Story-A-Day #20: Tracks

TRACKS

The Hunter touched his fingers to the snow, one knee resting next to the tracks he was following. Four legs were always better than two in a situation like this, but with his skill as a tracker, experience in the wilderness, and sharp-edged determination, he was confident that he would have his kill.

He had been following the trail for close to seven hours now, and he was getting close. A couple miles back he had passed a fresh pile of scat, still steaming in its bed of snow.

The Hunter stood up, readjusted the rifle that was slung across his back, and continued along. He was lucky that it was still early in the winter season. It was the ideal time for tracking because the snow was deep enough to provide a visual trail, but shallow enough to not be a hindrance to his own progress.

He mouthed a handful of trail mix from a pouch on his hip and broke into a light jog. He was close now. As long as he could make up a little ground between him and his prey, and not startle it off in the process, he should make it back to the village with his trophy within a day.

The tracks were large, evenly splayed across the snow. This was no ordinary wolf, but he had known that before setting out. That was actually the reason he had chosen to set out on this hunt. They had been plagued for months, from last winter’s thaw right through until the first snowfall of this coming winter. It had started off with missing or mauled livestock, then a family pet or two. It wasn’t until John Pettigrew’s little girl was maimed that he decided to do something though.

The Hunter paused expectantly as the sound of a twig snapping echoed out from a dense copse of cedars he was approaching. Tucking into a crouch, he slowly angled away from the tracks, headed down wind so he could come in from the side.

He kept his eyes fixed on the cedars, scanning determinedly for a sign of movement. A low branch shuddered sending a soft drift of snow falling to the ground.

He swung the rifle smoothly around from his back, still sidling into position as he positioned himself for a shot. He was already slowing his breathing, raising the rifle for a sure shot.

He slid on a loose patch of snow, slick on its base of leaves, but didn’t loose his footing. The sound of a creek gurgling nearby would have easily masked the noise. He glanced at his feet to ensure solid footing and saw a confusing pastiche of the over sized wolf prints. He had found the den.

There was a sudden burst of activity under the cedars and a moment later, a small grey cub rolled out into the clearing. He realized he was holding his breath and slowly eased the tension from his trigger finger.

The cub crept back out from under the trees and stared at him, an almost knowing look on his face. There was something hanging from the small animals mouth and it took The hunter a moment to realize that it was an arm; a small, human arm.

A growl sounded behind him, throaty and guttural, and as The Hunter spun, he realized that it wasn’t the sound of a warning; it was the sound of certainty.

The sound of the rifle blast echoed down through the valley to the village below where John Pettigrew was anxiously pacing the length of his porch. He froze on the weathered wooden planks and realized that it was over.