Apache Dawn - - (classic fiction .TXT) 📗

his head. Since he’d started wearing it, and the dull brown-green one he wore in the warmer months, his success at taking sample animals had skyrocketed.

As far as he could see, the boulder before him was only about two feet high, but he was sure it would be a nice long drop on the other side. By the time he raised his eyes over the top of the snow-crusted boulder, he felt like he had just climbed Little Matterhorn with a deer on his back. He paused to survey the scene before him.

There she was. A big one. All at once, the fatigue threatening his muscles faded, replaced by the primal thrill he always felt when he was about to take an animal. The big cat’s fur was a distinct tan color, rippling with the strength of the muscles beneath. She was pacing around in a wobbly circle, yowling and panting, tongue hanging out. He slowly brought the rifle up and put his eye to the scope, mounted on a base designed for a shotgun. This way, the scope projected closer to his face, freeing the action of the rifle from blockage. He settled the rifle on his cheek and looked through the scope.

The cougar’s tongue was definitely darker than it should be if the cat were healthy. He could see right away her head wobbled side to side in an unusual manner.

Yup, she doesn’t feel so good…

Chad steadied himself and forced his arms and back to relax and let himself lean completely against the boulder. The rifle grew light as his mind focused on the sick animal in the scope. He put the cross-hairs just behind her left shoulder and tracked as she circled, stumbled, yowled and paused, panting. A few snowflakes began to drift across his vision in the scope. The storm he was expecting all day was almost here. The cougar’s breathing created little jets of vapor that rose like a small cloud above her massive head. He was running out of time. He was still a two-hour hike away from shelter.

One breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Chad kept both eyes open. He waited until he was sure of the shot before putting his finger on the trigger. Breathe in, watch the target area. Cross-hairs locked, breathe out, he extended the exhale and started to gently squeeze the trigger.

The cougar froze, her shoulder blade suddenly blocking his angle on the big cat’s heart. Something had spooked it. Chad held his breath and tried to calm his beating heart. He went over his actions silently, trying to figure out if he’d given himself away.

No, he could see through the scope that the cougar was intently focused on something else to the southwest. He was almost due east, downwind of the big predator. Whatever had captured her attention, she was intent on watching it. She was sniffing the air, eyes alert and ears forward, scanning, searching. For what?

Chad took his eye off the scope and slowly followed the gaze of the cougar to his left. There was a stand of evergreens there that partially blocked his view of the valley stretching down to the northern tip of Lake MacDonald. A second later he heard the sound. An engine. Two. Maybe three vehicles.

“What the hell?” he whispered to himself. Glacier National Park had been put under quarantine months ago. No one could get in or out without approval. His boss had made it clear that his job was to find the root of the plague and flush it out. The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta needed samples. If some assholes slipped past the border and got in here, they could ruin a hunt that had taken half a week. Or worse, they could get themselves shot in his attempt to bag a sick critter.

Not to mention the whole park had been ringed with National Guard units patrolling the borders to keep lookie-loos out. Ignorance and fear made powerful motivators, even a decade after the Blue Flu. Signs proclaiming the presence of Bubonic Plague in the park were good enough for most people, but boredom and alcohol bred bravery. He frowned.

“Crap,” he muttered. When he looked back to the clearing, the cougar was gone. He grunted and lay the rifle down on the boulder.

Well, there goes the element of surprise.

He slid down the back face of the snow-crusted boulder to his pack and rested with his back against the cold rock. He pulled out the heartbeat monitor. The blip representing the cougar was definitely absent. But now, on the very edge of the monitor’s range, he could see there were a few large clusters of blips. The monitor was calibrated for large animals—human size or above. It detected his uninvited visitors.

On the gusty breeze, he heard the wafting sound of engines growing louder. Whoever they were, they were getting closer and running right up into his hunting grounds. “Dammit,” he growled. They were not only going to spook the cougar, but any deer or wolves for miles around. He rummaged through his pack and brought out the field binoculars he always carried and repositioned himself on the sloping face of the boulder.

The early season snow was moving from the west and his vision through the tree line was obscured by what looked like fog. He realized the engine noise had disappeared. Hoping whoever it was down there had moved on, he scanned the area where the cougar had been looking. His hope was dashed. There, on the edge of a ridgeline about 500 yards out, a white Jeep appeared. As he watched, the front passenger door opened and a figure in woodland camouflage of some sort stepped out and stretched.

He could barely make out through the swirling flurries the roof of a second Jeep behind the first, just on the other side of the ridge. Now, two more people crested the ridge and joined the first. They stood there talking. He could see the first man gesturing with his arm, clearly encompassing the sloping ground before them—exactly where Chad was positioned. He knew behind him was Little Matterhorn, the imposing snow-covered mountain that brooded over Lake MacDonald.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered. Four more men in camouflage joined the first three and stood quietly behind them. The other doors opened on the first vehicle and then three more men got out.

“What is this, a corporate retreat?” Chad asked, the snow swirling around his head.

It only took a few minutes for the men to unload from the two vehicles a large pile of crates and gear and place everything under camouflage tarps. Headlights cast beams of light through the snow and trees as the Jeeps turned and rolled off into the woods toward the lake. When the noise from their engines was lost in the snow-filled wind, Chad counted 18 remaining men, a whole lot of camping gear, and more rifles than he cared to see. He needed a closer look at what was going on.

He slowly lowered the binoculars and placed them in the fresh snow at his side. Just as slowly, Chad raised his rifle and peered through the scope. The man that appeared to be talking to the others made some more gestures to the pile of equipment. Then, two of them immediately began digging through the gear pile. The rest began to fan out into the clearing. They moved with confidence and made a box about 10 yards wide. Then, in a single coordinated movement, all of them dropped to one knee and brought their rifles up, scanning in front of them. But, it was the sharp synchronization of their movements that really spooked Chad.

“Holy shit…those aren’t hunters…” Chad whispered to himself. Through the rifle scope, he could clearly see the hard outline of the black guns the men in camo carried. They were clearly military rifles. He just wasn’t sure of the make. A few looked like AK-47s, but he thought it was his imagination, or the snow that was starting to obscure his view.

Chad panned back to the apparent leader of the group. He was using binoculars now, with huge, orange-tinted objectives. He was scanning the tree line and sweeping upward to view Little Matterhorn, the snow-capped mountain directly behind Chad’s position. Then the man next to him suddenly started to gesticulate excitedly, pointing in Chad’s direction. He was looking down at a little black box. The leader with the binoculars turned and looked straight at Chad.

“Shit!” Chad dove for the ground. A shout echoed through the snow. He risked a peek over the boulder and saw the men—they had to be soldiers—fan out and start to move methodically toward his position. They were not running, they were keeping formation, covering each other and moving at a steady, deliberate pace. At that distance, Chad figured he had about ten minutes before they arrived. There were a few nasty ravines they’d have to cross to get up the side of the foothill he was perched on.

Another barked command from the leader of the large squad of men helped Chad quickly make up his mind.

The command sure didn’t sound like English to him, which he thought odd. Chad reckoned the gathering storm was playing tricks on his ears. At any rate, he had no idea who the men were with all the military hardware and had no intention of finding out. They did not look like the National Guard units that he’d seen every now and then. No, these guys were definitely…different.

Chad shoved his binoculars into his pack, strapped it on, and crawled away from the protection of his boulder, rifle slung over his shoulder. He donned his Stetson again and was damn glad to have it on his head. The wide rim of his father’s hat blocked the glancing snow from drifting into his eyes as he made his way as low to the ground as possible. He realized he was leaving a trail a mile wide, but figured that in this case, speed was more important than stealth. The storm was brewing up and his best chance was to put as much distance as possible between those men and himself.

He soon crested a ridge and descended far enough to stand without being seen by his pursuers. The storm winds were really starting to whip through the pines now, creating that oddly loud whisper so familiar to him. The violently blowing snow was producing a deafening roar and easily covered any trail noise he made. Stumbling between rocks and roots, Chad tried to make his way up the sloping base of Little Matterhorn.