Four
As the story related time and again over the years went, some of the very first trappers ever to set foot in the Rocky Mountains ran into a bestial fiend that qualified as Evil Incarnate. Four hardy men from Pennsylvania had gone into unexplored territory despite warnings from friendly Shoshones to stay away from the region for fear of encountering the legendary Devil Beast. The whites had understandably scoffed at the silly notion of a panther renowned for ferocity unmatched by any living creature, a panther that had lived more scores of years than any man could remember, that had been shot with arrows time and again and pierced by lances and knives and yet lived on unharmed.
Into the unknown the quartet went, and they paid dearly for neglecting to take the Shoshones seriously. One of the men was pounced on while he slept and dragged off into the brush. When the body was found by his companions the next day, it was scattered in small pieces as if the panther had ripped it to shreds in wanton feline glee.
The remaining three had packed up and headed out of the country, but the panther wasn’t about to let them go. It shadowed them for days, often showing itself beyond rifle range and keeping them awake at night with its unearthly screams. Their horses were driven off, never to be seen again.
A second trapper lost his life when he heeded Nature’s call and forgot to keep one eye behind him. This man had his head shorn from his body and his entrails clawed out.
Days later the two weary survivors took their only good shot at their tormentor. Both were experienced woodsmen. Both were excellent shots. Yet, somehow, both missed, because the panther simply stared at them for a few moments after the thunder of the gunshots receded in the distance and then calmly walked off as if taking a stroll in a city park.
Miles from the Shoshone village one of the trappers, worn out from lack of food and sleep, stopped to rest on a log while his companion hastened ahead for help. When the rescue party arrived, the only article of the trapper’s on the log was his rifle. A smear of blood led the last trapper and the warriors into a glade where the torso of the hapless dead man was found. His arms and legs, however, were missing.
Thus started the undying saga of Old Satan. The sole survivor told other trappers, and they in turn passed on the story, and so on and so on until every trapper became familiar with it. Trappers loved to talk, to swap tall tales around their campfires, and no tale was more popular than that of the monster panther. Somewhere along the line the cat received a fitting name. Now and then others would claim to have seen it but no one believed them. Monstrous panthers simply didn’t exist.
Now Nate knew better.
The story came to mind the next morning as Nate was saddling the stallion to go make his rounds of the traps. He had decided to take his horses with him every time he left camp. It was either that or risk losing one and he needed them all to pack out his plews. Sliding a loop over the neck of the lead pack animal, he rode into the rising sun, staying close to the water’s edge so he could see if the traps had done their job.
Less than a hundred feet from the clearing Nate came on a gravel bar rimmed with mud bearing the same enormous tracks he’d seen previously. The panther had squatted to lap the cold water, then leaped from the end of the gravel bar to the far bank, a jump of eighteen feet.
Nate resumed his morning routine. Four beavers had to be transported back to camp and skinned. That evening he made his second sweep, and this time he made a shocking discovery.
A wide tributary of the main stream contained two lodges. Nate had already trapped the nearest. The second was in a ravine gouged into the side of a neighboring mountain where the ravine widened and the runoff from on high formed a serene pool. A narrow strip of solid footing between the sheer face of the ravine and the water had permitted Nate to get close enough to the lodge to plant his traps.
Now, as Nate dismounted at the mouth of the pool and hiked along its perimeter toward the lodge, he noticed a strange crimson tint to the water flowing sluggishly by. He stared at the red stain until its meaning hit him like a ton of falling boulders. Then he broke into a run.
Two of the traps had contained beaver. One trap had been dragged, stake and all, clear out of the pool. The other was at the bottom, lying on its side. In the jaws of both dangled the shorn legs of the beavers.
Nate clenched his fists in rage and scanned the ravine from one end to the other. The panther was long gone but its handiwork was impossible to miss; the pair of beaver had been ripped apart, their organs, limbs, and hides forming a gory mess at the base of the wall. From the evidence, Nate doubted any of the meat had been eaten. The panther had done it for the sheer hell of it.
A cat that would enter water? Nate recalled hearing of panthers seen fording rivers, but he was under the impression they only got wet if there was no alternative. This one was different. It had deliberately gone in after the beavers, as if it had made the connection between Nate and the traps and knew that killing the catch would anger him.
That was a crazy idea! Nate told himself. Animals couldn’t think, at least not the same way people did. An animal acted out of instinct and reflex. Complex plotting was beyond them. Everyone knew that. But how else could he explain the deaths of the beavers?
Nate gathered the traps and opened the jaws of each so the imprisoned legs fell out. Slinging the Newhouses by their chains over his shoulder, he walked to the horses and secured the traps to one of the pack horses. Not without some difficulty, because the horse’s sensitive nostrils picked up a whiff of blood and it shied.
The ride to the camp was spent in somber thought. Nate hadn’t trapped all of the tributaries yet. Making a rough guess, he pegged the total number of beaver still to be caught at forty. Enough for a new rifle for his son, or a lot of foofaraw for his wife and daughter. He wasn’t inclined to pass that many pelts up.
Which left Nate with the pressing problem of how to deal with Old Satan, as he had taken to calling the beast. Tracking it down would take too much time, make him late for his reunion with Shakespeare. He didn’t have poison or he’d bait a dead beaver and let the cat’s own bloodthirsty nature do it in. Snares and other kinds of traps would probably be useless against such a wily creature. So what was left?
One thing was for sure. Nate couldn’t tolerate having the beaver butchered. Yet he also couldn’t be everywhere at once. While he was checking downstream, the panther might be upstream wreaking havoc, or just the opposite. Somehow he had to draw the cat within range of his Hawken.
Easier thought than done. How, Nate wondered, was he to lure in an animal as naturally wary as a mountain lion? What would interest it? A low nicker behind him gave him the answer, and he shifted in the saddle to regard the three pack horses. The scheme was fraught with risk, but if he did it right, it just might work.
Nate plotted the rest of the ride. He ate beaver meat for supper, then walked close to the stream where the soil was softest and began scooping dirt with a broken limb. Sweat was trickling down his back by the time he had a suitable depression excavated. With an eye on the setting sun, he accumulated brush from the thicket and piled it next to the depression.
Picking the pack horse was easy. Nate chose the one that had given him the hardest time since leaving home. Gripping its lead rope, he escorted the mare to the stream bank and fastened the rope to a log too heavy for the mare to drag off. He took measured paces from the log to the depression, counted fifteen, and nodded in satisfaction. Ideal range.
The stallion and the other two mares were tied within spitting distance of the blaze. They disliked being so close, but it was either that or leave them in the dark at the mercy of the panther.
Nate sat and sipped black, strong coffee for the next hour. He might need to stay awake all night and the brew would help. All was quiet during that time, except for the horse by the stream which kept whinnying. It was upset at being separated from the others and didn’t like being left in the dark.
Presently Nate threw enough limbs on the fire to last for hours and went to the depression. Lying on his side so he was facing the decoy, he then covered himself with the brush until he was completely concealed. From a distance the blind should fool Old Satan.
Now all Nate could do was wait. He set the rifle in front of him, shifted onto his stomach, and rested his chin on his forearms. A mild breeze fanned the tops of the trees, and off to the right a cricket chirped.
Would Satan come? That was the burning question. Nate hoped he wouldn’t wind up staying awake all night and then not get a shot at the cat. Losing sleep was a sacrifice he could ill afford, not with all the work yet to be done before he could leave the valley, but going without would be well worth it if he bagged the panther.
The minutes dragged by, becoming a full hour. The mare continued to whinny every so often. On occasion the stallion answered her. Several times she threw her weight against the rope, which held fast.
Nate did his best to stay fully awake and alert, but despite his best intentions his mind strayed. Fatigue and the deceptive quiet lulled him into a drowsy state. Memories washed over him, memories long forgotten … or avoided.
~*~
Another time, another place.
In a newly painted frame house in a well-to-do section of New York City, a boy of twelve was on his bed, his head propped on his pillow, reading a book. Into his room stalked a square-jawed man with eyes the hue of flint.
“Here you are. I should have known you’d be wasting your time, as always.”
The boy lowered the book and dutifully sat up. “I’m not wasting my time, Father. I’m reading.”
“Reading what, as if I can’t guess?” the father responded. He took the book from the boy and examined the cover, his mouth scrunched up as if he had just tasted a bitter lemon. “Prometheus Unbound by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Why do you read this drivel?”
“Poetry is good for the soul, father.”
“Where did you ever get such a silly idea? From your mother? The woman should stick to her knitting and cooking and stop trying to turn you into a hopeless romantic.” The father flipped a page and started reading: “My soul is an enchanted boat, which, like a sleeping swan, doth float upon the silver waves of—” He glanced up, shook his head in disgust, then tossed the offending volume to the floor. “Enough. I won’t have you reading such trash.”
“But, Father—”
“But nothing.” The man gripped the boy’s arm and pulled him off the bed. “Listen to me, and listen closely. I have a job for you to do and I want it done right.”
“What sort of job?” the youngster asked. “I already did my chores.”
“Don’t give me sass, son,” the father warned. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”
They walked without speaking down the hall, down the stairs, and along another hall to the kitchen. In the corner near the stove the father halted and pointed. “There.”
The boy looked but only saw the white wall and the polished baseboard. “There what?”
“At the bottom, by the stove. Don’t you see it?” There was a small hole in the baseboard, no bigger than the boy’s thumb. “That?”
“Kill it.”
“Sir?”
“I want you to kill it.”
“Kill what?” the boy asked, although he knew full well.
“The mouse, dunderhead. What else?” Scowling, the father motioned at a nearby table. “Your mother saw one this morning when she was setting the silverware out. About gave her a heart attack.” A thin smile transformed his scowl. “You know how women are. Afraid of their own shadows.”
The boy barely heard. “You want me to do it?”
“Why not you?” the father rejoined sternly. “Your brothers have other jobs to do. And you certainly don’t expect me to devote precious time to so simple a task? A girl could do this.”
“I’ve never killed a mouse before.”
“It’s easy. Set some cheese out and when the dirty little rodent shows itself, bash its brains in.”
“I’ve never killed anything before.”
The father sighed. “So? It’s about time you did then, isn’t it? You’re too squeamish for your own good. Why, when I was your age, I regularly chopped the heads off chickens and often helped my father, slaughter hogs. Sometimes I waded in blood and gore up to my ankles, but it was great fun.”
The boy bit his lower lip.
“Do you know what your problem is? I’ve been too damn easy on you, spared you from life’s realities. And those ridiculous poetry books don’t help matters any. Life isn’t all sugar and spice, son. You must learn to take the sour with the sweet.” The father strode to the wood box and selected a stout length of firewood. “Here.”
“You want me to use that?”
“You can kick the mouse to death for all I care,” the father said, shoving the bludgeon into his son’s hands. “But this will work nicely. Just remember to smash it in the head. I don’t want its guts spread all over the floor. Your mother won’t like that one bit.”
The boy stared at the club and gulped. “I’ll do my best, Father.”
“Of course. I knew I could rely on you.”
~*~
The mare whinnied for the hundredth time, only this time there was a new note, a high-pitched quality that snapped Nate out of his reverie and returned him to the present. He automatically lifted his head and accidentally rustled the brush covering him. Freezing, he gazed at the mare and saw her staring out across the stream.
Was Satan coming? Had the cat taken the bait? Nate probed the night, his finger on the trigger of his rifle. He must be ready to fire at an instant’s notice in order to protect the mare. She moved and stared to the northwest. Nate did the same yet was unable to spot the mountain lion.
Vibrant with expectancy, Nate slowly raised the Hawken to his shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him that he had a clear shot in front of his hiding place but the brush obstructed his view to either side. Should Satan charge from those directions he would have virtually no time to react. You idiot! he reflected. Why didn’t you think of that sooner?
Behind Nate the stallion and two other mares added their nickers to those of the decoy. The horses were making so much noise Nate wouldn’t be able to hear the panther cross the stream. Annoyed, he twisted to shush them, or started to, when his startled eyes fell on Old Satan. The monster wasn’t more than ten feet off to the west, crouched belly to the ground, its long snakelike tail twitching madly as it glanced from the unsuspecting decoy to the horses by the dwindling fire and back again.
Nate was flabbergasted. He’d had no inkling the panther was so close. Evidently the mare was gazing at something else, or the panther had moved upstream and crossed without the mare seeing it. In order to shoot he would have to rise to his knees and swing around, giving the panther all the forewarning needed to bound off unscathed. Should he try anyway? Indecisive, he held himself rigid, waiting to see if the cat would move closer.
Satan appeared equally indecisive, continuing to divide his attention between the decoy and the other horses. At length the panther concentrated solely on the lone mare and crept toward her, claws extended.
Nate held his breath. Once the cat came near enough, it would be all over. As quick as panthers were, they couldn’t evade a shot at point-blank range. He counted down the feet and girded himself to spring from hiding. Eight feet. Six feet.
At the very moment Nate was about to leap up, Satan halted and looked directly at the brush. Directly at him. Nate could practically feel the panther’s infernal eyes boring into his, and he couldn’t repress a slight shudder at a mental picture of the cat leaping on him before he could stand and render him limb from limb. He’d be pinned down, helpless to resist.
Nate had no idea whether the panther knew he was there or whether it was merely suspicious. Had the beast heard him? He hadn’t moved since spying it. Had his scent given him away? Not likely, since the wind was blowing toward him. What, then?
Satan abruptly uttered a low growl that carried to Nate’s ears alone; as yet, the decoy was unaware of the predator’s presence. Muscles working like coiled steel springs, the cat inched its right leg forward, then its left. But instead of creeping toward the decoy, it came straight toward the depression!
Nate was in a dire predicament. So long as the element of surprise had been in his favor, he had an edge. His advantage gone, there was only one option. He must jump up and shoot. Unfortunately, doing so would hasten the cat’s attack. And he held no illusions about which one of them was the fastest.
The stallion voiced a challenge that prompted the panther to stop and glare. Nate heard his horse stomp its forefeet, saw Satan hiss and turn a few degrees toward the fire. That was all the opening he needed. Surging from concealment, he trained the Hawken on the cat’s ribs, cocked the hammer, and tapped the trigger. Swift as he was, he couldn’t compare to the panther.
As the brush burst upward, Satan whirled and flashed toward the spruce trees, clearing twenty feet at a leap. In the middle of the cat’s second leap, Nate fired, his slug missing by a hair and thudding into the dirt under the panther’s hindquarters. Satan’s speed didn’t allow for a second shot.
The undergrowth closed on the lion as Nate snatched at his powder horn and rapidly reloaded. Although his twin pistols were heavy-caliber, he’d rather have the sheer stopping power of the Hawken at his disposal. Precious seconds were lost as he fed powder, ball, and blanket wad down the barrel. Then, although he stood no chance of overtaking Satan, he raced into the trees, slanting toward the stream as the cat had done. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get at least one more shot.
Nate broke from cover near the water and squatted. Disappointment racked him on discovering the lion had effected its escape. He smacked his leg in anger, then stiffened as the night was torn by a ferocious snarl— coming from the camp! Satan had used the same ruse as last time, circling around while he chased shadows!
Witnesses would have been dazzled by Nate’s fleetness of foot. Panicked whinnies mingled with raspy growls spurred him to his peak, and he weaved among the pines with abandon born of desperation. The horses were being set upon, the stallion and the mares by the fire, and from the sound of things they were in grave peril.
A single tree blocked the clearing when a strident neigh foretold a stricken horse. Nate’s blood turned chill. He gained the camp and saw the panther clinging to the haunches of one of the mares, its wicked claws gouging deep furrows in her buttocks, thighs, and flanks. He took a stride to obtain a better angle and the mountain lion, which hadn’t been looking in his direction but seemed somehow to sense his presence, sprang to the ground and fairly skimmed the grass as it fled.
“Not this time!’’ Nate shouted, swinging the rifle to compensate. He stroked the trigger, felt the stock smack into his shoulder. The panther jerked to one side, nearly fell, recovered, and gained the brush with a prodigious leap.
Nate yanked out a flintlock and ran to the thicket. He longed to see the cat convulsing in the bushes, but he should have known better. Satan was gone. There wasn’t so much as a broken branch to show which way the lion had headed.
Turning, Nate dashed to the hurt mare. The fire had died to flickering fingers of flame so he added several pieces of dry wood. In the flare of light the deep cuts resembled a welter of scarlet ribbons. Blood flowed down the mare’s rear legs and formed a spreading pool under her tail. Wincing in sympathy for the agony the horse was enduring, Nate set down his rifle and collected handfuls of grass which he used in an attempt to stanch the flow. Throughout, the mare stood as docile as a lamb, head bowed, saliva drooling from her chin.
The grass slowed the bleeding but didn’t stop it, compelling Nate to resort to a crude remedy he’d once seen a Shoshone warrior employ. The Shoshone had been on a buffalo surround during which his favorite war horse had been gored in the stomach by an enraged bull. In a bid to save the prized mount from certain death, the warrior applied regular mud packs to the holes. Nate had secretly doubted the treatment would be of any benefit, yet to his amazement the horse recovered.
There was plenty of mud along the stream. Nate made eight trips, carrying as much as he could hold without getting it all over himself. The mare fidgeted when he applied a thick, dank layer, as he might the frosting on a cake, into the furrows the panther had torn from her flesh. When he was done, Nate stroked the mare’s neck and stared over her shoulders at the benighted woodland. “I’ll get you yet, you bastard,” he declared grimly. “Wait and see.”
As if in defiant answer, from the vicinity of a mountain half a mile to the south wafted the shrill shriek of Old Satan.