62

Leland Hurley was up the mountain a ways when he heard the engine in the distance. He maintained a trapline in the valley, augmenting Big Al’s meager grocery offerings with food he could catch—and kill—himself. Hurley wasn’t choosy. He ate whatever he found in his traps, from red fox to snowshoe hare to the occasional deer, and on one memorable occasion, a bobcat.

Some hunters caught wolves, but Hurley never had. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he did catch one. He felt a kinship with the animals, wild and cunning, pariahs on their native land. The gray wolf was a hated species in Montana, hunted by everyone from farmers and ranchers to sportsmen who wanted to shoot elk and couldn’t stand the competition. But the wolf was an intelligent predator; it thrived in the mountains despite civilization’s best efforts. Hurley figured the parallels were obvious.

There were no wolves in Hurley’s traps today, only a couple of rabbits and an unlucky red fox. But Hurley wasn’t thinking about catching wolves at the moment. He was listening to the sound of an engine, a diesel, chugging its way up the valley.

Hurley tensed instinctively. The truck was still miles away, far down the grade, but it would arrive at the cabin eventually. There was nowhere else for it to go. And that meant trouble.

Hurley could count on one hand the visitors he received to his patch of mountain in the span of a year. Strange faces just didn’t come out this far; anyone who knew this land existed knew, also, that it belonged to Leland Hurley. And that was usually enough to keep people away, Montanans being nothing if not respectful of one another’s desire for privacy.

At times, the odd warden would trek up the valley, though rarely in the winter. And somehow, Hurley knew this wasn’t a game warden making the climb.

Slinging his catch over his shoulder, he turned back down the trail. Hurried through the woods on snowshoes, the engine a constant now, chug-chug-chugging ever louder, breaking the stillness. Hurley walked through the forest until he reached his snowmobile, parked at the side of a trail he’d cut through the mountain, painstakingly, over the span of three summers. He’d wanted an escape route from the cabin, a back way through the mountains. The trail was nowhere near finished, but it provided him comfort all the same.

Hurley stowed his catch on the back of his snowmobile and stood in the clearing, listening to the engine approach. It would be a mile out now, maybe even less. The driver would beat him to the cabin quite easily. They could break in, if they wanted. They could search the cabin. They could find his box of souvenirs, if they knew where to look.

Hurley strapped on his snowshoes, left the snowmobile behind. Shouldered his rifle, an autoloading Browning Safari .30-06 with a sniper scope and a five-round capacity. He’d bought the weapon to hunt, but he’d always suspected he might need it for home defense someday as well. Maybe today was the day.

The visitor was close now, the engine note reverberating through the forest. Let him come, Hurley thought, setting out toward the cabin on foot. Let him look around, even.

Let him try to run, if he means to do me harm.