A Hiss Before Dying

November 21, 2016 Monday

“Colder up here.” Pewter fluffed up her fur.

“Always is,” Tucker agreed.

“Feels good in the summer. Maybe not so much now,” Mrs. Murphy remarked. “At least we have fur and an undercoat. She puts on layers. When it’s really bitter, she looks like a doughboy.”

At four in the afternoon, Harry wore an undershirt, an old cashmere turtleneck, many times mended, and her Woolrich red buffalo plaid jacket. A good pair of socks and boots, an unlined pair of work gloves kept her warm, as did heavier denim jeans. They’d driven up in the Ford F-150, parked in the turnabout more than halfway up the ridge. Becoming more and more certain that somehow this mess involved wildlife, Harry wanted to check for traps. Just to be safe, she’d slung her wonderful Weatherby rifle with the scope over her shoulder. As it was made for women it was lighter, the recoil didn’t knock her shoulder out of joint. The rifle was well balanced and easy to carry over long distances, so easy that Fair ordered one for himself. Given his physical presence, Fair never needed to prove to himself or others that he was manly. He considered all that bombast for weaklings. While he may have exhibited a touch of arrogance, his wife liked his attitude. She never needed to prop him up or massage his butch credentials. Harry figured one should take care of oneself. If he needed someone to whisper how big, strong, and handsome he was, that would be someone else. She had work to do. Then again, she never minded if someone told her she was intelligent, good-looking, and quick. But then Harry never said she was fair.

Right now, she wasn’t feeling fair at all. She was worried and angry. The death of the truck driver didn’t touch her. She didn’t know him, nor did she know Pierre Rice, but meeting his sister, talking to Beverly Ely, she had a sense of him. Plus someone shot a hole in her Volvo, obviously intended for her.

Climbing near the top of the ridge, she stopped, walked parallel to the ridge, which was 2,500 feet, to check bear caves. She also knew where fox dens were tucked away. They had not been disturbed. The first bear den, lower down, maybe at 800 feet, showed no sign of occupation. For one thing, you could usually smell them. Bear scent was strong, they gave off an odor like wet wood. Couldn’t miss it any more than you could miss deer in rut. That could bring tears to your eyes. Good the deer liked it. She didn’t.

A prominent rock outcropping lured her. She moved slowly just in case. She’d learned if a bear does walk toward you, you make yourself bigger. Try to be aggressive up to a point. Fire your rifle in the air. If the bear has a cub, don’t fool around. Back away if you can. Any mothering animal can be dangerous, even a house cat.

Nearing the entrance, she smelled bear. She tiptoed toward the overhang, and the two cats walked behind her while Tucker trotted ahead.

“If it’s Sweetpea, I’ll warn her,” the corgi said.

It wasn’t Sweetpea. A bear was using the den, but was out at the moment. A pile of leaves filled the back of the protective place. Berry bits scattered everywhere like tiny black punctuation points. Whoever lived in here ate well.

Harry nosed around, then backed out, heading upward again. She noticed high nests overhead. Raptors usually built high, big nests. The overwintering birds, smaller, filled up their homes in tree hollows with hay, clothing bits, downy feathers. Occasionally, a bit of straw or ribbon fluttered overhead. Each bird displayed architecture developed by the breed. Inside barns, the barn swallows, having left for the winter, also left their nests stuck alongside beams. Other birds used claylike materials to bind twigs together. Others wove slender grasses. The variety proved endless, each nest adapted for the needs of that particular bird. Some breeds lived in rookeries, kind of a bird high-rise. The gossip was endless.

Harry stopped to catch her breath. She unslung her rifle, leaned against a tree, perhaps two hundred yards down from the ridge. Had she not been wearing red buffalo plaid she would not have been visible.

A shot rang out. The bullet hit the tree with a thunk. Harry dropped to the ground, grabbed her rifle, slid behind the tree. The animals hid with her, then the cats climbed up the denuded oak.

“He’s moving down,” Mrs. Murphy called.

“Who?” Tucker asked.

“Don’t know, but he’s got a rifle. Nudge Mom.”

Pewter watched the shooter. He was either blind, dumb, or really arrogant, thinking he could shoot Harry without being shot himself. Then again he may not have seen her rifle. His face, the bottom half, was covered by a bandana that he had pulled up for that purpose. He wore a leather coat. That was all she could see. He was within one hundred and fifty yards.

Tucker poked Harry with her nose.

A long association with her friends had taught Harry to trust their senses more than her own. She barely breathed. Then she heard the crackle of a snapped twig. She knew he was descending on her right.

She quickly spun to that side of the tree, raised her rifle, saw the human, pulled the trigger. Missed but the bullet whizzed close by. He stopped, turned, and ran.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she stood up to chase him. Being closer to the ridge, he had the advantage. She had more uphill climb. When he reached the top, he knelt down, got her in his sights, and fired. That was too close for comfort.

Harry fired, fired again. She thought she might have hit him on the right shoulder because he grabbed it with his left hand and tore out of there. By the time she reached the ridge, he was already a football field’s length away.

Tucker started to give chase.

“Leave it, Tucker.”

Harry raised her rifle, took her time, and fired.

He zigged and zagged. Whoever he was, he wasn’t entirely stupid. She watched him get away. She fired again for the hell of it to keep him moving.

Standing still for a moment, she heard a faraway throaty rumble. Being a motorhead she knew he had started his truck, a big one with a big diesel engine.

She took a deep breath, ran down to her old truck as fast as she could go. That took about seven minutes. Running downhill was tricky but she didn’t fall. She picked up Tucker, put the corgi in the seat, and the cats jumped in and they coasted down the steep grade. Furious though she was, she wasn’t going to go down that mountain at high speed.

Once at the bottom, she dialed Cooper on her cellphone.

“Coop.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I was on the mountain behind the farm and someone shot at me.”

“Could you see who it was?”

“No, but it was a man. I had my rifle, thank God, and fired back. He would have killed me. I have no doubt.” Her voice rose.

“Let me see if anyone from our department is near the top of the mountain.”

“He had to have come down the old Chinquapin trail. Probably left his vehicle up near the top. He wore a camo shell and a bandana over his face. Made him hard to see, but I got off a good shot once he ran out on the ridge. I might have nicked his right shoulder, I don’t know, but he was fit enough to run fast.”

“Any idea why he was up there?”

“No, unless he was poaching traps or set them himself. Or followed me.”

Coop gave clear orders. “Go home. Keep a gun with you. If anyone comes down your driveway and you don’t know who it is, call me and don’t open the door.”

“Roger.” She clicked off the phone, madder than before.

Once in the house, she hung up her rifle, took out the .38 Ruger from the side kitchen drawer. Mostly the revolver was there to scare off any marauder sniffing at the horses. Fortunately, that rarely happened, but one had to consider everything, especially if the food supply became scarce. Now it was plentiful.

She put her head in her hands as she sat at the kitchen table, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Mrs. Murphy jumped up on the table and rubbed Harry’s hands with her sides.

Tucker, at her feet, promised, “We’ll take care of things. Don’t worry.”

“My fangs and claws are deadly.” Pewter sounded tough.

Twenty minutes later, Cooper drove down the driveway, parking near the back door.

“Cooper!” Tucker announced.

Harry stood up as her friend pushed through the now-closed-in back porch door. Harry opened the kitchen door.

“Not a damned thing.” Coop nearly spat.

“I hope I did wing him.” Harry grimaced. “You might as well sit down and have a cup of coffee or tea. I could use one.”

“Yeah, but I can’t stay long.” She dropped in the ladder-back chair, noticed the flintlock pistol on the counter, stood back up and picked it up. “The revolver and this. A pistol-packing momma.”

Harry, now at the stove, half laughed. “Well, the gunsmith showed me how to clean the flintlock when I went in to pick it up, said it was in perfect condition. He also said that at close range it was as deadly as any other pistol. He encouraged me to take up flintlocks. Said I would really like target practice. I had it out on the table to study it.”

“We got a bit of a break today. The truck driver. Turns out, his wife found a key to a U-Stor-It. She drove to the unit, opened it, and there were cages in there, ropes, rawhide strings. Not a lot but the Louisville police called us.”

“So this does have something to do with animal contraband? Who would have thought of this?”

“It isn’t the first criminal activity that pops into your mind but it is becoming a big business. Also, if people are killing eagles, say in the west, people in other states tend not to notice. Has to be close to home.” She paused. “You think someone is illegally trapping up there?”

“Yes, there is so much territory all you need to do is keep moving your traps. That way you lose your risk of being caught, being figured out because of routine. There’s tons of game up in the Blue Ridge. Big bucks, songbirds, raptors. The kind of stuff MaryJo told us about a couple of meetings back.”

“Right.” Cooper sipped her coffee as Harry downed tea.

“I either interrupted him or, the worst-case scenario, he was coming for me. This is the second time I’ve been shot at. I don’t much like it. If he was coming for me, he had a rough idea of my schedule.”

“You’d think he would have the sense to lay low or clear out.”

“Maybe he can’t,” Harry replied.