After Jacob mentions their dad, Dalton just bends to examine the game and discuss the price. If there’s any haggling involved, it’s Dalton trying to get Jacob to take more. Another impossible situation—Dalton wants to help his brother, and Jacob sees that help as charity.
Dalton has tried to get Jacob to come to Rockton. Jacob refuses. I wonder sometimes how much of that is choice and how much is fear that he won’t fit in, that he will be seen as a freak. Dalton already feels that about himself. But if I presume Jacob chooses the forest out of fear, then am I any different from the women who presumed Dalton stayed in Rockton out of fear he wouldn’t fit in down south?
Those women meant well, but in their way, they were no different from Dalton’s adoptive parents. The Daltons found a boy living in the forest and decided no one could voluntarily want that life, so they rescued him. When Dalton and I look at Jacob’s life and wish for better, we fall into that same trap of thinking what we have is clearly superior.
When Dalton and Jacob finally agree on a price for the game, Jacob says, “You can get me your stuff next week. If the weather holds, I want to head north for a few days. Got a spot up there that’s all-I-can-haul hunting.”
“Or all-two-can-haul,” Nicole says. “Someone agreed to take me on a hunting trip once the weather improved.”
When Jacob doesn’t answer, Nicole quickly says, “Oh, I’m kidding. Maybe another trip.”
Jacob shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “No, this might be a good time. I could use the help. Let me check a few things. If it’ll work, I’ll leave a message in two days.”
One might think it’d be easier for Jacob to just pop into Rockton, but very few residents know he exists, and while I’m uncomfortable adding Brady to that list, there’s nothing to be done about it now.
Dalton says he’ll check for the note. As they talk, Anders subtly directs my attention to our left, where I see another figure in the forest. My hand goes to my gun again, but slower this time. With Jacob, I could clearly see a human shape on the path. This is a big shape in a tree about fifty feet away. The only creature that size you’d find treed up here is the one we were just talking about. The cougar.
Anders’s gaze shifts to Dalton, asking if we should tell him. I shake my head and take a step off the path, trying to see past a tree that partially blocks my view.
For the most dangerous creature in these woods, humans win hands down. But after that, the runner-up is a matter of debate. Grizzly or cougar? Pick your poison. One is seven hundred pounds of brute force. You’ll see it coming. Question is whether you can stop it. The other? About my size. Much easier to kill. The problem is getting that chance—before it silently drops onto your back and snaps your neck.
Yet in this particular situation, a grizzly would worry me more. If this is a cougar, we see it, and that’s really all we need. The question is whether it’s the big cat we’re looking for. She was the only one around—we’re north of their usual territory—but we’ve seen signs that her cubs may have stayed. If it’s the mother, I don’t want to miss the chance to kill her. She’s a man-eater, which makes her an indisputable threat. But her offspring?
Here is the question we face, not unlike our dilemma with Brady. If we see one of the younger cougars, do we exterminate it, just in case? That isn’t our way. But if we let it live, and it kills someone, we have to take responsibility for that death . . . and then deal with a proven threat.
I edge around the tree. The figure is still too hard to make out, between the distance and blooming tree buds. All I can say for sure is that it’s the right size for a cougar or a human, and it’s lying on a branch watching us, which fits for either, too.
I glance at Anders. He gives a helpless shrug. We don’t have binoculars—we were so distracted by Brady that we didn’t grab our hiking pack. I survey that shape on the tree, and I know we can’t walk away without seeing what it is. But we’ll need to send at least two of us in for a closer look, and that leaves only two with Brady. No, wait, there’s also Jacob. That’ll work. Jacob and Dalton can go—
The figure moves and sunlight glints off—
“Down!” Anders shouts. “Everyone down!”
10
Anders’s hand hits me square between the shoulder blades. Even as I fall, I look up to see Dalton spinning toward me. That’s his first reaction. Not to drop, damn him, but to make sure Jacob and I are. Both of us are dropping, and I’m shouting “Eric, get down!” but he’s already doing that. Then he sees that one person hasn’t moved.
Brady.
Our sudden movement threw him into defensive mode, his hands rising as if to ward us off.
“Oliver, get—!” I shout.
Dalton lunges at Brady just as I see the distant muzzle flare. I shout “No!” and I’m scrambling up, as Dalton knocks Brady out of the way. Then blood. I see blood.
Anders grabs my leg, but I yank away and lurch, bent over, toward Dalton, as I shout, “In the woods! Roll into the woods!” Anders echoes it with his trained-soldier bark, and Brady, Nicole, and Jacob crawl off the path.
Dalton doesn’t move.
He’s on the ground. And there’s blood. That’s all I register. Dalton is on the ground, and there is blood.
Even when I see him rising, I think I’m imagining it. My brain has already seized on the worst possible scenario and refuses to let go.
“Down!” Anders says. “Both of you! Now!”
I’m close enough to grab Dalton, and then Anders is there, and we both get him off the path as Dalton says, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
There are no more shots. When Jacob tries to rise, though, Anders says, “Stay down! It’s a sniper.”
Jacob stares at him, uncomprehending.
“There’s a shooter in the trees,” I say. “Get off the path. We have Eric.”
“I’m fine, Jacob,” Dalton calls. “He winged me. That’s all.”
Which is a slight exaggeration. Dalton has been shot in the upper arm. A small-caliber bullet passed through what I hope is just muscle. It should be, but blood streams from the entry and exit holes, and I’m still fighting the panic that insists that it’s more serious.
When I prod Dalton into thicker brush, he doesn’t argue. I get my belt and shirt off and fashion a padded tourniquet around his arm.
“It’s fine,” he says. “We need to—”
“I know.”
Anders motions. I peek around a bush and see what he’s trying to show me—that the sniper’s perch is empty.
“Go on,” Dalton says. “You and Will.”
I hesitate. I’d rather have Anders stay to properly assess him, but Dalton’s stable and our shooter is on the move. He squeezes my fingers with his good hand and says, “Be careful.”
“I’m not the one leaping in to save serial killers.”
“Yeah, didn’t think that one through. He’d better appreciate it.”
I shake my head. Oliver Brady will consider rescue no less than his due. While Dalton can say he didn’t think it through, I’m not sure that would have mattered. Brady is under his protection. Dalton isn’t going to stand by and watch him die.
Anders and I slip from bush to tree to whatever will hide our approach. Every few moments, we stop to listen. There’s nothing to hear, just the usual noise of the forest.
When we’re about halfway to the tree, I pop up enough to scan our surroundings. Anders does the same. A shake of his head says he sees nothing either. When I frown, he jerks his chin, asking what’s bugging me. The calm suggests our shooter has retreated, but I’d have expected to hear that—in the thump of a foot on hard ground, the crackle of undergrowth, the cry of a startled bird.
Our sniper hasn’t beat a hasty retreat, crashing through the forest. Has he retreated at all? I whisper that possibility to Anders, and he nods, his gaze shifting to where we left the others. As much as we want to go back and warn them, Dalton will keep them safely hidden until we say the coast is clear.