Birthright

1875 - The Woods

The sound of our horses' hooves is dampened by a layer of dewy leaves as they tread with a cautious gait. About twenty paces in front and to my right, Red Beauchamp sits astride a mottled Dun Appaloosa, a Spencer .56 Repeater rifle cradled in his arms. He's been an employee of the Cartwright family since Garrett was just a sprout, and the best tracker in the county. Beauchamp signals me with two soft clicks of his tongue. His fingers lead my eyes to a swath of blood on the nearby foliage. The splatters have diminished in size as we ride further into the oaks and pines.

I bring my paint to a canter, catching up with the grizzled huntsman. He leans close and speaks quietly. "En you say dey done took a sheep? No hens or goats?"

"Ayuh," I assent. "Too big for a coyote. Wolves maybe. What do you think, Boo-shemp?" Ever since childhood, my drawl has disallowed the proper French-Cajun pronunciation of the man's last name. I'd call him Red, but he prefers the surname, and it would not feel right to disregard that.

"Wolves don' come aroun' here normal. But stranger things have happen'd. You bring yuh sidearm? If'n it wolves, you gone need more shots 'en dat musket give yuh. Ain't gone have all day ta reload. But I put my money on a mountain lion. And dis here," he pats the rifle lovingly, "It put down a mountain lion jus' fine."

We have to follow the blood trail, since the carpet of leaf detritus is too thick for making out prints. Here and there can be found occasional drag marks, from where the burden of the livestock corpse became too heavy to carry aloft. About two miles into the forest, we find the missing sheep's carcass under an outcrop of rocks. The scene is grim, with its body rent in two, as if torn apart in a frenzy.

"You ever seen a mountain lion act so ravenous?" I ask.

Beauchamp's eyes are full of fear when he answers, his voice inflected with a tremble. "I was wrong, Joshua. Dey carry it here in pieces."

I trace his dread stare back to the source. Trampled among the bisected ewe's entrails are the signs of our doom. Tracks. Too small to be a mountain lion, and worse, more than a single set. I can't make out the exact number, my sight keeps shooting wildly to the brush. The horses nicker and turn in tight circles as we reign them in. They are alert to the impending danger, attuned in ways of nature that man has not been privy to for generations.

There, in the shrubs behind Beauchamp, I glimpse a pair of gray wolves. Slowly, I raise my musket in his direction, hoping the old man can reckon my intent. Mayhap not, as he raises his rifle to meet mine. I can't help the look of questioning that overcomes me as he draws his iron sight level with my head. But he keeps on aiming upward, and it dawns on me that we've been outwitted.

The crack of Beauchamp's rifle echoes off the rock and wood. A wolf falls from the outcrop above me, and lands dead with a thud at the feet of my horse. The spooked paint rears back, throwing off my balance as I pull my trigger. Red's horse goes down, with him caught underneath it, felled by my errant musket ball. Comprehending the moment of weakness, one wolf sets on the trapped man. The other breaks away, covering the distance before I have time to reload. It springs and knocks me clean from my steed.

My only thought is a flash of survival instinct. I lift my hand to protect my throat. Sharp teeth pierce my palm as I scream in pain. The wolf shakes its head back and forth in quick, jerky motions, trying to get an opening to my jugular. I can feel my fingers separating from the rest of my hand. I push the mangled digits farther into the wolf's mouth, and with my remaining hand, I find the Colt .36 Navy revolver strapped to my side. The hammer clicks as I thumb it back, and the gun thunders when a round is loosed into the wolf's belly. It takes two more bullets before the beast slumps over, dead.