Preacher raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed. Mouchette, if that was who it was, was just on the extreme outer range of his rifle. Despite the great range, Preacher was an exceptionally good shot. He knew that if he pulled the trigger, there was a good chance he would hit him.
Preacher took a breath, let half of it out, then gradually began to increase the pressure on the trigger. Then, taking his finger off the trigger, he sighed and lowered the rifle. Whoever it was had tried to kill him, and he had every right to shoot. But Preacher’s life wasn’t in immediate danger right now. To shoot a man in the back, while he was fleeing, didn’t set well with Preacher—-even though that man had tried to kill him.
Raising the rifle to his shoulder again, he aimed—-not to kill, but to frighten. He squeezed the trigger. The rifle boomed and rocked him back, a cloud of smoke puffing up around him. He saw the strike of the ball in the snow, just a few feet in front of the fleeing man, and he saw the fleeing man throw himself to the ground in terror.
Preacher laughed. “Let that be a lesson to you, Mouchette,” he said, positive now that Mouchette was the one who had attacked him. “If you come back, don’t think you are going to get another shot at me.”
Returning to work his trap line, Preacher leaned the rifle against a tree, then loaded his pistol and put it on the ground close by. Keeping both firearms loaded and ready, he went back to work.
“Damn, Dog, this is the one time I could’ve really used you,” he said, speaking aloud. “You would never have let anyone sneak up on me like that.”
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Notes
1
(The Last Mountain Man)