head was crumpled forward in such a way that its forehead was braced against the ground, as though butting it. The tips of its curved horns were embedded in the dirt. Its front legs were pinned underneath it, its rear legs stiff and stretched straight out behind its white rump.
Seaver clenched his fists. Poachers. It had to be. The animal had still been running when it went down and made no effort to rise once it did. He turned in a circle in hopes of seeing the footprints of the poachers in the snow or smoke rising from a distant campfire, but instead saw only an eternity of mountains and forests where they could easily hide from him for the rest of their lives if they wanted to.
He waved away a handful of flies and stood over the remains. Its belly was distended with the gasses of early decomposition, making its fur appear to stand on end. He removed the digital camera he’d brought for documentation’s sake from his backpack and snapped pictures of its right flank, its lifeless face and clouded eyes, and finally of its left flank and the blood-crusted fur surrounding the entry wound. He zoomed on the entry wound, only what he saw was all wrong. The bullet from a large-caliber rifle produced a fist-size crater, from which the tattered skin peeled back, but this…it looked almost like the ram had been attacked by wild dogs. The tissue was macerated and raw, the muscle beneath the grayish layer of connective tissue partially torn. The clotted blood was black and sparkled with a layer of ice. The sharp edges of broken ribs protruded from beneath its left front leg, where they’d pierced the hide.
Seaver looked down at the ground beside the dead animal for several seconds before crouching and brushing away the snow. The weeds and dirt were discolored by blood, although in insufficient quantity to suggest that the animal had bled out here.
He stood and shielded his eyes against the sun. The unmarred white led straight downhill to the tree line. From this vantage point, he could see the faint indentations where its hoof prints had yet to fully vanish beneath the fresh accumulation.
There weren’t any wolves up here. He’d been part of the initial survey of predatory species to determine the viability of the location and they hadn’t even come across any anecdotal evidence, let alone spoor. If a pack had roamed into the San Juans, then he suddenly had a really big problem on his hands.
He followed the ram’s tracks down toward the forest. He slipped and caught himself. Lost his traction and slid twenty feet down the slickrock. The snow churned up in his wake was marbled with pink.
The ram had been bleeding as it bounded up out of the forest. It appeared to have run clear up until the point where it simply dropped dead in full stride.
Wounded deer and elk were known to lead hunters on chases covering many miles. Lord only knew how far away this animal had been attacked or how it had ultimately managed to elude its pursuit. When he reached the tree line, he understood why.
The dense canopy had captured the vast majority of the snow, allowing only sparse swatches to accumulate on the mat of dead needles and aspen leaves. He had to stoop to walk under the lower canopy. Once the slope vanished from sight behind him, he realized how easily he could lose his bearings and become irretrievably lost. The tracks and blood that had led him here vanished in the shadows and detritus. He only caught the occasional glimpse of the sun through the branches and snow overhead. The ground grew steeper, the footing more treacherous. He was just about to turn around and attempt to pick up the trail again when he saw a gully through the trees to his right. Someone had carved an arrow into one of the trunks.
Seaver hopped down the abrupt bank and picked his way toward the bottom. The slope was steep and lined with boulders. Tree roots stood from the ground where the seasonal runoff eroded the dirt. The tree with the arrow stood apart from
Seaver clenched his fists. Poachers. It had to be. The animal had still been running when it went down and made no effort to rise once it did. He turned in a circle in hopes of seeing the footprints of the poachers in the snow or smoke rising from a distant campfire, but instead saw only an eternity of mountains and forests where they could easily hide from him for the rest of their lives if they wanted to.
He waved away a handful of flies and stood over the remains. Its belly was distended with the gasses of early decomposition, making its fur appear to stand on end. He removed the digital camera he’d brought for documentation’s sake from his backpack and snapped pictures of its right flank, its lifeless face and clouded eyes, and finally of its left flank and the blood-crusted fur surrounding the entry wound. He zoomed on the entry wound, only what he saw was all wrong. The bullet from a large-caliber rifle produced a fist-size crater, from which the tattered skin peeled back, but this…it looked almost like the ram had been attacked by wild dogs. The tissue was macerated and raw, the muscle beneath the grayish layer of connective tissue partially torn. The clotted blood was black and sparkled with a layer of ice. The sharp edges of broken ribs protruded from beneath its left front leg, where they’d pierced the hide.
Seaver looked down at the ground beside the dead animal for several seconds before crouching and brushing away the snow. The weeds and dirt were discolored by blood, although in insufficient quantity to suggest that the animal had bled out here.
He stood and shielded his eyes against the sun. The unmarred white led straight downhill to the tree line. From this vantage point, he could see the faint indentations where its hoof prints had yet to fully vanish beneath the fresh accumulation.
There weren’t any wolves up here. He’d been part of the initial survey of predatory species to determine the viability of the location and they hadn’t even come across any anecdotal evidence, let alone spoor. If a pack had roamed into the San Juans, then he suddenly had a really big problem on his hands.
He followed the ram’s tracks down toward the forest. He slipped and caught himself. Lost his traction and slid twenty feet down the slickrock. The snow churned up in his wake was marbled with pink.
The ram had been bleeding as it bounded up out of the forest. It appeared to have run clear up until the point where it simply dropped dead in full stride.
Wounded deer and elk were known to lead hunters on chases covering many miles. Lord only knew how far away this animal had been attacked or how it had ultimately managed to elude its pursuit. When he reached the tree line, he understood why.
The dense canopy had captured the vast majority of the snow, allowing only sparse swatches to accumulate on the mat of dead needles and aspen leaves. He had to stoop to walk under the lower canopy. Once the slope vanished from sight behind him, he realized how easily he could lose his bearings and become irretrievably lost. The tracks and blood that had led him here vanished in the shadows and detritus. He only caught the occasional glimpse of the sun through the branches and snow overhead. The ground grew steeper, the footing more treacherous. He was just about to turn around and attempt to pick up the trail again when he saw a gully through the trees to his right. Someone had carved an arrow into one of the trunks.
Seaver hopped down the abrupt bank and picked his way toward the bottom. The slope was steep and lined with boulders. Tree roots stood from the ground where the seasonal runoff eroded the dirt. The tree with the arrow stood apart from
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