Guard hair
The grey blue tips of guard hair rippled with the motion of her shoulder blades as she eased in a gentle trot through the sage. The afternoon breeze tried to edge its way down to her skin only to be repelled by the thick, downy winter fur. Ears up and feet quiet, she covered ground effortlessly, her amber kohl-rimmed eyes open, searching the sage while the moist blackness of her nose pulled clues from the air. Particles of life carried on the wind from the warming desert settled into the coyote, and she knew things she could not see. Her afternoon hunting would only last until the heavy clouds from the west arrived, driving rabbits into dense brush and gophers under ground. She paused at the top of a little rise, and sat for a moment in the sun. Her tawny grey coat mirrored the sandy ash and ocher of the desert soil, sitting quietly, she disappeared into the blue-grey yellowed tones of the plateau.
Protected from the wind by the big sage behind her, she allowed herself a moment to bask in the warm rays. It seemed the cold of the winter settled deeper in her bones each year, while the jack rabbits got faster. There was a bullet hole through her left ear and more of her pups had died than lived. She’d fought other coyotes for mates and meals, killed a cow dog or two in bloody battles, been hazed by eagles arguing over a carcass. Mostly she’d had to learn about men. The ranchmen and the hunters. She knew to push her belly to the ground and disappear into shadows when she heard their trucks. She learned she had the advantage during the dawn and the dusk when their eyes weren’t as sharp as her own. They were harder on coyotes than anything nature could create. Anything smelling like the ranch required care, reminding her of lost mates and pups.
In the late winter when the rabbits were scarce, she’d slide closer to the ranch, there was a good living to be made cleaning up during calving. If cow and calf were healthy and quick, she’d settle for the afterbirth and stay clear of the hooves. But if spindly legs weren’t ready to run, or a cow struggled to deliver, she ate better, though more dangerously. Nothing brought men out into the sage like missing calves. She’d learned the hard way not to dine twice at the same carcass if it seemed a man had been around between her meals. The vomiting seizures which killed her mate one spring, killed the litter in her belly and left her wobbly and slow for the season, created a memory.
In the sunny patches between the sage, green shoots of grass were starting to push up through the coarse yellow remnants of last years growth. The sun was returning to the desert, warming the land as the earth shifted on its axis. In the window of time when the sun’s rays were gentle and the ground still damp from the winter’s snows, life would return to the steppe. Green grass makes for fat and plentiful mice. That time was coming soon. She stood, stretched and resumed her trot down the rise and across the wash, testing the air for any hint of dinner. Lately, her hunger had grown stronger than her good sense, and she was cruising closer to the places easy meals could be found. She’d be looking for a den soon, her belly heavy with another year’s worth of coyotes.
The sun shone hard and bright against the silver black faces of the approaching storm clouds. Laying on her belly on the little rise above the wash, Cass tucked her chin and rested her cheek on the smooth worn stock of the rifle. She’d thrown her pack down in a hurry and was now resting her left arm across it. The rifle lay easy on her forearm. Wrapping her right hand along the old .243, she drew slow steady breaths. An easy breeze slid along her forehead from the right, ruffling and tapping strands of her hair against her cheek. Her nostrils were filled the winter’s dampness rising off the warming sage, her eyes sharp, focused on the prairie below her. The yellow grey dog Cass had spooked was running hard, ducking and dodging through the brush, alert to the presence of the girl.
Tugging hard on the rifle, she wedged the old gun deep into her shoulder, the tighter she held the rifle, the less it hurt when she squeezed her finger. Coyotes taught Cass patience. She’d watch men waste a magazine full of bullets on a running dog, sending up puffs of dust each time they missed. Cassondra didn’t like to miss. She didn’t like the pocket full of shells or the heavy black soot which grew in the chambers of the rifle with each shot. It seemed shameful.
When the coyote slowed to a stop and turn to take her in, Cass guessed it was about 350 yards away. The scope on the rifle brought the dog closer, and Cass’s silver green eye met shades of yellow amber. She could see the wind pushing the guard hairs of the coyote’s ears, bending them back while the dog moved her nose into the breeze, looking for Cass. She eased the crosshair up to the right, 7 inches over the coyote’s right shoulder and centered it on a clump of sage. Drawing in a lung full of air, Cass paused, steadied the cross hairs and pulled her finger against the cold metal. There was a moment of nothing, then a leap, straight up and forward. The tawny grey disappeared below the sage, Cass noted the patch of grass to the left and the clump of bitter brush just this side of where the dog last stood.
Click, click and the spent shell pitched to the right, landing at the base of bunch of sage. Cass slid another round in and clicked the safety back towards her. Standing she picked up the shell, tucked it in the pocket of her jeans, shouldered her pack then the rifle and headed towards the spot she’d marked.
Patches of snow still lingered on the shady sides of the sage, chances were high there would be a little more before it would all disappear. Winter still clung to the wind, and black clouds were roiling over the mountains to the west, threatening the valley floor. It didn’t worry Cass to be out in the weather, but she didn’t like the way the edges of her mother’s mouth drew into deep creases when the pelting winds of a storm arrived home before Cass did.
It didn’t take the girl long to find the dog in the sage. There was the faintest hint of missing fur behind the right shoulder, no rise or fall of wind passing in or out of the chest. Cass slid the safety off, fingered the trigger and lifted the grey muzzle with her toe, sliding her foot along the coyote’s jaw. There was playing dead, and being dead, and coyotes could do both. The head made a gentle relaxed thump as it rolled back to the earth. Kneeling, Cass clicked the safety back, put the rifle down and reached for the knife on her belt. Warm, loose and languid, the body lay before the girl. She slid her hands through the thick soft fur, bending back the dark tips and feeling the downy whiteness. Smoothing aside the white under coat, feeling the weight and texture of the pelt, Cass envied the skin’s quality. A drop of hard rain hit the back of her hand, and rolled, disappearing into the fur. The wind was pushing harder, and Cass shivered with the change.
As she started to make her cut, a ripple underneath the skin, a stirring of life made Cass rock back on her heels. It wasn’t good hunting that made the coyote’s belly swell, and the places reserved in Cass for small, young things cried out. They couldn’t last much longer trapped beneath the fur. Last winter Cass had pulled back the ribs of a dead heifer while her dad made quick work of its kicking side, pulling the slick calf into the cold air. He put his mouth around its nose, sucked hard and spat a stream of mucus on the ground. Two thumps on the red calf’s side and it bellowed for its dead mother. They kept a couple of old easy cows close to the ranch during calving, big uddered and complacent things with more milk than one calf could drink. Rub an orphan down with liniment, swipe the old girl’s nose with the same and she’d lick the calf clean and call it her own.
There was pile of cowdog puppies in the barn just a week or so old, not too many their mother couldn’t feed a couple more. Coyote pups probably weren’t all that different from the dark colored mongrels grunting around in the hay, at least until their ears got straight, and their baby blue eyes turned a wild yellow gold. But secrets were hard to keep around men whose lives depended on observation. Fat calves paid the mortgage in the fall, coyotes were only good dried out and hanging off the back of the barn.
The sleety rain came in earnest now, cold and wintry. She reached for the still body, made her quick cuts and peeled the hide from tail to head. Trimming around muzzle and ears, up along the eyes and across the forehead, Cass freed the skin from the body. It was heavy, slippery, the pink underside flecked with red.
Draping the cape over her shoulder, and picking up her rifle, Cass set off for home. The back legs tripped along with hers, the tail tangling in and out between her knees. Vacant eyes watched the path Cass chose as the upright ears flopped against her own. The rain was coming in waves, sheets of hard water pushing Cass along. The scope of Cass’s vision would shrink as the heavy water surrounded her, then re-expand as the storm took a breath. While the rain made quick work of Cass’s jacket and pants, soaking to her skin, the places sheltered by the coyote stayed dry. Cass pulled a back leg over her shoulder and wrapped the fur around her, pulling protection from the winter storm. She felt instantly warmer, the wind and rain no longer able to push through the fibers of her clothes. The rain was solidifying, working its way into snow, falling as slush, cold, wet and heavy. The sun and any warmth it might offer was lost to the clouds, spring swallowed by winter’s return.
She’d gotten out farther than she’d meant too, and it was well dark when she topped the last rise and began to work her way down to the buildings of the ranch. The square windows of the house cut the blue black darkness of the night with a yellow orange glow. Cass ducked her head a little deeper into the pelt and picked up her pace. She knew if she stopped for a moment to look she would be able to make out the silloette of a woman in the amber light. Slipping between rails of the corral and into the barn, Cass flipped on the light and was greeted by a low rumble as the bitch rose at the scent of the grizzled ocher hide, pups dripping off her teats.
“Easy, Gem, it’s just me.”
The black and white curled back down to her pups, mewing and squirming for the warmth they needed, the bitch still skeptical and nervous. Wouldn’t have worked anyway, border collies are born hating coyotes.
She turned on lights she didn’t need, hoping their glow would reach the house and calm the worry her absence generated. Hanging the hide on a wall hook, Cass turned her attention to the rifle. She thumbed the safety off and unloaded the magazine. The bolt slid out easily and squinting an eye down the barrel, she could see moisture and soot collecting on the grooves within, rust would arrive by the morning. She reached for an old rag and began the process of maintaining a rifle 20 years older than she was.
Morning dawned clear, bright and earlier than the day before. A warm sun rose, turning the previous night’s storm into tendrils of vapor rising off the sage. The tangled bare branches of the wild roses in the yard twittered and sang with finches eager for the coming spring. The mountains ringing the valley were freshly white, as were the tops of the hills to the east of the ranch.
Cass swept her plates up off the table, washed them in the sink and headed for the door. She walked past the office, grabbed her boots and started to lace them up. The old man noticed her pack by the door and the absent rifle.
“Forgetting anything.”
“Nope.”
As she slung the pack over her shoulder, he wondered aloud about the .243.
“Not taking it,” she answered. There was a steel heaviness to her eyes.
