across the grass.

  Second Son whooped. The painter rose, dazed and wobbly. It made no effort to resume the chase but simply stared after her as she raced toward the end of the meadow. With a toss of its head, as if in disdain, the beast turned and limped off toward the ridge, back toward the stream—and the dead Little Horn.

  No! Second Son thought. She hauled on the reins, bringing Shadow to a sliding stop close to the pines. Second Son glared at the cat in spite as intense as its own. Unless she did something, it would deprive her of her prize. It would drag the mountain goat off into the brush and she would never find it. The cat would win.

  Second Son was not about to let that happen. Before her lay a number of downed saplings, victims of the high winds so common in the mountains. She slid down and ran to them, examining each, lifting those she liked to test their weight and heft. Finding a suitable one, she worked rapidly, trimming the slender branches. The top had to be broken off, leaving a sturdy but slender six-foot pole.

  A check showed that the painter was almost to the ridge. The warrior woman began trimming the slim end of the pole. Chips sailed every which way as she whittled the wood down to a sharp point. The sapling had not been downed long, so it was easy to cut and shape.

  The cougar had stopped to lick its wounds. It bent around to nip at the shaft in its flank as if striving to pull the arrow out.

  Second Son kept one eye on her nemesis as she finished fashioning her makeshift lance. When it was done she hefted it a few times to test its balance. Then, sliding the butcher knife into her sheath, she vaulted onto Shadow, wheeled the horse, and headed back across the meadow at a walk.

  The painter was so intent on tearing the shaft from its body that it did not notice her until she rose and emitted her war whoop. It stopped and straightened, regarding her with what could only be described as a puzzled look.

  Holding the lance in her right hand, Second Son brought the mare to a trot. The cat took a few steps toward her, then halted, as if uncertain. A grim smile touched Second Son’s full lips. She urged Shadow into a gallop and leaned forward so her body was better balanced. Her pine lance was slightly heavier than those she had learned to use when barely old enough to ride, but it would suffice. She would make it suffice.

  The big cat stared at her, its tail flicking as always, its eyes narrowed. Perhaps the novelty of having prey turn on it gave it pause. Whatever the reason, it did not move until the warrior woman was fewer than fifty yards away. Then it snarled and came at her like a living bolt of lightning.

  Second Son arched her back and raised the lance overhead. She bent to the side to give herself a clearer view of the onrushing beast. There was no turning back now. Either she emerged the victor or she would perish, and most likely the mare would die along with her.

  The painter never slowed, never faltered. It raced to meet them, as graceful as it was deadly.

  Tensing her right arm and bunching her shoulder muscles, Second Son waited for just the right moment. The distance between them narrowed to thirty yards, then twenty, then ten. In another heartbeat the cougar was almost upon her, and it leaped to bring her down. It was then that she hurled the lance with all the power in her supple frame.

  The cat and the lance met in midair. The tip tore into its chest, sinking in deep. In the middle of its spring the painter seemed to deflate like a punctured water skin.

  Second Son galloped past unscathed, and turned to see the cougar hit the ground with a loud thud, feebly paw at empty air, and go limp. It would never rise again.

  Slowing and turning her horse, the warrior woman rode back and sat staring down at the vanquished creature. She took no pleasure in the killing, as some whites she had met were inclined to do. It simply had to be done.

  In the less than thirty winters Second Son had lived, there had been many similar incidents involving various savage animals and even more savage men. They were a normal occurrence, as much a part of her life as breathing and eating. She had learned to take them in stride, as Cleve would say.

  Now, dismounting, Second Son placed a foot against the cat’s chest, gripped the lance with both hands, and tugged and wrenched, working it out. Next she squatted and slipped her hands under the warm body. It took some doing for her to drape the cat over her shoulder and stand, and then to transfer the animal to the mare. Shadow shied skittishly, quieting only after Second Son stroked her neck and spoke softly.

  Taking the lance, she climbed on and rode over the ridge to the stream. Beside the Little Horn she reined up and gave the cat a push so that it plopped down next to the goat. She had her work cut out for her, but first she had to tend her wounds.

  The cuts on Second Son’s shoulder were the worst. She bathed them and the claw marks in her side and cut a strip from the bottom of her shirt to make bandages. There was very little blood and she would not be crippled. Heammawihio had watched over her.

  By this time the sun hung low in the western sky. Second Son would be hard-pressed to finish the work she needed to do before nightfall.

  Taking her knife, she bent to the Little Horn. Before skinning it, she inspected the animal closely, the first she had ever seen so near. Of main interest to her were the horns, which were black daggerlike affairs that curved backward. The beard she found amusing. As she lifted a leg, she noticed the hooves were different from any other animal’s. They had sharp outer rims for gripping smooth rock and soft soles that provided traction on steep surfaces.