P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

She smiled. “He doesn’t want to back out. He just wants to know how much danger you’re going to be putting him in.”

“If he stays at the camp, his biggest problem will be boredom. And the second question?”

“I want to come along.”

He looked at her, then understood. “And you want to see if there really is a wild one out there, right?”

“Right.”

“If there is, will you testify for me when it comes to it?”

“I will.”

“Fine,” he said. “One last thing: When it comes to my bringing Sergeant Cox in, I need to do that by myself.”

“No problem,” she said brightly. “I’m not NAFOD, either.”

They landed at noon the next day in a clatter of rotor blades, which produced a miniblizzard of blowing snow. The helicopter was a modified army Blackhawk bearing the markings of the state Department of Natural Resources. The crewman got out first, still connected to his intercom umbilical. He stomped around on the thin snowpack for a moment and then gestured for them to come out. Marshall passed the gear bags to the crewman and then jumped out, followed by Cam, Mary Ellen, and the two German shepherds. Cam signaled the dogs to come with him, and then they all backed away from the helo. The crewman climbed back into the side hatch, checked the wheels out of habit for chocks, and then the bird rattled off in a big circle to the east as it climbed, leaving behind a profound silence.

They had landed in a clearing on the top of a pine-covered hill, where the snow was only about six inches deep and solidly crusted. The broad hill sloped down to the west across an open meadow leading to a narrow but vigorous river, beyond which there was a massive ridgeline of snow-covered granite rising almost two thousand feet into the sky. The main ridge ran northeast-southwest for several miles in both directions, but right in front of them was the Chop, a wedge-shaped canyon that looked like God had indeed taken an ax to the ridge. The cut was about two hundred yards wide at the base, widening to almost a half mile at the top of the mountain. The river came rushing out of the cut and then made a ninety-degree left turn to the north and disappeared into a pine forest. The sky above the ridge was a deep blue, and instead of a wind, there was a gentle wave of frigid air rolling down their side of the ridge, smelling of pine and ice.

They set up camp down in a hollow just above the river, three one-man tents for sleeping and a fourth one, which was larger, for the mess tent. Knowing they wouldn’t be packing the gear any distance, Marshall had opted for maximum comfort, even though it would be for only forty-eight hours. They hung the food bags in a nearby tree and then Marshall took them down to the river to show them the way across. The entrance to the Chop was in shadow as the afternoon sun began to settle behind the enormous ridge. The river came out of the canyon with a black vengeance. It slowed as it hit the turn and the deep bare-walled channel it had worn in the rock, then broke into a wide, shallow shoal.

“You can get across right here, which will put you on the north side of the river inside the canyon. The river hugs the south wall at the entrance.”

“How far back does that canyon go?” Cam asked. The shepherds were down at the riverbank, nosing around the rocks.

“About eight miles to the base of that ridge. It widens as it goes back. In the middle, it’s almost half a mile wide and forms a V shape. It narrows again on the Tennessee side, and then widens out again about a thousand feet up. You’ll be climbing the whole time you’re in there, and it’s in relative shadow except at midday.”

Cam studied the rushing waters. “And how exactly do we cross here?”

“Rock to rock,” Marshall said with a grin. Cam had been afraid of that. He knew he could do it, but he didn’t think the dogs could. Marshall sensed the problem.

“You cross, trailing one end of a rope over on this side. We’ll walk our end upstream, just below the bend, tie a dog into a bowline, and then you call him. Once he goes into the water, you pull, and the current will bring him down to you.”

Cam nodded. That ought to work, he thought, although Frack wasn’t really fond of water. Frick, on the other hand, would do anything once. An eagle called to its mate a thousand feet up the rock face of the ridge, and they all took a moment to watch it soar.

“This look like mountain lion country to you?” Cam asked Mary Ellen.

She nodded. “Mountain lion country is synonymous with deer country, and there’ll be deer in that canyon. It’s got water, cover, and browse.”

They stood there looking for a few minutes, taking in the shining granite walls of the ridge, the deepening shadows that were swallowing up the big pines in the canyon, and the muscular roar of the river. Cam wondered if he ought to get going. Again, Marshall seemed to sense his thoughts.

“Let’s go get set up in camp and study some topo maps,” he said. “If your man’s in that canyon, I can show you where he’s likely to make a camp.”

Cam shivered, both from the cold and from the anticipation of going up into that canyon looking for Kenny. He wondered if Kenny was really in there, or maybe up at that other mountain, which was twelve miles north. This could be a total wild-goose chase, and he said as much to Marshall.

“It’ll be a short one, then,” Marshall said. “You two go in at first light, and you have to be back here by about noon, day after tomorrow. Those DNR guys will wait for you until the snow starts, but then they’re outa here. Me, too, for that matter.” He turned to Mary Ellen. “You sure you want to go along on this? Hunting fugitives isn’t exactly in your job description.”

“Kenny’s not really a fugitive,” Cam said. Yet, he thought.

“I’m looking for evidence of a wild mountain lion,” Mary Ellen said. “The lieutenant here has the fugitive problem.”

“I hope you can maintain that distinction,” Marshall told her. “Okay, let’s go get set up. And after that, how ’bout we catch some fresh trout for dinner?”

Cam awoke that night for no apparent reason and touched his watch to see what time it was. It read 1:15. He was completely bundled into his sleeping bag, with one dog on either side of him in the tiny tent. It was definitely a two-dog night. The temperature had dropped like a stone once the sun went down, and he’d been shocked by the cold when they left the mess tent. Fortunately, there was no appreciable wind, but Cam figured it was probably down in the single digits by now. Frick licked the side of his head once when she figured out he was awake. Then her ears popped up. Something was outside.

Cam listened carefully while he groped with his right hand for the . 45 he’d put into the sleeping bag with him. There. A soft crunch of snow-very soft. Frack’s ears were up now, too, but neither dog seemed to be alarmed. Cam frowned in the dark. If it was a bear or some other wild animal, the dogs would be reacting very differently. Marshall? Up for a midnight head call? Mary Ellen, looking for a cuddle? In your dreams, he thought, grinning to himself.

Another soft crunch. Closer. The dogs listened but did not bark.

Cam studied the side of the tent, which was made of a white material. Moonlight was just visible through the square patch of air vent at the front closure. Then the moonlight was blocked out by something large, which suddenly lowered itself down to half its height. The dogs were watching but still didn’t seen upset.

Cam understood. They knew who was out there.

And so did he.

He sat up in the bag, got his arms free, and unzipped the front flaps. Kenny was squatting outside in the moonlight, his face framed in what looked like an Eskimo parka, a grin on his face. He put his finger to his lips and then gestured for Cam to come out. Then he pointed to the dogs, put his palm out, and made the standard “Down and stay” gesture. Cam frowned and shook his head. Kenny did it again. The dogs had to stay behind. Then he stood up to wait for Cam to get suited up.