Trapline by Mark Stevens Read Free Book Online Page B

did you find?” said Marker, almost as if he was trying to spare Potts.
    â€œLots of wildflowers and some marmot tracks,” said Allison. “So, mountain lion?”
    â€œI’d like to see the legs,” said Marker.
    â€œDoubt that’s going to happen,” said Allison. “See any bite marks?”
    â€œHe’s going to need cleaning up,” said Marker. “I can’t tell the difference between the original attacker and post-mortem eaters. No major puncture wounds on the back of his neck, though, and that’s where mountain lions like to attack, no?”
    Marker’s stiff-jawed inconclusiveness didn’t help. Allison wanted closure and certainty or new theories to stir into the mix.
    â€œBut can you picture a mountain lion?” said Allison.
    â€œMore than a bear,” said Marker. “We’ll have to see if the dogs pick up on anything.”
    With the half-corpse moved, the houndsman made his way up the slope with his two best dogs, who strained at their leashes. The houndsman had a reputation as one of the best mountain lion trackers on the Western Slope. His name was Sal Hickman. His black Stetson was well-worn. His tired face and the ungainly white whiskers on his neck suggested he was at least sixty. He walked with an awkward gait, as if one knee wouldn’t bend right. His brass belt buckle featured a relief of a mountain lion leaping, teeth bared.
    â€œAnd it doesn’t matter if I can picture it,” said Marker. “Stranger things have happened. A mountain lion will eat anything from elk to grasshopper so a good old slow-moving guy is really just another option. Hey, for him, it worked.”
    There wasn’t much arguing with fact-based reason.
    â€œExperts will get a better look in the lab,” said Marker. “This guy’s too much of a mess right now to tell his story without help.”
    Hickman let his dogs go with a “hunt it up” command. Marker gave him a walkie talkie. The dogs circled, all-business. Noses scraped the ground.
    â€œYou had maggots all over the body,” said Allison, “which means it’s not a fresh kill—those eggs take at least eight hours to hatch. And there would be birds that would come in to graze and there’s some evidence of birds and their droppings but not as much as you’d think.”
    â€œTrue,” said Marker.
    â€œAnd no drag marks,” said Allison. “If it was a mountain lion, he would have dragged the body and this guy looks like he fell out of the sky.”
    Marker sighed. “Lots to consider.”
    The dogs headed off and Hickman followed on his horse.
    Back at Lumberjack Camp, they sat around the fireless fire ring. Trudy’s sandwich concoction went down without conversation. Whole wheat baguette with cucumber, bean sprouts, tomatoes, and some sort of olive tapenade that served, as Trudy put it, as a binding schmear. Tasted like heaven to Allison. If the guys were expecting roast beef, they were likely disappointed. But no complaints were uttered. They were joined by a Colorado Parks and Wildlife officer, who had circled the site on his own and had taken dozens of photographs. He was the seasoned type, with curly gray hair and black eyes. His uniform was spotless and, among all those who had come on this mission, he looked the most like a cop, with his full belt and holstered gun.
    They chatted about the shooting in Glenwood Springs. Marker didn’t know much. The others didn’t say much.
    â€œStill waiting for our first solid lead,” said Marker. “But I’ve been out of touch, obviously, since I climbed on the horse this morning. They could have it all wrapped up by now, you never know.”
    Marker’s walkie talkie crackled to life.
    Allison couldn’t make out Hickman’s garble, but Marker got the gist. “How much farther you going?” he asked.
    More static and garble, but Hickman’s