Richard Matheson - Hunted Past Reason

Still, the silent valley was extremely beautiful, he thought, then recalled that, somewhere he had read that, just before death, everything looked beautiful. He forced away the notion but realized that his resistance was becoming weaker and weaker. He had to face the facts. At any moment, he might break down, crumple to the forest floor, and lie there helplessly, unable—even unwilling—to go on.

Don’t, he pleaded with himself. Just keep moving, moving. Doug couldn’t run after him; he had to be tired too. His grip tightened on the cudgel. Just keep on, he thought. Keep on. Keep on.

Keep on!

His gaze nearly out of focus, he almost walked directly into the mountain lion.

With a dry gasp, he recoiled, hearing the hiss and snarl of the lion; it was big, its tawny body eight feet long. He froze, preparing himself to die. There was no possible way he could escape.

But the lion didn’t attack. As he stared at it in terror, he saw it slump back on the ground, its greenish-gray eyes fixed on him, its mouth open, teeth bared in a threatening growl. Why doesn’t it attack? he wondered. Surely, this was not another apparent miracle of protection.

Then he saw the reason. The mountain lion’s right rear leg was pinned beneath a fallen tree, it was unable to do more than try to stand on its front legs.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Bob couldn’t help but feel sorry for the trapped cat. “How long have you been that way?”

The mountain lion growled again, a rumbling in its throat and chest.

“It’s all right,” Bob told it. He quickly put down his branch cudgel. “You don’t have to growl.” He made shushing noises until the mountain lion grew still. Bob saw now that its tongue was hanging out and it was panting. “You’re thirsty,” he said. “Well…” He couldn’t very well put water in his palm for the cat. He’d lose his hand if he tried.

He stood immobile for a while, wondering what to do. Practicality advised that he move on, Doug was still after him.

He couldn’t though. He knew that if Doug ran across the mountain lion—and he probably would—he’d immediately fire an arrow into the trapped cat. Or cut off its head with his golak.

He couldn’t allow that. I’m not like him, he thought. I can’t just leave it here. I won’t , goddamn it. I just won’t .

He looked around and saw that the trunk of the fallen tree had some bark torn away. Maybe he could…

Taking out his knife—the movement made the lion growl—he began to peel away a section of bark several feet in length.

“You don’t have to growl now,” he told the cat in a gentle voice, “I’m going to see if I can give you a drink. Just lie still now. Shh. Shh.”

The cat became quiet and watched, seemingly curious as to what he was doing. “That’s right,” he said, “I’m going to try and give you a drink, okay?”

Now the mountain lion’s mouth was shut except for the tip of its red tongue protruding slightly. It watched as Bob peeled away the section of bark. “Now,” he said, “let’s see if this will work.”

The strip was already curled up on both sides. At first he considered trying to use it as a trough through which he could pour the water into the cat’s mouth. He gave up that idea immediately. Cats didn’t drink that way.

Carefully, he began to bend up one end of the curled bark strip. It wouldn’t hold, making him frown. If he only had one of those backpack straps now, he thought. He looked around. Something to tie up the end with, he thought. Something to—

“Ah,” he said. He reached into his trouser pocket and took out his handkerchief. It was still damp but that didn’t matter. He twisted it again and again until it formed a kind of thick, white twine that he used to tie up one end of the bark length. Then, pouring water from the bottle into the curved bark, he began to slide it slowly toward the lion. A rumble sounded in its chest. “No, don’t growl,” he told it quietly. “I’m trying to give you a drink. Don’t growl now. Shh. It’s okay. I’m just trying to give you a drink.”

The bark-held water was close enough now for the cat to drink from it but it only eyed the bark suspiciously, not moving. “Go on,” Bob told it softly. “Water. It’s water.”

The mountain lion extended its broad white paw and hit the bark, knocking it aside as the water spilled on the ground. “Aw, no ,” Bob said. “Don’t do that. I’m trying to give you a drink. Come on now.”

As he pulled back the length of curved bark, Bob wondered if he was committing suicide by staying so long with the trapped lion. He made a hapless sound. “What am I supposed to do, just let it die?” he asked, of whom he had no idea.

“All right,” he said, “I’m going to try again. Now just don’t knock it over. I know you’re thirsty.”

Pouring more water into the curved bark, he pushed it back toward the cat. “All right, I’m doing it again,” he said. “Now drink , will you? Just drink?”

The cat slapped at the bark, spilling the water again.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, pussy,” Bob said unhappily. “I can’t stay here all day, trying to give you a drink of water. A crazy guy is after me and wants to kill me.”

Again, he put water in the bark, holding the bottle higher so the cat could see the water being poured. “See?” he said. “Water. I know you’re thirsty. Now you’re going to drink this time, all right? Water. Water.”

The cat watched him push the length of bark to it. This time it didn’t move. “Come on,” Bob said. “Drink. Drink.”

He felt an unexpected rush of joy as the lion lowered its head and began to lap at the water with its tongue. “That a boy—or girl—I don’t know which but I’m not going to check,” Bob said, feeling a strange flow of happiness inside himself. “Drink. Good water. Good.”

When the lion had drunk all the water, Bob leaned forward without thinking to pour more into the bark. The cat jerked up his head to stare at him but for some reason, Bob didn’t feel alarmed. He poured more water into the bark. “There you go,” he said. “Have some more.”

Without a sound, the mountain lion lowered its head and lapped up the new supply of water. “That’s the way,” Bob told it, smiling. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

The cat was beautiful, its head covered with multi shades of brown, gray, and beige all blended perfectly, its nose dark red, the fur beneath its nose and on its chin a snowy white, its whiskers and hairs sticking out above its eyes also white. Its long body was a soft, tawny brown, its chest white.

“You are beautiful,” Bob told it. “And I’m going to get you out of here right now.”

He blinked at his audacity. Get it out of here? How , for God’s sake? He couldn’t get close enough to the lion to try to raise the fallen tree. The cat would kill him. Maybe glad to get that water but not suddenly domesticated.

Bob looked around uneasily. I have to get out of here myself, he thought. I can’t waste any more time. But, again, the conviction gripped him. He simply could not leave the mountain lion for Doug to slaughter. No matter how long it took to—

“Ah!” he said. Another inspiration. Well, a workable idea at any rate, he decided.

He moved to the fallen tree. A branch wouldn’t be strong enough; he had to have a limb. Fortunately, in its fall, one of the limbs had almost cracked away from the trunk. Bob took out his knife and hacked at the splintered wood holding the limb in place. Could really use that golak now, he thought, wincing at the image of how deadly a weapon it was. Not that it was designed to be exclusively a weapon. That was, of course, how Doug regarded it though. He tried to rid his mind of the image as he cut the limb free.