Time of the Cats

Ted Reynolds wasn’t the first to actually see the big cat that day. Gypsy was. It wasn’t until he felt, even through the saddle, how the long shiver went through her that he realized something nearby was upsetting the sensible bay mare. It was cooler as winter approached, but not cold enough to make Gypsy feel it. He’d heard a low whistling noise, but thought at first it was another kind of bird he didn’t recognize. But that wouldn’t scare his horse. Then he thought it must be his friend Buffalo Horn, hiding up there in the rocks, and he scoured the hillside for a sight of him.

That was when he saw it -- a huge dun colored cat, so powerful looking, a graceful “almost shadow” that stood there for a moment and then flashed out of sight, quick as a lightning bolt. Mountain lion! It had definitely been a mountain lion! He didn’t believe his luck! After all, it was 1883, and there weren’t that many of the big cats left around, and he’d always wanted to see one. Three times in the last month he’d thought he’d seen something, and once even thought it might be a mountain lion, but this was the first time he’d been close enough -- or quick enough -- to finally get a good look at it. Now he was glad he hadn’t told anyone about the almost sightings because there was no doubt about what he saw this time -- a mountain lion!

Gypsy arched her neck against the reins and danced sideways under him, sideling away from the hillside and making huffing sounds as she moved; it was very abnormal behavior for his usually easy going and reliable horse. “Easy girl, easy,” he crooned, patting her neck, “nothing there now.” She was still nervous and Ted didn’t understand why. As far as he knew, she’d never even seen a mountain lion, or “puma” as some people called them. His father had told him that though there were still some wolves and an occasional bear in the high country, the biggest animals left on this ranch or any of the neighboring ones were coyotes. It was unlikely Gypsy had ever encountered one of the big cats before. Maybe this was one of those built in fears horses had, like their fear of fire. He wondered if people had those same kinds of fears.

He stroked Gypsy’s neck again and clucked to her as he turned her away from the hillside, leaning forward to tell her to move on. She started off a little faster than he expected, but he just smiled. Before he’d come to live with his father on the ranch, he would certainly have fallen off, but he’d gotten pretty good at riding in the year since then. For a moment he considered going back there to tell everyone about the cat, but decided against it. Instead, he’d meet up with his friend Buffalo Horn as they’d planned, and he’d tell everybody at the ranch later.

Buffalo Horn was older than Ted, but only by about a year, and they’d become friends. Ted often wished he could tell his father about some of the things he learned from the Indians, but he knew his father would disapprove of the friendship, so he never told him. He didn’t feel as responsible to be completely truthful with his father as he had with his mother. He’d really only known his father a short time. Before that, he’d lived nearly eight years in Massachusetts at his aunt’s house with his mother. She hadn’t been willing to take a two--year old little boy to live in the Wild West when his father bought his ranch, so they stayed back East. But then she died, and he’d gone to live with her sister, his Aunt Mary, for two years.

Now he was here. In some ways he felt much older than thirteen, but sometimes, well sometimes he didn’t. He still missed his mother, still wished he could talk to her. He wished he could tell her about the Indians, and Buffalo Horn, and the puma. She would have understood. Everybody told him it would take time to get over her dying. But it had already been a long time.

He kind of wished his mother could see what his father had created here. There had been nothing but the land, and his father Cyrus Reynolds had put together all the rest. The house, bunkhouse, barns, other outbuildings, and corrals, as well as miles of fenced range were all his doing. He wasn’t rich, but they were what his mother would have called “comfortable,” and it all had a solid feel to it. But Ted still felt out of place, like a stranger… except when he was out riding. It was the only time he felt like he fit in.

Across a stretch of sand and sage grass, he could make out a rider coming toward him. It was a paint Cayuse -- Buffalo Horn’s favorite horse. He waved and urged Gypsy into a canter. “Hey!” Ted called, and the Indian waved back, flashing a wide smile that showed one chipped tooth. When he got closer, Ted could see that Buffalo Horn had at least one rabbit and a grouse slung over his saddle blanket. One of Buffalo Horn’s responsibilities to the tribe was to help provide food.

Buffalo Horn brought his horse up beside Ted’s. “How is my friend?” he asked.

Ted stood in his stirrups, pushing back blond hair that the wind kept blowing across his eyes. “I feel GREAT! I saw a mountain lion!”

“Where?” Buffalo Horn’s asked him with one black eyebrow raised.

“In those rocks we went to above the spring. You know, the ones with the really old symbols carved in them?”