Sandy slid along the bottom of the sofa and sat up. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“Well,” Hank said deliberately through a cloud of smoke, “look at it this way. If you had a vegetable garden and a woodchuck was tearing it apart, what would you do?”
“Shoot him,” Mike replied promptly.
“You see?” Hank grinned. “I notice you didn’t use the word ‘hunt.’ That’s exactly the way I feel about a cougar. They’re destructive beasts and wanton killers. I’ve known them to kill fifty sheep in a night just for the fun of it. That’s why I’ve declared war on them.” He paused and looked up at the trophy heads lined up along the wall. “There’s another reason I don’t care much for mountain lions. They’re no challenge to me as a hunter. It’s no good trying to match wits with them because, essentially, they’re cowards. All you do is set the dogs on their trail and they do the rest. You just follow the pack and, after a little while, you come up against your lion crouched in a tree like a frightened old lady. After that, it doesn’t take much to knock it off.”
“Couldn’t they kill the dogs?” Sandy asked.
“Oh, yes,” Hank said. “And they do. Old Drum’s been clawed plenty of times, but, knock on wood, he’s still alive and kicking. A cornered animal is always dangerous. I’ve had them charge me on several occasions. If they’re hungry enough they’ll come right up to a house. One of them tried to get into my corral once. I shot him just outside, on the path as you come up to the front door.”
Mike shook his head in bewilderment. “I give up,” he said. “It sure sounds like exciting sport to me. I wouldn’t exactly put it in the same class as shooting woodchucks.”
Mr. Cook spoke for the first time. “I think I know what Hank means. He’s the man with the gun. He’s got the advantage. The sport isn’t in the killing—it’s in the stalking.”
“Right!” Hank agreed, leaning back comfortably. “I remember one time I was hunting elk up in Thoroughfare Creek country in Wyoming. On the first day, I spotted a real giant—oh, he was a beauty! He must have had close to twenty points and a spread of nearly seventy inches. How I wanted that head! Nothing else would do. I stalked that animal for ten days trying to get into position for a shot. But he was a wise customer and always managed to keep out of my way. Not that he got panicky or ran!” Hank broke into a grin of admiration. “That’s the whole point. He knew what I was after—I’m convinced of that—but he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of showing any fear. He was that proud. Well, as I say, we played our little game for ten days and, finally, on the morning of the eleventh, just as dawn was beginning to break through some gray clouds, I stepped out into a clearing in the woods. I heard a noise behind me and there was my elk. He was standing straight as an arrow, staring at me—a perfect shot against the rising sun.” Hank threw up his hands. “But I couldn’t do it. We stood looking at each other for about a minute or two and then he slowly moved back into the woods—one of the most majestic sights I’ve ever seen.” Hank found a twig and began to scrape the bowl of his pipe. “I’ve never regretted losing that elk.” Hank paused and corrected himself. “Actually, I didn’t lose him. He was mine—in a way that no stuffed trophy will ever be.”
Mr. Cook looked over at his son and Sandy. “You boys still want to bother with a cougar?”