Read Online Range War (9781101559215) by C. J. Cherryh - Free Book Online Page B

wasn’t wolf or dog.
    â€œWe must keep this to ourselves,” Porfiro said at Fargo’s shoulder. “My people are superstitious. Some already believe the beast is a demon, as you heard with your own ears. Should they learn that a seasoned scout and tracker like yourself can’t tell what it is, there will be a panic.”
    â€œIf it leaves tracks, it’s real,” Fargo said.
    â€œI agree. So again, I beg you, do not say one word of this to anyone else. Do you promise?”
    Fargo nodded.
    â€œGracias.”
    Suddenly wheeling, Fargo made for the Ovaro. “I’m a damned dunderhead.”
    â€œSenor?”
    â€œThat track was made after the storm. Which means the Hound or whatever the hell it is can’t have more than a half-hour start.” Fargo quickly climbed on. “Stay here and wait for Lorenzo and the rest. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
    â€œSenor, wait . . .”
    Fargo didn’t linger. Twin pricks of his spurs, and he climbed swiftly. The rain had softened the soil enough that there were plenty of tracks. At last luck favored him. He’d be able to follow the beast for miles, possibly even to its lair.
    In no time Fargo reached the grassy bench. He crested the rim, and swore.
    More dead sheep were scattered willy-nilly, in the same state as their slaughtered brethren below.
    Fargo stopped counting at fifteen. He crossed the bench and found more prints leading higher. It helped that the clouds were breaking and the sky was clearing. With six or seven hours of daylight left, he was confident he could catch the creature before sundown.
    Shucking the Henry, Fargo held it across his saddle. He may get only one shot, and have only seconds in which to get it off. He must be ready.
    No sooner did the thought cross his mind than he glanced up and spotted . . . something . . . staring down at him.

17
    The animal was on its haunches. That much alone told Fargo it wasn’t a deer. Its color was grayish-brown.
    Fargo raised the Henry to his shoulder but he didn’t shoot. The thing was on a rocky ridge hundreds of yards higher, well out of range. Snapping the rifle down, he goaded the Ovaro.
    The animal sat watching him. Just when he was close enough to try a shot, it turned and melted from view.
    He chalked it up to coincidence—or was it?
    After a few minutes Fargo attained the crest. Tracks confirmed it was indeed the beast, and that the four-legged killer had gone off up the mountain.
    â€œYou’re not losing me that easy,” Fargo vowed.
    Presently he came to a field of boulders. They were a virtual maze. Some were so large he couldn’t see over them.
    And the beast was in among them.
    Fargo was tempted to rein around and get out of there but there wasn’t room to turn the stallion. He went in ever deeper, his thumb on the Henry’s hammer, his forefinger curled around the trigger.
    The tracks were plain enough. Then, suddenly, they weren’t there.
    Fargo realized the animal had gone into an intersecting gap and he’d missed it. Now the thing could be anywhere.
    It occurred to him that he could lure the beast in by just sitting there. The only way to come at him was from the front and the rear, and by shifting in the saddle he could keep an eye in both directions.
    Time passed. A raven flapped overhead. Somewhere sparrows were chirping.
    Fargo stayed still. So did the Ovaro save for the occasional swish of its tail.
    This was the hardest part of hunting—the waiting. Good hunters must possess extraordinary patience, and he was widely considered one of the best. Once he’d sat motionless in a tree for eleven hours to shoot a grizzly. Another time, he’d roosted cross-legged for so long, waiting for an elk, that when he tried to stand his legs wouldn’t work.
    A pebble clattered and Fargo tensed. It came from in front of him. Thumbing the hammer, he put his cheek to the rifle.
    A gap between boulders