Page 71 of Weatherman

The two men approached the back of the cabin with caution. Suddenly, angry voices could be heard, and Weatherman held up a fist in a muted stop command. Two men were arguing hotly, but with the brown noise interfering with his hearing, it was hard to tell what the problem was.

Fine tapped Weatherman’s shoulder to get his attention and pointed at the cabin in a soundless“Do you see what I see?”

He could make out a large wood table with a cage on top. An angry, hissing mountain lion was spitting and swiping at the bars. Just beyond it sat a row of drying racks with curing hides stretched out. Barrels that matched the ones they’d previously found were stacked next to two beat-up four-wheelers and one brand-new, top-of-the-line Polaris Scrambler.

As luck would have it, they’d found their poachers.

Isolated in the woods.

In the middle of a forest fire.

“Fuck,” Weatherman said under his breath.

“You got that right. What do we do?” Fine asked.

Weatherman unclipped his gun from its holster and eased it into his hand, pointing the barrel down. There were two rifles on their four-wheelers, but they were useless at the moment. “It’s more important that we get them and us to safety. We can worry about arrests once we get out of here.”

They crept closer, squatting low and taking as much care as possible not to startle the two men arguing. Through the brush, Weatherman spotted Clem Gustler and some snooty man in pretend cowboy clothes. He held a gleaming hunting rifle in his hands. Their voices barely made it above the underlying growl that seemed to radiate throughout the air.

“Would you just shoot the damn thing, motherfucker, so we can get the hell off this mountain?” Clem shouted.

“You promised me a real mountain lion hunt. It’s not the same if I kill it in a cage.” His patrician lip curled. “I’ve paid a lot of money for these putrid accommodations. It was a nasty, uncomfortable ride on that filthy machine. There are no bathroom facilities?—”

“Cain’t you smell it? There’s a goddamn forest fire burning out there. We let that cat loose, it’s gonna take off, and you won’t get nothin’.”

“Medicate it and it won’t run fast.”

Clem spat a brown stream on the ground. “That ain’t no different than just killin’ it in the cage. Just point your fancy rifle at the head and pull the fuckin’ trigger.”

Snooty shifted the long gun in his hand. “I don’t want to destroy the head. I want the whole hide with the skull and head intact; otherwise, my colleagues can’t tell it’s a mountain lion and not some other animal.”

Weatherman had heard enough. The area was primed for radiant combustion. Wildfires heated up the areas around them like convection ovens with looping heat columns, and anything that reached the right temperature could catch fire and spread farther. The colder air helped keep that possibility down, but the increased wind negated that affect. Firebrands blown into fresh fuel also kept the beast fed and growing. “Fine, follow my lead.”

“Um, Bryce? I think we should….”

Fine’s voice sounded panicked. Weatherman glanced over at his fellow officer, and the cold that hit his chest had nothing to do with the winter wind.

Walt Gustler stood behind Fine with a rifle pointed at the back of the ranger’s head.

“Don’t make no moves, Mr. Rangers. Let’s git on over to Clem and the fancy man. C’mon now.”

Weatherman eased his pistol back into the holster but didn’t put the clip on. “Walt, you feel that heat? Are your eyes wateringfrom the smoke? That fire is on its way, and it’s moving fast. We’re not here about the bears or that cougar. We’re here to get you fellas to safety.”

Walt licked his lips in confusion. He shifted from foot to foot and kept looking around at the trees. He’d never been known for his cognitive abilities, but the man wasn’t stupid. “I don’t wanna be here no more, but Clem said we gotta do what the fancy man wants so we get paid.”

Weatherman stood slowly and spoke softly. “Money doesn’t mean much to dead men, right?”

Walt lifted a hand to wipe his dirty, sweating brow. “You gotta talk sense to Clem. Let’s go.”

Weatherman lifted his hands in the air, and Fine did the same. Clem grabbed his own rifle from the table and pointed it at the two men when they suddenly walked from the underbrush into the cabin’s yard.

“What the fuck? Where the hell did you come from?”

If this whole situation weren’t already bad enough, it was about to get worse. The wind picked up with several gusts. Not winter cold but one with a hot breath. Weatherman looked up to see bright orange firebrands dancing in the treetops. The constant rumbling drone flared as two large pines ignited with a whoosh.

Snooty jumped back and dropped his firearm in the dirt. “Oh my gawd! I’m so out of here.”

He turned and ran to the expensive, shiny four-wheeler, plunking his butt on the seat.

---