Red Outlaw

The Horse Killer

The beginnings of all creatures are small. They always got someplace they started at.

It would sure hurt your ma if you came out mighty strong as you ended up. Unless you laid an egg, that is.

But then you wouldn't fit into it.

The night was settling over the plains, giving ease to the backs of the beasts that grazed. They'd faced the blazin' sun all day, never complaining; and this was their reward.

Darkness.

Unfortunately, with darkness comes danger.

All predators know they got a better chance at night. When they prey can't see them.

As cover of darkness warshed the light til' it was gone, they sprung out from they caves and they dens. Licking their chops in anticipation.

The mama cougar was out her den, pacing. It was a snug little log that barely fit 'er all inside, but she was young to boot and she knowed no better.

She set down, turnin' an ear at the mewlin' of her newborns. She'd like nothing better than a nice fat yearling. On account of her being weak from bringing new critters to the world, she'd have to settle for somethin' a little less than that.

Ma grunted to her cubs, checking one more time that they was fine, and headed off. Her paw-steps was quieter than a mouse, each one taken with more caution.

Though she was new to motherhood, she knowed her territory good. It covered a pretty wide range, overlapping with ground that belong to some of her suitors. A crick run right through the middle. Even through the drought it still kept a-tricklin', somehow. That's one reason why she picked the spot she did.

The other reason she picked it was food. Half was woods and the deer stayed there all year round. But one part brought bounties in summer.

There was no trees in this chunk a land, and it was wide and grassy. The crick ran through that, makin' the grass nice and plentiful durin' the summer.

It called several bands of horses durin' the summer, but only one would fit. The meadow was small, and the grass don't last all summer if more than twenty horses is eatin' on it.

That's when the big brutes of stallions fight. They get there one after the other, and beat down with their teeth and hooves till one can't take no more. That's how precious this high-quality brome grass was to them. Whoever lasts long enough gets to keep it, and keep his harem of mares. As a bonus, that year's colts are stronger than all the others.

Mama cougar scaled a tree with a low branch and climbed, her sharp claws holding fast. She left several wounds in that bark before she set herself on that branch, watching the horses intently.

This year the stallion was young too, but big. The biggest black horse she ever seen in her short life. There was six mares with him, and they all was well fed and ready to run too. She licked her lips, wishing she had the strength to bring one of them fat beasts down.

Nobody farmed this place 'acause of this mama cougar. She was big, and strong, and sneaky. If you had your livestock here she'd get one, and you'd never find her. Especially horses. That was her favorite meal. The men knowed her as the Horse Killer.