Ride the Thunder (30 page)

The thought of the two of them reminded her of the argument she had witnessed. She had hoped this trip would patch the division between them, but it seemed to be worse. Why? She couldn’t find a cause.

Absorbed in her thoughts, Jordanna didn’t notice
that Brig had stopped. The sorrel horse halted of its own accord alongside him. She glanced at Brig, who had directed his binoculars to the valley below them.

“What is it?” Her own binoculars were suspended around her neck, secured to her jacket front so they wouldn’t bounce as she rode.

“A black bear.” Brig lowered his glasses for a minute and looked again. “Near that copse of trees. See it?”

Jordanna located the movement and focused her lenses on it. The bear was some distance below them, a dark spot ambling along until the magnification of her binoculars gave him shape. He looked no bigger than an overgrown labrador retriever. The darkness of its shaggy coat made the bear smaller than it was over a long distance. It continued its rolling gait and disappeared in the trees.

“There is so much game in these mountains.” Jordanna lowered her binoculars and glanced at Brig. The small cut on his jaw brought a smile to her lips.

Brig watched it form with disconcerting interest. “What brought that?”

“I was remembering what a terrible time you had shaving this morning—until I took over.” The warmth of her voice was faintly teasing.

For a minute a smile played with his mouth, then disappeared. “I think I set a dangerous precedent when I trusted you with a razor,” he murmured and clicked to his horse.

As he started forward, her frown was both amused and puzzled. Brig had sounded almost serious. Her sorrel horse fell back into line. A steep switchback trail was just ahead, winding through the trees to the crest of the ridge. It was a stiff, zig-zagging climb, filled with places where the horses had to scramble for footing. Jordanna gave her mountain-bred horse its head, knowing it would do better without any interference from its rider.

The first half of the morning, they didn’t spot a single sheep. Close to noon, they were belly-down on a
ridge glassing a natural sheep basin with a small alpine lake, good graze, and steep, craggy cliffs. The area seemed empty of bighorns.

“Look there, just entering the meadow.” Her father sighted on the southerly edge of the slope.

“I see them,” Jordanna answered as three rams walked warily into the meadow. “One looks good sized.”

“It’s hard to tell from here,” he said. “They are too far away for me to tell whether that one has a chipped horn or not.”

“We’ll ride closer,” Brig said. “We can approach them upwind by riding just below that ridgeline to the right.” He scanned the area again. “It shouldn’t be too difficult a stalk from that point.”

Mounting, they rode along the shoulder of the ridge, its backbone hiding them from sight. At a point Brig had picked out, they stopped and edged their way up to the crest. The trio of bighorns were still there, grazing not far from the place they had first seen them. The ram with the chipped horn was not among them, but the larger of the three was almost its equal. Jordanna studied it through the spotting scope before passing it to her father.

“It’s a good one,” he nodded. “Are you going to try for it?”

“Yes.”

After a low discussion with Brig about the possible routes for a stalk, the degree of visibility of each, and the winds, Jordanna chose the one she preferred. Together, she and Brig began the slow, delicate process of a stalk, trying to make any exposed moves when the ram’s head was down grazing, or when he was looking in the opposite direction.

When Jordanna reached a large boulder within fifty yards of her target, Brig was right beside her. His look said this was as close as they could get. There was a glint of reluctant admiration in his eyes that her skilled and silent stalking had brought them this close.

She laid the barrel of the .30–06 over the boulder,
cradling the fore-end in her left hand, and snuggled down behind it. Her throat was dry and she felt shaky. Ram fever. She took a couple of silent breaths to help the fever pass. Sighting for a point low behind the brown shoulder, she gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle boomed in the mountain stillness, shattering the air and echoing through the stone walls. The ram took a rubbery step and collapsed, as if his legs had gone out from beneath him. The rifle shot had held the other younger rams paralyzed for an instant, before they bounded in a panic to the craggy heights.

The elation of success spilled through her. Jordanna rose from behind the boulder and secured her rifle. Her eyes were sparkling when her triumphant gaze swung to Brig. There was no expression in his.

“Let’s go see what you’ve got.” He started forward and she quickly followed.

Slightly winded, as much from the excitement as the short climb, Jordanna reached the lifeless body. It was a magnificent specimen, with a massive pair of broomed and battered horns. The tip of one had been broken off. The ram had been a part of many fights and, no doubt, conquered many ewes. Jordanna was proud of her trophy.

“Do you want to skin him here?” Brig wasn’t giving her any time to revel in her success.

The area where the ram had fallen was relatively level, without any obstructions to interfere with the process. She glanced over her shoulder to see her father, brother, and Max cresting the ridge on their horses and riding toward them.

“Yes, this is a good place,” she agreed and removed her folded knife from her belt.

Brig paused, glancing at her with startled skepticism. “Are you going to do it?” His knife was already in his hands, the blade snapped open.

“I do know how,” Jordanna told him, her eyes laughing at his doubtful expression. “You’re welcome to help, if you know what you’re doing.”

“Thanks,” he offered dryly and stood back to let her begin.

Skinning for a shoulder mount, Jordanna started behind the foreleg and cut up the back. Brig helped her turn the animal over so she could continue to cut down the other side. After circling out the forelegs, she finished the cut behind the brisket. Her knifeblade sliced cleanly up the neck along the backbone and made a “T” cut at the base of the horns. Working at a comfortably steady pace, Jordanna skinned out the shoulders and neck, careful to avoid leaving any pieces of meat or fat clinging to the hide.

“You do know what you’re doing,” Brig commented.

“It’s part of hunting.” Jordanna tried to sound modest, but she was warmed by his compliment. Brig never praised unless it was earned. She had learned that much about him already.

“You do it very well; I’ve seen some hunters hack away at a hide until it’s ruined.” Brig took over to separate the head from the neck at the first joint.

The arrival of the rest of the hunting party provided Jordanna the tools to finish the job—a screwdriver to pry the skin away from the horns, a saw to cut the top of the skull, and a bag of salt to cure the hide. It was a long, tedious process that required painstaking care.

It was a heavy prize they carried back to camp, the horns alone weighing more than thirty pounds. A magenta sunset painted a spectacular rose hue across the valleys and mountaintops at twilight. There was an air of celebration in the camp that night, a sublime aura of success. The carefully folded hide was tucked in the shady cradle of a tree limb, where it would be safe from scavengers.

“Well, you’ve earned your first bonus, Brig. How do you feel about that?” Fletcher asked in cheerful challenge.

Brig was seated on a log stump, close to the blazing fire. Jordanna was sitting on the ground close by him, her shoulder not far from his thigh. She wished her
father hadn’t introduced that subject of money into the conversation, even in jest. It sounded crass.

After a hesitation, Brig answered, “Fine.”

“We should have had sheep meat for supper tonight,” Jocko changed the subject. “Have you ever eaten it?” He addressed the question to Jordanna as he refilled her tin mug with coffee from a speckled pot.

“No.”

“I think it is the best of all wild meat, as good as corn-fed beef. There is very little wild taste to it,” Jocko said.

“So speaks the shepherd,” Max mocked the praise.

“It is not like mutton.”

“But that bighorn sheep was old. The meat would have been tough, not worth cooking,” Max continued his disparagement of sheep meat.

“Once this whole West was populated with bighorn sheep,” Fletcher mused. “They were spread from the Dakotas to the Missouri River breaks, anywhere the land was rough and wild. They were more plentiful than deer. The Shoshone Indians—the Sheepeaters—hunted them the way the plains Indians hunted buffalo. Then man invaded the area with his cattle ranches and sheep. The bighorn sheep were driven out by overgrazed land and disease.”

“Their scarcity and their elusiveness are what makes them such prized trophies,” Brig pointed out.

“It’s a shame their numbers can’t come back the way the deer has,” Jordanna mused.

“It could,” her father insisted.

“How?” Kit asked.

“Look at Idaho. With the exception of some farming land in the south, it’s basically marginal country, not good for much other than grazing a few cows or sheep. If the government stopped leasing this land to the ranchers for graze, the food supply for the bighorn and other wild game would increase. Also the dangers of infecting the wild sheep with disease from a domestic flock would be eliminated,” he argued.

“In other words, you’re saying, eliminate the cattle
and sheep industry in Idaho.” Brig gave him a lazy look of cool challenge.

Fletcher laughed, a trifle self-consciously. “I forgot there was a rancher in our midst, but yes, that is what I’m saying. Big game hunting would do much more for the economy than the cattleman or shepherd. It would bring in money for license fees, outfitters, taxidermy costs, travel, motels, equipment, and so on. Big game hunting is big business, and would bring more cash to an area than a simple cattle ranch. Livestock and land developers are the enemies of wild animals.”

“That would be something,” Max gazed dreamily into the fire. “The whole State of Idaho turned into a giant game preserve, where the wealthy of the world would come to hunt.”

Jordanna could see the gleam of dollar signs in his eyes. His comment didn’t make her father’s plan sound very altruistic.

“It wouldn’t have to be confined to Idaho. There are thousands of acres in other western states that are equally suited to bighorns and other prize wild game. The bighorn, the grizzly, and the elk could all make a comeback,” her father insisted, “along with the mountain goat, the cougar, and the wolf.”

It sounded like a hunter’s paradise—on the surface. Jordanna heard Brig’s breath of disgust. He lifted his head, the flames casting light on his contemptuous expression, as his hard gaze flicked from Max to Fletcher.

“There are people in this country and millions in other parts of the world that are starving. You want to eliminate a cattle and sheep industry that can feed and clothe thousands of people so a handful of wealthy ‘gentlemen’ can indulge in a game of killing for sport. The little guys are around for you to step on and get a better view, aren’t they?” He pushed to his feet, regarding them with scorn before cold cynicism curved his mouth. “What scares the hell out of me is that you could probably buy enough politicians to pull it off.”
Brig emptied the bottom of his cup into the fire, the hot embers sizzling. “Excuse me, but I need some fresh air.”

Moving with the silence of a stalker, he left the circle of the campfire and faded into the night’s darkness. The moon disappeared behind a cloud bank. Tandy muttered something about checking the horses and Jocko began clattering the pots and pans to fill the heavy silence. Brushing the dust from her hands, Jordanna rose and wandered toward the tents. Her gaze drifted in the direction Brig had taken, but she didn’t follow him. She glanced at the tree where the horns and hide of the bighorn were. Suddenly she didn’t feel very proud of the kill.

Behind her, she could hear her father and Max talking, in much lower voices than before. Footsteps crunched on the rough ground behind her, where the pine needles had been swept away. She turned and saw her brother.

“That was quite a speech, wasn’t it?” He watched her closely, his expression gentle.

“Yes,” She shivered as a cold wind brushed her cheek. “I think I’m finally beginning to understand what you’ve been telling me all along.”

“Do you?”

“Hunting for sport should have more purpose than just killing an animal to hang it on the wall and put money in someone’s pockets. It should put food on the table,” Jordanna said.

“I don’t think I ever phrased it the way Brig did tonight, but it’s what I meant,” Kit nodded. “He’s quite a man, Jordanna.”

“Yes.” She stared into the night.

There were very few details about him that she knew, but she felt she knew the essentials. He was strong enough to be gentle, cruel enough to be kind, and powerful enough to be vulnerable. He was hard, but it was the hardness of a solid rock. And she loved him. The knowledge came gently to her, warm and
glowing, and burning ever brighter. It shimmered in her eyes when she turned to Kit.

“He’s the best of his kind, Kit, perhaps the only one.”

“You could be right.”

“I . . .” Jordanna paused. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. Nothing more was necessary. “. . . I think I’ll turn in. Good night, Kit.”

“Good night.” Her brother lingered for a minute after she turned toward the small tent, then wandered back to the campfire.

Jordanna stopped to collect the bulky sleeping bags. She had hung them out that morning to air and dry out the moisture from their bodies, before an accumulation of dampness affected the insulating capabilities. Maneuvering them inside the tent, she laid them out on the mattress of pine needles. Jordanna stripped to her longjohns and crawled inside the warmth of the double bag to brush her hair. She felt lost in the roominess of the doubled sleeping bags.

Setting her brush aside, she lay on her back to stare at a hole in the tent roof and wait for Brig. It was an hour before he entered the tent. The absence of light gave him a dark, looming shape. She wanted to talk, but she felt oddly tongue-tied. Brig, too, was silent as he undressed and slid his long frame inside the pocket opening of the sleeping bag. He made no attempt to come close to her.