As another report boomed out, Hank stiffened in surprise.
“No,” he said uneasily, reaching for the rifle at his back. “Those are shots. Somebody’s shooting down near the house.”
Suddenly all three of them were running down the trail. They had heard a sound that was definitely not a part of the storm. It was a terrible, high-pitched scream that cut through the sighing wind like a knife.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Yellow Fury
Mike was the first to see his father. Mr. Cook was standing on the porch, feet braced apart, a rifle cradled in his arms. Even at that distance, they could see there was an air of tense watchfulness about him, almost as though he expected a sudden attack. When he saw the three of them pounding down the hill toward the house, he vaulted down the steps, waving his arms in an urgent message of warning. But they were still too far away to hear what he was trying to tell them.
Hank broke stride briefly and levered a handful of shells into the breech of his rifle. Without knowing why, Sandy followed suit.
Mr. Cook was now standing in the middle of what could be considered Hank’s back yard. The two corrals—one for the dogs and the other for the pack animals—were over to his right. Hank’s lean-to that served as a feed barn was fifty yards over to his left. The dogs, especially Drum, were wild with excitement, adding to the noise and confusion with their sharp yelps of eagerness.
Sandy jammed the last shell into position and raced to catch up with Mike and Hank. “Watch out!” he heard Mr. Cook cry. “He’s somewhere near us.”
“Who?” Sandy shouted breathlessly as he braked to a stop beside them.
“There’s a wounded mountain lion around,” Hank said. The line of his jaw was firm and his eyes looked grim.