Cougar Tracks

By Paul Lederer

To avenge his beloved, an old tracker comes out of retirement

After years fighting the Apache for the United States Army, Carroll Cougar builds a cabin in the heart of the Texas prairie. When a local rancher tries to take it away from him, Cougar takes a stand, waiting in the trees when the rancher and his son come to attack. With a few shots from his .56 Spencer, he defends his property, believing that peace is his at last. But another disturbance soon follows, from a completely unexpected source.
 
An old army buddy reaches Cougar with a letter from President Grant begging the tracker to join up for one last mission. It isn’t the president’s name that convinces him—it’s the name of the target: Solon Reineke, the gunman who murdered the only woman Cougar ever loved. For the sake of vengeance, he will pick up the trail one last time, even if it means never knowing peace again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Dec 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497695146

Paul Lederer

Paul Lederer spent much of his childhood and young adult life in Texas. He worked for years in Asia and the Middle East for a military intelligence arm. Under his own name, he is best known for Tecumseh and the Indian Heritage Series, which focuses on American Indian life. He believes that the finest Westerns reflect ordinary people caught in unusual and dangerous circumstances, trying their best to act with honor.

Book preview

ONE

First he yawned, then he shot the one on his left. It was too early for such nonsense, Carroll Cougar thought. The sun was slanting down prettily through the cottonwoods along the creek and the mountains were just drawing their bulk out of the darkness beyond the low meadow. But the Fenners had come hunting for him early.

There were three return shots from near the cabin, but they had no idea where Cougar was, only that he was in the trees. He hated to do it, but it seemed he was going to have to shoot the other two as well. Otherwise there would be no end to this foolishness. The kid was only about nineteen, Cougar reckoned, but the Winchester he carried was full grown.

What they had done was to creep close to the cabin in the hour before dawn and slip across the frosted morning grass, ready to fire at the windows and break the door down if they had to after they had called him out. But Cougar hadn’t been there; for many a night now he had been awaiting their coming, sleeping outside on the ground in various places. And this morning when dawn had broken it had brought the guns and scarlet death to the valley.

‘All right, Trace,’ Cougar muttered to himself as he got to his feet. ‘Let’s have at it.’

The big man wore no hat. His roughly cut, shaggy hair hung to his shoulders. He tucked the small silver disc he wore on a rawhide thong around his neck inside his faded blue shirt so that it would not catch and reflect the morning sunlight. He moved swiftly but easily, with the grace of a big cat, toward the verge of the cottonwoods. He had already spotted another of them – the one who would die first. The kid had been positioned foolishly on the limb of the big oak near the woodshed, searching for Cougar with narrowed eyes. It was a good way, Cougar thought, for Trace Fenner to get another of his sons killed. But then, Fenner never had been real clever.

All Cougar had wanted when he came back to Texas from the far West was to build a cabin and have room to graze his horses. All Fenner wanted was everything. Even though it was Fenner who had originally sold him the Twin Creek ranch and knew full well the title was good, the water rights inviolable, after Fenner had spent Cougar’s cash money he had returned with armed men demanding a section of the Twin Creek water for his cattle. Even then, Cougar had tried to be reasonable with the rancher.

‘You can use what you need, Fenner,’ Cougar had replied to the crusty rancher, ‘just water your steers downstream from my horses. I don’t want my water fouled by your beef.’

‘I’ll take what I want when I damn well want,’ the confident Fenner had snapped. He knew that Cougar was a man living alone, and as big as he was even Carroll Cougar wasn’t going to stand against a party of armed men – or so he had thought.

But then, he didn’t know Carroll Cougar very well. He should have taken the time to study his man. It would have saved him from a dead son and the impossible situation he now occupied.

The kid in the tree caught sight of Cougar suddenly, yelled out, ‘I see him, Dad!’ and swung his rifle around to train his sights on the approaching Cougar. The kid was just too slow. Cougar’s .56 Spencer bellowed, smoke straggled into the morning-colored sky, and the kid, his mouth open, arms thrown out desperately, toppled from the tree, thudding lifelessly to the damp grass beneath the oak.

‘Cougar!’ Trace Fenner’s voice cracked as hysteria rose in his throat.

‘What is it, Trace?’ Cougar asked from the position he had taken up in an old buffalo wallow. ‘You ready to make a run for it?’

‘Run for it! Why, you bastard, I’m ready to cut your belly open and feed your guts to the buzzards!’

‘Well, then,’ Cougar replied softly, ‘you’re welcome to come along and try that as well.’

The day had turned forebodingly silent. The early sunlight slanting through the oak tree mottled the grass there and the dead body upon it. The waft and warp of passing larks formed quick lace against the deep red sky to the east.

Cougar waited.

He caught himself whistling softly under his breath. An old habit. He had been a player in the game of stalking for so many years. He had hoped that now those years were finally gone and that he had come home. Perhaps they would never pass, though – until he was the one who carelessly skylined himself, stepped on one small, dry twig or let metal click against metal, and an enemy with sharper eyes, better hearing than his, won the last bloody roll of the dice.

Fenner was no Apache, no trained scout. He was a cowhand; his boots were heavy and the waiting game wasn’t to his liking as the sun grew hotter and slowly creeping beetles moved over the dead flesh of his sons.

Fenner rose up from the long grass with a roar, his eyes wild and red, hair spiked and sweaty, the lever of his Winchester slicking down and back as he fired three times, the bullets harrowing the dark earth around Cougar’s prone body.

All was smoke and sudden motion, Fenner’s charging, twisting body slinging itself at Cougar as birds scattered into the streaky crimson sky.

Cougar fired once and the three hundred-grain bullet from the .56 Spencer simply detonated bone and tissue as it sawmilled into Fenner’s skull. Fenner rolled to one side, the rifle in his hands spinning free, sunlight harsh on the barrel. His legs were lifted into the air and slammed to the earth again. There was a long, vagrant echo following the gunshot and then again there was silence, the breeze sighing once more in the trees as though with relief after the violence of the morning, and Cougar slowly dragged himself to his feet, feeling the perspiration trickle down his throat and back. He toed Fenner’s body and walked slowly to the tool shed, put down the rifle and picked up a shovel.

When he emerged from the shed into the blinding sunlight the man on the black horse was there.

The newcomer’s hat was low, eyes lost in the umbra of its brim. He had a rifle held loosely in his hand and wore a Colt .44 on his hip. Cougar tensed reflexively and then relaxed, leaning on the shovel as he looked up at the horseman.

‘Hello, Carroll,’ the inrider said, sheathing his rifle and resting his hands on the pommel of his saddle as he glanced around the yard of the cabin. ‘Get them all?’

‘I think so, but you never know, do you, Calvin?’ Cougar asked, lifting his eyes to the surrounding yellow-green hills.

‘No,’ Calvin D’Arcy agreed. He too glanced briefly at the hills where shadows played in the canyons and a dozen more killers could be hidden. ‘That’s just it – you never do know for sure.’ D’Arcy had tilted his hat back, revealing sober, thoughtful eyes. He was long, lean, scarred, and trail dusty, his fringe of mustache dark and wind-wayward. He was a dangerous man as Cougar knew full well, and a secretive man appearing and disappearing as the notion struck him.

‘How’d you find me?’ Cougar asked.

‘I just followed the sound of the shots,’ D’Arcy said dryly. ‘It sounded like a war down here. I thought you might be needing some help. But then the shooting stopped and the last shot sounded like a big Spencer to me. I figured you were the last man standing.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Cougar said. ‘What are you doing in the area at all? Last I heard you were down on the Cimarron.’

‘That was a while back now. I’ve been looking for you, Cougar. You figured that already.’ Then carefully but smoothly D’Arcy swung down from his black horse.

‘Do you mind telling me why you wanted to find me, Calvin?’ Cougar asked slowly.

‘A lot of people want to find you,’ D’Arcy answered with a smile. He took his hat off, fingered back his dark hair, and dusted himself off. Cougar didn’t like the reply, but he said nothing. ‘I’d like to water my horse,’ D’Arcy said, lifting a chin toward the well and adjoining water tank, ‘if it’s all right?’

‘You’re welcome to it,’ Cougar said. ‘I’ll be in the cabin when you’ve finished. I guess my work can wait a little while; they don’t seem to be going anywhere.’

D’Arcy smiled that enigmatic smile of his, replaced his hat, and watched as the big man walked back toward the cabin, still carrying the shovel. After D’Arcy had unsaddled his horse, watered it, and rubbed the black gelding down, he returned to the cabin, calling out before he stepped up onto the narrow porch where a single low-backed chair rested.

‘Come on in!’ Cougar called in return to his hail. There was resignation and displeasure in his tone. The day had not begun well and it showed no indication of getting better.

Cougar sat on a reversed chair behind the puncheon table in the low-ceilinged two-room cabin. He had placed his forearms on the table, the sleeves of the faded, checked yellow shirt he had changed into rolled up to reveal long, powerful muscles. He nodded across to the other chair and D’Arcy seated himself, seeing the welcoming bottle of whiskey and pot of coffee Cougar had provided.

D’Arcy placed his trail-dusty hat on the table, reached for the whiskey bottle and splashed some into one of the two blue metal coffee cups. Cougar didn’t move except for following D’Arcy’s motions with his appraising green-gray eyes. Behind Cougar a mockingbird perched on the window sill and peered in, screeched once, and darted away again on white-banded gray wings.

‘I appreciate the hospitality,’ D’Arcy said. He drank the two fingers of whiskey in his cup and filled it with coffee, cupped in his hard brown hands. He looked around lazily, seeing the saber on the wall, below it an old .45-70 Springfield rifle, the stained and misshapen cavalry hat, and the new Winchester propped up in the corner, a piece of cloth tucked into its muzzle to protect it from dust.

‘You’d better get on with it,’ Carroll Cougar said finally, impatiently. ‘I’ve got things to do, Calvin.’

‘It’s simple, Carroll,’ D’Arcy said, helping himself to another splash of liquor, ‘they need you back.’

‘Who needs me?’ Carroll asked, laughing.

‘The army,’ D’Arcy said from under his unkempt mustache. His eyes locked with Cougar’s, finding mockery in them.

‘Someone’s crazy,’ Cougar said with another laugh, sipping at his dark coffee. ‘Is it you, D’Arcy?’

‘Maybe,’ D’Arcy shrugged. ‘I never give it much thought – but that’s what they want, that’s why they sent me to find you for them.’

‘Who?’ Cougar demanded. The mockery had faded from his eyes to be replaced by steely-edged defiance.

‘I just told you – the army wants you back, Carroll.’

‘The army can crumple up and blow away,’ Cougar said, not with bitterness, but with determination. ‘Are they that needful these days that they have to go out and dig up every old gray-haired scout they ever had?’

‘I don’t see no gray hair on your head, Cougar,’ D’Arcy said. ‘Don’t you go pretending to me that you’re some withered-up, crooked, cracker-barrel codger with your pine box already built.’

‘I’m not pretending anything,’ Cougar said, laughing again, this time harshly. ‘I don’t need to pretend, and I don’t need or want the army. I said someone was crazy – I was right. But it isn’t me. I’ve found a place to make my stand, Calvin, and I’m content and comfortable with what I’ve got. Go back and tell whoever sent you that they’re crazier than you are.’

He started to rise but D’Arcy unexpectedly put a hand on his forearm. ‘Carroll,’ D’Arcy said with deep sincerity reflecting in his eyes, ‘this is important.’

‘Nothing’s that important,’ Cougar responded.

‘Yeah, it is. This is.’ D’Arcy took a deep breath and said carefully, ‘Let me explain.…’

‘Explain nothing. Don’t waste your time, Calvin. There’s nothing the army has that I want. I don’t care to sit a saddle in a blizzard with my fingers and toes frostbitten, or in some devil sandstorm with my butt aching, my throat and lungs burning and clogged with smothering dust. I don’t want to lie low in some ravine with Comanches sniffing around for me, my stomach empty, bugs crawling up my neck, my ammunition gone. I don’t want to stand in a battle line and see my friends shot to pieces, or ride down valiantly waving a saber at the enemy. I don’t want any more of that. No more!’

‘You did do it once. I recall seven years ago at Flat Rock—’

‘Seven years ago, D’Arcy – and that is the point exactly! I did it and I didn’t like it and whoever thinks I’m going to shut down my ranch, leave it to the varmints and highbinders like Fenner, and ride off to a final moment of glory should just scrape off what’s on the bottom of my boots and use that for brains.’

Cougar paused, then asked, ‘Just who is the fool who sent you to find me?’

‘Directly or indirectly?’ D’Arcy asked, annoyed.

Carroll Cougar’s green-gray cat eyes flashed with impatience and anger. Was he locked in with a madman after all? ‘Either,’ he managed to say, sawing his teeth together.

‘General Plunkett caught up with me in Nacogdoches. I’d been … well, I was working up that way.’

‘What in the world was Colonel Plunkett – did you say General Plunkett? – well, I guess he would be by now. What was he doing up there?’ Now Cougar’s interest had been piqued if ever so slightly. Cougar and D’Arcy used to ride scout for the old man in Dakota Territory. A long way from Nacogdoches, Texas.

‘Actually, he was looking for you, Cougar. He’d heard from somebody that I was in the area and he thought that if I didn’t know where you were that maybe I could find you. I thought I could. There were a lot of nights we sat together around a fire with you talking about raising horses down this way some day, that it was good open country and all. Good graze, good water. I sort of volunteered to give it a try for the old man. It took a month and a half for me to find you, partner. Next time hide