Lori Armstrong
Mercy Kill
The second book in the Mercy Gunderson series, 2011
For my family…
One day an old Lakota Indian told his grandson
about a battle that goes on inside people.
He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves.
One wolf is evil. It is anger, envy, sorrow, greed,
arrogance, self-pity, lies, guilt, and ego.
The other wolf is good.
It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility,
mercy, benevolence, empathy, truth, and faith.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and
asked the grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”
The old Lakota man simply replied: “The one you feed.”
ONE
Spring had sprung into full splendor on the western high plains of the Gunderson Ranch.
New baby calves frolicked in the lush pastures under the watchful eyes of mama cows. A cavalcade of colorful flowers bloomed from the fields to the forest. Delicate pale pink heads of primrose, stalwart stems of golden yarrow, the emerald green bushes of sumac grew alongside the caramel-colored stalks of autumn’s dried grasses. Birdsong and insect chatter abounded on the ground and in the sky. Spring was a fleeting season at best, and I appreciated the metamorphosis after a long winter.
Sunshine burned the chill from the early-morning air. As much as I benefited from solitary communion with nature, I wasn’t out picking posies. I was out picking my first target.
Old habits died hard; hunting was in my blood. Plus, I had nothing better to do until my shift started at Clementine’s. And the thought of another night dealing with drunks and bar fights always put me in a killing mood.
I’d hiked to a prairie dog town on what used to be Newsome land, but now belonged to the Gunderson Ranch. The section was remote, a flat area surrounded by craggy rock formations that prevented the persistent buggers from digging tunnels unimpeded across grazing land. But the topography created a bowl effect that I likened to shooting fish in a barrel. Since cover was minimal, I’d crawled under scraggly bushes as my “hide” and with luck I’d stay down wind.
Dressed in camo, lying on my belly, propped on my elbows, I peered through the scope of my dad’s varmint rifle. Despite the age of the Remington 722, its accuracy was unparalleled. Out of habit, I used my right eye. The black shadows from the retinal detachment weren’t too bad during the day.
A few clicks and the fuzzy brown spots in my sights became clear. Furry heads popped up and disappeared into the mounds of chalky dirt as I scanned the networked holes spread across the rugged plateau.
Bingo. My first target was two hundred yards out. Before I pulled the trigger, a red-tailed hawk swooped down, snatching my kill right out from under me. The prairie dog’s surprised screech echoed across the plains. A flurry of panic ensued among the critters as they retreated to hidey-holes.
Their collective caution lasted roughly two minutes. Sleek heads popped up like jack-in-the-boxes. Several brave animals stretched tall, aiming twitching noses to the sky, letting the sun tan their hides.
Suckers.
I zeroed in on one fat rat and fired. The body exploded into hunks of pinkish-red parts. I inserted another bullet, engaged the bolt, and nailed a slow mover; chunks of fur-covered meat rained down. After a quick reload, I picked off another one, ignoring me, on the opposite ridge. Bad choice, Alvin. I chambered another round and bang. Bye-bye, Theodore. Never turn your backs when danger lurks, boys.
My last target-dubbed Simon-decided to run. I clipped it from the back. The headless body went rolling in a ball of bloody fur and dust. Five for five. Not bad.
I reloaded while I waited for the scavengers to come.
Contrary to popular belief, gunshots don’t scare away larger predatory animals. In most cases the sound of gunshots is like ringing a dinner bell-bringing them in for easy pickin’s. Nature’s version of fast food. A meal without the work of hunting it down.
Damn coyotes were thick around the herd this time of year, preying on new calves. Any time I could put a bullet in a coyote, I’d take it. They weren’t funny, misunderstood cartoon creatures but a threat to our livelihood. Worse, scabies thrived in the coyote dens, and it passed like wildfire. An infected mother birthed an infected litter. A mangy, scabies-ravaged coyote was just plain gross-matted fur and oozing sores clinging to a bag of bones. Nasty shit. Shooting them was doing them a favor.
With the cartridge chambered, I re-sited my scope and waited for a flash of reddish-orange fur to dart into view. Come on, Wile E. Coyote; give me something challenging to shoot.
Nothing.
No big deal. I could wait. Inhaling the vegetative scents of sun-warmed mud, decomposing leaves, and the sharpness of fresh leaf growth, contentment and a wave of sleepiness flowed over me.
My contentment lasted a mere minute or so. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. A communal silence surrounded me-no birds, no buzzing insects, even the air had gone still.
Something was out there, behind me.
My mind flashed to a predator that commanded that type of respect.
A mountain lion.
Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew it was there. I’d bet money it was female. A very hungry female, if she’d ventured out in the wide-open spaces of prairie rangeland in broad daylight.
Fear tightened my skin.
I leveled my breathing, trying not to envision myself getting pounced on and becoming catnip.
How does it feel when the predator becomes prey?
Not good. Seriously not good.
I’d heard talk among the bar regulars who hunted. The mountain lion population in the Black Hills had quadrupled in recent years due to an abundance of game that were their dietary staples: deer, rabbit, and turkey. Several reports of mountain lion sightings in the wooded areas within Rapid City, Sturgis, and Spearfish city limits. Occasionally, local TV stations ran stories where pet owners had witnessed their small domestic dogs carried off by a lion. Chained dogs were an easy target, as were cats. Some ranchers in the Northern Hills reported missing sheep. A few larger hunting dogs had been mauled and left to die.
Nothing to eat over here, Ms. Lion, move along.
I’d spent my life dodging bullets, returning fire, living the “kill-or-be-killed” motto, seeing danger in every shadow. I’d lost track of the times I believed I wouldn’t make it out of a situation alive. But somehow, I always did. Somehow, that fear had almost become… comfortable. Expected. Routine.
This fear? Anything but comfortable.
A blur of a tan fur entered the sights of my scope. In all the years I’d lived on the ranch, I’d never actually seen a mountain lion. I’d seen tracks. One night I’d heard the distinctive, jarringly human scream so close to the cabin I swore the cat had been lurking below my bedroom window. But I’d never been close enough to one to count its whiskers.
She was about six feet from nose to tail. Her enormous paws could’ve ripped my face off with one powerful swipe.
But all was not well with the lioness. She panted with exertion. The bones of her rib cage were prominent due to near starvation. Her fur was patchy, worn away in spots on her hind legs and upper haunches. Most of her left ear was missing; the fresh wound had barely scabbed over. No heavy teats swayed from her matted white underbelly. Was she too old to have cubs? Too sick? A freak of nature that couldn’t reproduce? Had she been forced out of her natural habitat and was on the run?
My pulse quickened but not from fear. From something far scarier: empathy.
Crouched low, she nosed at the closest prairie dog carcass, the one somewhat intact after my shooting spree. Those mighty jaws opened lightning fast, and the fresh meat disappeared in two violent chomps.