I'll come back for the cougar's hide. While that sounds callous, it is the opposite. I don't want this hide. I want to say it's ruined and leave it here. But only the belly is shot, and this is what Dalton has taught me, that if we must put down a wild animal and there is any use to be made of its remains, then we must do that. Leaving it to rot is a last resort when, as with the mother wolf-dog, there is nothing to be taken.
I heave to my feet, and maybe I'm in a bit of shock myself, because it's only then that I think, Oh, shit. Dalton.
In everything that has happened, I've forgotten how it started. That Dalton and Cypher were checking Jacob's campsite while Storm bolted, and Dalton never realized I'd taken off. He's certainly realized it by now.
I need to get back to him.
I look around, and . . .
Which way is back?
Down the mountainside. I know that much. But from there . . . ?
I ran after Storm, focused only on her, paying no attention to my surroundings.
Shit.
No, I'm fine. There's a damn mountain here, a massive landmark. I know Jacob's encampment was near the base. It's just a matter of orienting myself.
I tell Storm to stay. She doesn't appreciate that, but when I insist, she wisely decides she has disobeyed me enough for one day, and she plunks down with only a grumble.
I climb up to where the cougar had leapt from. I walk to the edge and look out to see forest. Endless miles of forest.
"Eric!" I shout. My voice echoes over the woods below.
I scan for any sign of Jacob's campsite. Of Dalton. Of Cypher. Of anything that doesn't belong in this forest.
I see trees.
Lots and lots of trees.
Forget landmarks, then. I know I am on the proper side of the mountain. We approached from the south, to the southeast side of Hawk Peak--so called because it resembles a
hawk's head, with a jutting rock for a beak.
The problem? From where I stand, I can't tell if I'm on Hawk Peak. I'm too close to see the rock formation.
If this is Hawk, then I should be able to see a smaller unnamed peak to the east and . . .
I do see rock to the east. Is it the smaller peak . . . or just rock? Damn it. I'm just too close to judge.
I know my way home. That is the main thing. The problem is that Dalton won't go home until he's found me.
I see a stream below. Possibly a small river. I didn't cross one, but I do recall running through marshy land. There's mud on my boots, so that seems to be the generally correct direction.
I unwind a strip of bright yellow cloth from my belt. Last winter I got lost in the woods during a snowstorm, and I'd been grateful for a particularly ugly scarf Anders gave me. So Dalton now insists everyone carry a strip of bright fabric. I fasten it to this rocky ledge to mark the spot where I've left the cougar. I also attach a note for Dalton.
We're fine. I'm going to try to find the campsite again. If you aren't there, I'm heading for the ATV. I know where I am. I won't wander.
Except, of course, I have already wandered, and by saying I know where I am, I mean only the rough geographic area. Rockton encompasses about fifteen acres. It seems a huge and exposed parcel of land, but it is tiny in this massive forest. It isn't as if I can just keep heading in a compass direction and not miss it.
I won't worry about that. I have my gun and extra ammo. I have energy bars. There's plenty of fresh water. It's good weather. Storm and I will be fine. This is the mantra I repeat to myself as I make my way back to my dog.
She's where I left her. I give her a strip of dried meat and a pat, and we set out. I watch her movement. Going downhill isn't easy with her shoulder. She takes it slow, growling now and then, as if frustrated by the impediment. I know exactly how she feels--I do the same, as old injuries in my leg protest the steep downward climb.
As we near the base, I know this isn't the spot we went up--it's too steep. I'm looking for an easier route down when Storm goes on full alert. She starts to whine, her tail wagging.
"Eric?" I ask her.