The Night of the Catamount

The "Union Blossom" hit with a vengeance just as we reached the spine of the ridge. In the Kinzua, a late spring snow isn't just cold—it’s heavy, wet, and quiet enough to hide the sound of a heartbeat. We found shelter in a shallow limestone overhang, barely deep enough to keep the flakes off our gear.

"Get a fire going, Pip. Small and hot," Hoag commanded, his eyes fixed on the gray curtain of snow. "The wood’s damp, so use the inner bark of that hemlock."

I was nursing a flicker of orange when I felt it. That prickle on the skin that says you're no longer the observer. Out past the edge of the firelight, two amber orbs ignited. They didn't blink. They didn't move. They just hovered about three feet off the ground, tracking the movement of my hands.

It was a catamount—a mountain lion the size of a yearling buck, its coat a ghost-gray in the twilight. It began to circle, a shadow moving through shadows, chuffing a low, rhythmic sound that seemed to vibrate the cave floor. Every time the fire dipped, the cat drew a step closer, its shoulders bunching for a spring.

I reached for my muzzleloader, my hands slick with sweat despite the cold. I started to shoulder it, aiming for the space between those glowing eyes.

"Easy, boy," Hoag whispered, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "If you shoot and miss in this light, or just wound him, he’ll be on us before you can draw your knife. He’s testing your nerves. He wants to see if you’ll run."

The cat moved into a sliver of light, showing its teeth. I didn't shoot. Instead, I waited until the beast was at its closest point, then fired the musket into the damp earth directly in front of its paws. The roar of the black powder echoed like a cannon in the small cave, and a massive cloud of white smoke obscured everything.

When the smoke cleared, the amber eyes were gone. We sat back-to-back until dawn, feeding the fire with the last of our wet wood, listening to the scream of the wind and the occasional, distant snap of a twig in the dark.

## Hoag’s Hard Truths

"A cat doesn't hunt with its teeth; it hunts with your nerves. If you show him your back, you're just meat. Show him your fire, and you're a problem."