Cousin Ian possessed an excellent nose and an inborn aptitude for hunting dangerous big game animals. xviii For all that, once engaged in the pursuit of such quarry, he invariably left the actual trailing to the half a dozen redbone coonhounds which formed the pack and only took the lead when the animal they were chasing came into view. xix This trait enhanced rather than distracted from his value while he was carrying out the kind of work he was occasionally called upon to do.
Red wheaten in color, with a glossy coat that was short yet dense, Cousin Ian stood twenty-seven inches at the shoulder and weighed some eighty hard-muscled pounds. Powerfully built, he possessed great endurance and was capable of producing a speed in excess of the redbones upon which he relied to do the actual tracking of their quarry. Rather flat in the skull, his head was broad between the ears—denoting considerable intelligence—and free from wrinkles. The muzzle was long and deep, allowing a good bite for tackling and holding on to the prey when necessary. His ears were smallish, set high and shaped like those of an English mastiff and not pendulous in the fashion of his coonhound companions. Deep rather them wide, his chest had not the slightest suggestion of being barreled. Straight as posts, his forelegs gave the impression of being remarkably sturdy and his hindquarters were just as strong. Full length, on the order of a Great Dane, his tail was thick at the root and tapered with a slight upwards curve. Along his back, decreasing symmetrically from the two ‘crowns’ facing each other at the shoulder blades to the top of the hips, ran a line of hair which pointed in the opposite direction to the rest of the coat. This gave his breed their name, the Rhodesian ridgeback.
Although Cousin Ian was primarily trained as a police and attack dog, a most useful education as he was owned by the wife of a man whose employment had produced many enemies, he had an affinity for tackling large and dangerous predatory animals which stemmed from ancestors bred to chase and bring to bay lions on the veldt of Africa. Whenever the need arose to remove a stock killer, therefore, Mrs. Brenda Tragg always allowed him to accompany and support the redbones. His courage, resolve and inborn knowledge of how best to behave if the quarry turned to fight formed a solid base for the pack when the time arrived to tackle the animal they were pursuing.
Receiving his first view of the fleeing mountain lion on topping a wood covered ridge after a chase of close to seven miles, Rhodesian ridgebacks being a breed which relied as much upon sight as scent when hunting, Cousin Ian increased speed. Although he had so far run mute, as he was passing through the swiftly moving redbones, he began to give a ‘chop’ bark which they echoed. By doing so, he was submitting information to his master and the two men who were following some distance to the rear.
‘They’re in sign of him now!’ announced Jack Tragg, reining his big roan gelding to a halt and listening to the rapid, “yip, yip, yip!” being emitted by the ridgeback. ‘Which means we should soon be able to fix that cougar’s wagon. The cat’s never been born that can stay ahead of Cousin Ian for long once he gets a view of it.’
‘Well now,’ drawled Deputy Sheriff Bradford Counter, throwing a look at the third member of the hunting party as, guided by the baying of the redbones, they began to set their mounts moving at a faster gait than the walk at which they had been travelling while following the chase through the rolling, lightly wooded range country. Being skilled in matters equestrian, he was riding the big buckskin gelding with which he had been supplied very lightly for all his great size and weight. Nor, as it was following willingly, was he in any way inconvenienced by the leggy dun mare—its pack saddle empty—which he was leading. ‘How does this compare with fox hunting in England, Jerry?’
The man to whom the question was directed was as tall as the sheriff of Rockabye County, although somewhat more slender. For all that, as was the case with Jack, he conveyed an impression of possessing a far greater strength and virility than appeared on the surface. His reddish brown hair was close cropped. Reddened by their recent and unaccustomed exposure to the hot sun of Southwest Texas, his lean features were such that they suggested he could qualify as one of the so-called ‘chinless wonders’. However, despite the derision heaped upon members of that class by a certain element in British television, over the centuries they had provided the country with its finest type of officers for the Army, Navy and Royal Air Force. He certainly fitted into that category, being a captain in the Special Air Service. He was visiting his aunt, Brenda Tragg, whilst on furlough from an extensive tour of duty in Northern Ireland.
‘It’s certainly different, old chap,’ replied Captain Sir Jeremiah Bertram Houghton-Rand, his upper class British voice laconic and offering little indication of his true feelings. However, in spite of the unfamiliar type of rig between his legs, he sat his bay gelding with an ease which came close to equaling that of his companions. Glancing downwards for a moment, he continued, ‘And, somehow, I don’t think the Masters of the Quorn, the Belvior, or the Cottesmore would entirely approve of our attire. Nor of our running a mere dog with the hounds for that matter. What’s more, these armchair things you chappies over here in the Colonies call “saddles” aren’t quite the done thing in the best of circles, don’t you know?’
There was some justification for the comments with regards to the manner in which the trio were dressed and equipped. In both cases, they were hardly likely to have been considered acceptable for ‘riding to hounds’ with any of the three very exclusive British Hunts whose names had been mentioned.
Knowing what kind of conditions and terrain to expect on the hunt, Houghton-Rand having received the information from his aunt, the three men were dressed after the general fashion of Texas cowhands. Such attire had changed little since the days when Brad’s celebrated paternal great-grandfather, Mark Counter, had ridden with Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog, C.S.A. and the Ysabel Kid, as members of Ole Devil Hardin’s legendary floating outfit. xx Somewhat more durable and modern materials may have been used in the manufacture of the garments, but little else had altered. The hats still sported low crowns, wide brims and barbiquejo chinstraps to prevent them being lost during strenuous activity or as a result of inclement weather. The bandanas had been tightly rolled before they were knotted about the throat. The necks of the shirts were open and the kind of trousers each had on looked much the same as when Levi Strauss had introduced the first of their exceptionally hardwearing predecessors back in 1850.
Only the gunbelts strapped about the two peace officers’ waists, the firearms in their holsters, and the footwear of all the trio looked out of place. In the case of the latter, it was flat-heeled lace-up hunting boots for the Texans and well polished black British riding boots for their companion. As was the case with the other two, although he was not carrying a handgun, there was a Winchester Model of 1894 carbine—having a lever action mechanism in the tradition of the Old West—situated with its butt pointing to the rear in the boot attached to the left side of his saddle.
Urging their horses onwards at the increased pace brought the conversation to an end. After the trio had covered almost another mile, there was a noticeable change in the melodious trail music given out by the redbones. No longer did the baying have the pleasing short bawl provoked by running a line which was steadily growing hotter as the distance between themselves and their quarry decreased. Instead, there arose a deep chop of a loud and resonant quality which proclaimed changed conditions.
‘Yes sir!’ the sheriff ejaculated, his face flushed with excitement. ‘I told you that old cougar couldn’t keep ahead of Cousin Ian for long. He’s taken to a tree.’
‘Let’s hope they can hold him there until we arrive,’ Brad answered and joined the other two in urging their eager mounts, which had all engaged upon sufficient hunts to know what was wanted from them, to go even faster.
~*~
In keeping with the specialized life style of the Felidae, even the cheetah conforming to some extent, the mountain lion relied chiefly upon stealth followed by a sudden dash and pounce to catch its prey. While capable of a considerable burst of speed, this could only be maintained for a comparatively short distance and the cat family was incapable of the kind of extended pursuit employed by the Canidae, which depended upon running down their quarry and using co-operative tactics to acquire their food. Nor was any member of the Felidae better suited physically to use lengthy flight as a means of escaping from a dangerous foe.
Only the fact that the stock killing cougar had had a good lead when the chase commenced had allowed it to stay ahead of its swiftly moving pursuers for so long!
Sensing a threat when it had been disturbed by the distant yet approaching baying of the redbone coonhounds, even though it had never heard such a sound before, the mountain lion had decided to move away from the place in which it was resting after having fed well on the foal it had killed. Concluding instinctively that something hostile and dangerous was responsible for the commotion, it had headed south to get away from whatever this might be. However, to its growing consternation, the sound had continued to follow. Nor had an increase in speed caused the noise to fall behind and diminish in volume.
Just the opposite had been the case!
Eventually, the cougar had found it was being approached by several creatures which were clearly responsible for the cacophony and which it realized instinctively posed a very serious threat to its life!
A tom only just fully grown and in the peak of condition, the grayish rather than tawny pelage of the cougar indicated it was the Texas sub-species, felis concolour Stanleyana. Not only was it almost double the size and weight of the largest of its pursuers, it also had exceptionally sharp retractable claws with which to augment the dagger-like canine teeth it used to grasp and kill its prey. For all that, instincts going back over a great many centuries conditioned it against turning to make a fight when there was still a potential avenue of escape available. While the style of hunting it practiced did not call for great powers of endurance, a strong and very pliant body was needed and, in its turn, this produced an exceptional agility which could be turned to good advantage under the circumstances.
Making full use of the flexible qualities of its backbone, supported by the extremely potent muscles of the lumbar region and hind legs—the latter capable of being bent and straightened with a very strong propulsive kicking motion—the harried stock killer suddenly launched itself upwards instead of continuing to race through the woodland. Leaving the ground in a smoothly flowing bound, it rose high into the air oblivious of the click caused by the jaws of Cousin Ian only just missing its tail. The evasion could not have been executed any better, nor at a more appropriate moment, if the cougar had been watching its pursuers and had deliberately drawn the correct conclusion from what it had seen.
Thrust from the sheaths in the specially adapted pads of all four feet, the sharp retractable claws of the mountain lion sank deeply into the bark of an old cottonwood tree some twenty-five feet beyond and a good eleven feet higher than the point at which it had taken off. Starting to scramble upwards immediately, with all the grace and agility common to members of the Felidae, it ascended to the lowest branch. This was well beyond the reach of the clamorous pack of hounds and the big ridgeback. Settling upon its sturdy perch, it looked down to where they were leaping and scrabbling at the trunk with feet which were not intended for climbing by nature’s selective development. Ears clamped down tightly against its head, tail swinging back and forth in anger, it snarled menacingly at its tormentors from the safety it had attained on the thick limb. However, its aggressive mien notwithstanding, it had no intention of taking any offensive action and was content to wait where it was until its enemies grew tired of waiting and withdrew.
The pack was unable to reach the mountain lion and its own intention was to play a passive game!
However, the condition of stalemate was not protracted!
Riding towards the commotion, Jack Tragg and Brad Counter found the situation much as they had respectively anticipated on hearing the timbre of the redbones’ baying change to indicate the quarry had ‘treed’.
Wanting to avoid alarming the cougar and possibly causing it to try and escape by leaping to the ground and fleeing, which would almost certainly result in it being compelled after a short distance to turn and fight off the pack, the sheriff gave the order for his companions to halt while they were still some fifty yards away. Obeying immediately, as did the blond giant, Jerry Houghton-Rand stared from the dogs leaping and bawling around the foot of the cottonwood to where the mountain lion was crouching malevolently and exuding a primeval defiance on the limb above them.
‘My god! ’ the Englishman ejaculated. ‘What a magnificent creature!’
‘I’ve never seen one outside a cage which wasn’t,’ Brad replied, also drinking in the sight with a similar admiration.
‘But where did it come from?’ Houghton-Rand asked. ‘According to what I’ve read, the mountain lion was wiped out almost everywhere in cattle country.’
‘They came close to it most places,’ Jack admitted. ‘But they’ve started to come back, where they’ve been given protection, although not so bad they’re getting to be a nuisance and a menace like the alligators down to Louisiana and Florida. This one is likely a youngster who’s been run out of the Big Bend National Park by the older toms.’
‘It seems something of a pity that we have to kill the blighter,’ Houghton-Rand commented, after dismounting and sliding the Winchester carbine from its boot. He did not notice that neither the sheriff nor the big blond were drawing their carbines. ‘But, now it’s got a taste for devouring Aunt Brenda’s foals, I suppose it has to be done in.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Jack drawled and, despite the roan having been trained to stand where it was left if ‘ground hitched’ by having the reins dangling free, he fastened it to a convenient sturdy bush. ‘Would you, Brad?’
‘No, sir,’ the blond giant answered, duplicating the actions of his superior with his buckskin and the packhorse. ‘I wouldn’t say that at all.’
‘But I was under the impression that we had come after the blighter to kill it,’ the Englishman protested, looking from one Texan to the other and back, his normally far from expressive features registering puzzlement. ‘Surely we aren’t going to just ride off and hope it has learned its lesson by having been chased up a tree?’
‘Not exactly,’ Jack admitted, freeing the coiled lariat from the low horn of his double girthed saddle. ‘We came after the “blighter” for sure. The boss-lady said for us to do just that and, well, being kin you know her. Life’s surely a whole heap more peaceable all round happen she gets what she’s wanting.’
‘It’s a family trait, particularly on the distaff side,’ Houghton-Rand conceded. ‘They get it from the Dowager Duchess of Brockley, xxi according to my pater. And, being aware of it, I naturally assumed we’d taken out after the cougar to do as Aunt Brenda wants.’
‘We have,’ the sheriff confirmed, throwing a glance to where Brad was studying the surrounding woodland and drawing the machete which hung from the right side of the buckskin’s saddlehorn. ‘But we’re not going to kill it!’