“Well,” observed Mr. Cook with a smile, “they did. Or at least one of them did.”
They walked over to the dead mountain lion. Hank bent down and lifted one enormous paw. “Right where I told you to shoot,” he said. “Nice work, Sandy. I’ll skin it for you and you’ll have yourself a fine trophy.”
“I think Mike should have it,” Sandy said. “As a sort of reminder.”
“No, thanks!” Mike protested. “I’d just as soon never see that cat again. I’ll bag one of my own. Joe guaranteed it—remember?” Mike stopped and looked around with a puzzled expression.
“By the way,” he said, “where is Joe? You’d think he’d be here, with all this shooting.”
Mr. Cook cleared his throat and looked at the three of them strangely. “I’ve got some news for you,” he said, “and I don’t know what to make of it. Early this morning—right after you left—Joe and I were sitting on the porch, cleaning the guns, when suddenly I noticed him start and grow pale. I followed his eyes and there—up in the mountains behind the lodge—I saw a thin column of smoke. You three didn’t light a campfire by any chance?”
They shook their heads.
Mr. Cook raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I was afraid of that,” he went on. “About an hour later I noticed that Joe was gone. I looked around and called, but he wasn’t in the house or near it.”
“What do you mean?” Sandy asked.
“Exactly what I said,” Mr. Cook slowly replied. “Joe has disappeared—vanished.”