2 Hours of Scary Skinwalker Stories | It Wore My Elk's Skin and Waited at the Edge of the Firelight

0:22My wife made me promise not to tell this

0:24story while her grandmother was alive.

0:27Grandma Ida died last winter and even

0:30now Tessa doesn't like me talking about

0:32it after sunset. She says there are

0:35things you don't help by repeating them.

0:37I believe her. I also know that keeping

0:40quiet hasn't kept it away. This happened

0:42in late October several years ago. I've

0:46changed the names and I won't give the

0:48exact location.

0:50The closest town most people would

0:51recognize is Cayenta, Arizona, but Ida's

0:54place was a long way from there. reached

0:57by a county road, then a dirt road, then

1:00another road that never appeared on

1:01ordinary maps. It was open high desert

1:05with low meases in the distance,

1:07scattered juniper, pale grass, and

1:10enough empty ground that you could watch

1:11a vehicle coming for 20 minutes before

1:13it reached the house. Tessa grew up on

1:16the Navajo Nation. Her mother moved them

1:19to Phoenix when Tessa was 14, but they

1:22went back often, especially during

1:24lamming season and before winter. By the

1:27time we married, I'd been to Ida's home

1:29twice. Both visits had been in spring

1:32when cousins and neighbors were stopping

1:33by all day, and the sheep stayed close

1:36to the house. That fall visit was

1:38different from the beginning.

1:40Ida had called Tessa on a Monday morning

1:43and told her that four animals were

1:44missing. Two lambs had vanished from the

1:47smaller pen during the previous week.

1:50Then an adult u disappeared from the

1:52main corral even though the gate was

1:54tied shut. Uncle Lauren had found

1:57another u dead beyond the water tank.

2:00He'd assumed a coyote had gotten it, but

2:02he couldn't explain how it had been

2:04removed from the pen. Ida was 78 then.

2:08She still lived alone, although Lauren

2:10slept there whenever weather or work

2:12made the roads difficult. Lauren had a

2:15small house about 12 mi away and handled

2:17most of the heavier ranch work. That

2:20week, he was replacing a section of

2:22fence and checking water lines across

2:24the grazing area. Ida told Tessa she

2:28didn't need help. The fact that she

2:30called at all meant she wanted family

2:32there.

2:33We planned to stay five nights. I worked

2:37heating and air conditioning at the time

2:39and October was slow enough that I could

2:41take three weekdays off. We loaded

2:43Tessa's old four-wheel drive Toyota with

2:46groceries, winter clothes, two tool

2:48boxes, and a new latch Lauren had asked

2:51me to pick up.

2:53We left Phoenix before sunrise on

2:55Wednesday. The drive north took most of

2:58the day. Tessa was quiet after

3:00Flagstaff. When we passed Cayenta and

3:03turned east, she told me not to make

3:05jokes if Ida said anything strange about

3:07the missing sheep. I asked what she

3:09meant. She kept her eyes on the road

3:12ahead. Just don't act like you know more

3:14than she does. I told her I wouldn't. I

3:18thought she was worried I'd blame the

3:19losses on something ordinary and make

3:22her grandmother feel foolish. I wasn't

3:24planning to do that. I'm not Navajo and

3:28I grew up outside Yuma. Although my

3:30family didn't keep animals, I'd seen

3:32what coyotes could do. A predator

3:35getting into a pen didn't sound

3:37supernatural to me. It sounded like a

3:39bad fence and a smart animal. The last

3:43paved road narrowed until the center

3:45stripe disappeared. We passed a gas

3:48station, a chapter house, and a cluster

3:50of homes. Then Tessa turned north onto

3:53hardpacked dirt. The sky had been clear

3:56all afternoon, but the temperature

3:58dropped quickly as the sun went down.

4:01Yellow rabbit brush lined the road. Dust

4:04hung behind us and turned red in the

4:06last light.

4:08Ida's home sat between a low sandstone

4:11rise and a broad wash. The original

4:14house was built from stone with two

4:17later rooms added on the east side. A

4:20mudroom connected the kitchen to the

4:21back door. 50 yards beyond it were two

4:24corral, a small three-sided shelter, and

4:27an old metal water tank. There was a

4:30detached workshop on the other side of

4:32the yard. A wire fence surrounded the

4:35house and pens, but it was meant to

4:37discourage livestock, not keep anything

4:39serious out. Lauren was waiting by the

4:42main corral when we arrived. He hugged

4:45Tessa, shook my hand, and asked if we'd

4:48brought the latch. Before we carried in

4:50a single bag, he walked me to the gate.

4:54The existing latch was a loop of chain

4:56dropped over a steel post. Someone had

4:58added bailing wire beneath it. The wire

5:01was still twisted closed. That's how it

5:04was when the U went missing, Lauren

5:06said. I looked at the fence. It was

5:09roughly 5 ft high, made from livestock

5:12panels tied to cedar posts. A coyote

5:15could have climbed or jumped it. A sheep

5:18couldn't. Could she have gotten over the

5:20side? Lauren shook his head. Not that

5:24one. She was old and heavy. He showed me

5:27where he'd found the dead U. It was

5:29about 200 yards from the pen at the edge

5:32of the wash. By then he'd moved the

5:34carcass farther away from the house, but

5:36there was still flattened grass and dark

5:38soil where it had lain. He said the

5:41throat had been opened and most of the

5:42blood was gone. Very little had been

5:45eaten. I asked about drag marks. Nothing

5:49I could follow. The ground there was

5:51hard and dry. That didn't surprise me. I

5:55asked whether he'd seen tracks. coyote

5:58near the wash. Nothing between here and

6:00the pen. Tessa had joined us. She looked

6:04at the closed gate, then toward the

6:06house. Ida was standing behind the

6:09kitchen window. She didn't wave. We

6:11installed the new latch before dark. It

6:14was a heavy two-piece clasp that could

6:16be secured with a snap hook. I also

6:19tightened the hinges and replaced a

6:21loose section of wire along the back.

6:24Lauren checked every panel with me.

6:26There was no opening large enough for a

6:28U to squeeze through. Most of the flock

6:30was still grazing with a neighbor's

6:32animals farther south. Ida had kept nine

6:35sheep and five goats at the home place.

6:38We counted them twice before closing the

6:40gate. 14 animals. Inside, Ida seemed

6:45more like the woman I remembered. She

6:47held my face in both hands, told me I

6:50was too thin, and fed us until I

6:52couldn't comfortably bend at the waist.

6:55The main room smelled of mutton stew,

6:57wood smoke, and coffee. A propane heater

7:00stood against one wall, but she

7:03preferred the small cast iron stove near

7:05the center of the house. Lauren ate with

7:08us. He and Tessa talked about family

7:11while I carried wood into the mudroom.

7:13The conversation stayed away from the

7:15missing animals until Ida asked if we'd

7:18counted what remained. Tessa told her

7:2014. Ida looked at Lauren. They stay

7:24close tonight. Lauren said they would

7:27and nobody goes out if somebody calls

7:29from the pens. The room became quiet.

7:32Lauren lowered his spoon. Tessa didn't

7:35look at me. Ida repeated herself in

7:38English for my benefit. If you hear a

7:41person out there, you look around this

7:42table first.

7:44I waited for someone to explain. No one

7:47did. Lauren finally said he'd heard a

7:50voice two nights earlier. He'd been

7:52asleep in the room off the kitchen when

7:54someone outside called his name. The

7:57voice sounded female. He hadn't

7:59recognized it, and when he checked

8:01through the window, he saw nothing in

8:03the yard. "It might have been someone on

8:05the road," he said, although the nearest

8:08road was a/4 mile away, and the nearest

8:10occupied home was several miles beyond

8:12it. Ida didn't argue. She gathered the

8:16bowls and carried them to the sink. I

8:19knew enough not to push.

8:22Later, while Tessa and I made up the bed

8:24in her old room, I asked what Ida

8:26thought was happening. Tessa folded a

8:29blanket and took longer than necessary

8:30to smooth it. She hasn't said. You know

8:34what she means, though. I know what she

8:37might mean. I asked if she believed it.

8:40She looked irritated, but not with me. I

8:43believe four sheep are gone. I believe

8:46my uncle heard somebody when nobody

8:48should have been here. That's enough for

8:50tonight.

8:52Our room was at the western end of the

8:53house. It had one narrow window facing

8:56the corral. The glass was old and

8:59slightly uneven and a quilted curtain

9:01covered it. From the bed, I could see a

9:04thin strip of yard where the curtain

9:06didn't quite meet the frame. We went to

9:09sleep around 10:00. Lauren stayed in the

9:12room near the kitchen. Ida's room was on

9:14the east side. The first thing that woke

9:17me was a goat balling. It wasn't the

9:19normal short complaint I'd heard while

9:21we were working. It went on until the

9:24animal ran out of breath, stopped, then

9:26began again. I reached for my phone. It

9:30was 12:17.

9:32Tessa was already sitting up. From the

9:35other side of the house came the sound

9:36of a door opening. Lauren crossed the

9:39main room and a moment later his

9:41flashlight moved past our window. Tessa

9:44got out of bed. Your grandmother said

9:46not to go out, I reminded her. Lauren's

9:49already out. We pulled on shoes and

9:52coats. In the kitchen, Ida stood beside

9:55the stove in a long gray robe. She

9:58looked angry when she saw us. "Stay by

10:01the door," she said. I stepped into the

10:04mudroom, but didn't go farther. The

10:06night was colder than I'd expected.

10:09Frost had begun forming on the metal

10:11railing. Lauren's light crossed the

10:13smaller pen and then the main corral.

10:16The sheep had crowded into the shelter.

10:19The goats stood with their backs pressed

10:20against the fence, all of them facing

10:23north. Lauren checked the gate. The new

10:26latch was closed. "They're all here," he

10:29called. Behind the pens, something moved

10:33through the pale grass. At first, I saw

10:35only the grass separating around it.

10:38Then, it entered the open strip near the

10:39water tank. It was a coyote, but larger

10:43than any I'd seen around Yuma. Its coat

10:46was dark along the spine and light

10:48around the neck. It stopped well beyond

10:50Lauren's flashlight and turned its head

10:52toward the house. The porch light caught

10:54its eyes. They reflected a dull green. I

10:58told Lauren there was a coyote north of

11:00the tank. He swung his light toward it.

11:03The animal moved before the beam reached

11:05it. It didn't bolt. It walked along the

11:08outside of the fence, staying just

11:10beyond the strongest part of the light.

11:13Lauren shouted and slapped the side of

11:15the pen. The coyote stopped again. Every

11:18goat kept watching it. I went to the

11:21truck and grabbed the long tire iron

11:23from behind the seat. By the time I

11:25reached the pen, the animal had

11:27disappeared into the grass. Lauren was

11:30irritated that I'd come outside, but he

11:32didn't tell me to go back. We circled

11:34both corrals, looking for a gap. The new

11:38latch was secure. So was the bailing

11:40wire beneath it. The animals hadn't been

11:43injured. On the northern side, we found

11:46coyote tracks in a patch of soft dirt.

11:49They followed the fence for about 30 ft.

11:52At one point, they came so close that

11:54the animals fur had caught on a cut end

11:57of wire. Lauren removed a small tuft and

12:00held it under his light. The hair was

12:02coarse and gray. The tracks ended beside

12:05a cedar post. There should have been

12:08another print beyond it. The dirt

12:10continued for several feet before giving

12:12way to grass, but there was nothing. I

12:16searched along both sides, thinking the

12:18animal had jumped. I found no landing

12:20marks. Lauren aimed his light up the

12:23post. The top of it was nearly level

12:25with my eyes. Two fresh scratches

12:28crossed the weathered wood. It climbed,

12:30I said. He didn't answer. We counted the

12:34livestock again. 14. When we returned to

12:38the house, Ida locked the mudroom door,

12:41then dropped a steel rod into two open

12:43brackets mounted on the wall on either

12:45side of it. I hadn't noticed the

12:47brackets earlier. She checked the front

12:50door next and made sure every window was

12:52secured. Coyotes don't come to doors, I

12:55said, trying to keep my tone neutral.

12:58Ida looked at me for several seconds.

13:01Then this won't trouble a coyote.

13:04No one went back to sleep quickly. Tessa

13:07and I lay in the dark, listening to the

13:09goats settle. Around 1, the house became

13:12quiet again. At 1:34, something pressed

13:16down on the latch of our window. It made

13:19a short metallic scrape. The lower part

13:22of the frame shifted inward, stopped

13:24against the lock, then settled back.

13:27Tessa gripped my arm. I reached for my

13:29phone and turned on the screen without

13:31raising it. The dim light showed the

13:34curtain moving slightly. We didn't

13:36speak. The latch moved a second time,

13:39slower than before. Whoever or whatever

13:42was outside held pressure on it for

13:44several seconds. Then it released. I

13:47slid out of bed and approached the wall

13:49from the side so I wouldn't pass

13:50directly in front of the glass. Tessa

13:53caught the back of my shirt, but I

13:55leaned far enough to look through the

13:56gap beside the curtain. The yard was

13:59empty. I could see the corrals, the

14:02water tank, and the low wire fence

14:04around the house. Nothing moved. The

14:07ground beneath our window was close

14:09enough that an animal standing there

14:11should have been visible. I was still

14:13looking when a man's voice came from the

14:15darkness beyond the corral. It said one

14:18word. Lauren.

14:20The voice wasn't loud. It was clear

14:23enough that I understood it through the

14:24closed window. Tessa pulled me away from

14:27the glass. Across the house, a bed frame

14:31creaked. Lauren had heard it, too. Ida

14:34spoke from the main room before he could

14:36open his door. Everybody stays inside.

14:40The voice called Lauren once more. This

14:43time it came from closer to the sheep

14:44shelter. No animals made a sound. We

14:48remained awake until daylight.

14:51The second day.

14:54At sunrise, the temperature was 28°.

14:58A crust of frost covered the dead grass,

15:00making the ground easier to read. Lauren

15:03and I walked the full fence line while

15:05Tessa and Ida counted the livestock.

15:08There were no tracks below our bedroom

15:10window. That bothered me more than the

15:13voice. The soil there was loose from

15:16foundation work Lauren had finished

15:17earlier that month. My shoes left clear

15:21impressions. A coyote, a person, or even

15:24a rabbit should have done the same. The

15:27metal screen over the window had a

15:29shallow bend near its lower corner. The

15:32latch inside had fresh scratches where

15:34it had rubbed against the keeper. Lauren

15:37inspected it without comment. North of

15:40the pens, the overnight frost was broken

15:42by coyote prints. We followed them away

15:45from the house. They went through grass,

15:48crossed a bare patch of red dirt, and

15:50entered the wash. The prince were

15:53unusually far apart, but not impossible

15:55for a running animal. Halfway down the

15:58wash, Lauren stopped. The coyote trail

16:01reached a patch of fine sand and

16:03changed. The front impressions became

16:06deeper. The rear ones appeared closer

16:08together. Over the next few yards, the

16:12marks lost the neat shape of paws. One

16:15print showed an extended heel. Another

16:17had a long groove where the toes should

16:19have been. I crouched beside it.

16:22Somebody stepped on the tracks. Where

16:25are their tracks coming from? I searched

16:28behind us. There was only the coyote

16:30trail. Ahead there were four more

16:33distorted impressions. Then the sand was

16:36smooth all the way to the far bank.

16:38Lauren scuffed the strange impressions

16:40flat with the side of his boot. Why'd

16:43you do that? No reason to leave them.

16:46That answer ended the conversation. Back

16:49at the house, Ida was sitting at the

16:51kitchen table with a mug of coffee.

16:54Tessa stood beside the sink looking

16:56toward the pens.

16:5813 animals were in the corral. The

17:01missing one was a small black goat. The

17:04new latch remained closed. The wire

17:06beneath it was still twisted. There was

17:09no blood, no loose wool, and no place

17:12where the fence had been pushed apart.

17:14The goat had been there after midnight.

17:17Lauren remembered seeing it with the

17:19others when he checked the shelter.

17:21Sometime between then and sunrise, it

17:24had disappeared from a locked pen while

17:26four adults remained awake inside the

17:28house.

17:29Ida didn't ask us what we'd found in the

17:31wash. She looked at the remaining

17:33animals and told Lauren to bring them

17:35closer. He moved all 13 into the smaller

17:38pen, which stood 10 yard nearer the back

17:41door. We reinforced it with extra wire,

17:44and attached metal feed pans along the

17:46fence, so anything climbing over would

17:48knock them down. I replaced the bent

17:51window screen, added screws to two loose

17:54frames, and checked every exterior door.

17:57The practical work made me feel better.

18:00It gave my mind somewhere to go. A human

18:03being could untie a gate and close it

18:05afterward. A goat could escape through a

18:08gap we'd overlooked. A voice could carry

18:10a surprising distance in cold air. I

18:13couldn't make all three explanations fit

18:15together, but I wasn't ready to accept

18:17the alternative. Tessa's family refused

18:20to say aloud. Around noon, Lauren drove

18:24toward the nearest occupied homes to ask

18:26whether anyone else had lost animals.

18:29Tessa went with him. Ida and I stayed

18:32behind. For the first hour, we hardly

18:35spoke. Ida carted wool near the stove

18:38while I worked on the mudroom door. The

18:41steel bar was strong, but the bracket

18:43nearest the latch had pulled slightly

18:45away from the wall beside the frame. I

18:47replaced its screws with longer ones and

18:49drove them into the wall stud. Ida

18:52watched me finish. That will hold a

18:55person, she said. It'll hold more than

18:57it did yesterday. She set the wool in

19:00her lap. You think a person took my

19:03animals? I said it was possible. A

19:06person comes for something. Money, food,

19:10anger. This one comes to see who opens

19:12the door. It was the first time she'd

19:15admitted that she believed something

19:16unusual was there. I asked what she

19:19meant by this one. her face closed off

19:22immediately. Don't ask me to give it a

19:24name. I'm not trying to disrespect you.

19:27I need to know what we're dealing with.

19:30Then know this. If someone calls you

19:33from outside after dark, you don't

19:35answer. If they sound hurt, you look for

19:38your family inside. If they sound like

19:40Tessa, you put your hand on Tessa before

19:43you move. The last instruction unsettled

19:46me. I asked if that had happened before.

19:49Ida looked toward the western wall, not

19:52for a long time. Here, she picked up the

19:56wool again, long enough that people

19:58forgot how to behave.

20:01Lauren and Tessa returned in the middle

20:03of the afternoon. Two families had lost

20:05sheep during the previous month, but

20:07both had blamed coyotes.

20:10One man had seen an unusually large

20:12coyote near a livestock pond just before

20:14dawn. Another had found a gate open,

20:17although he believed his grandson had

20:19failed to secure it. No one had seen the

20:22missing animals again. Tessa had also

20:24spoken to a cousin who lived closer to

20:26the highway. We could move Ida there for

20:29the rest of our visit. Ida refused

20:32before Tessa finished asking. I leave.

20:35It stays with the sheep, she said. We're

20:38moving the sheep, too, Tessa told her.

20:41And when it follows?

20:43No one had an answer. Lauren planned to

20:45bring his stock trailer the next morning

20:47and move the remaining animals to a

20:49corral near his house. He would sleep at

20:52Ida's again that night. If anything came

20:55back, all four of us would be there.

20:57Before sunset, we drove to the ridge

20:59where phones sometimes caught service.

21:02Tessa called her cousin and asked her to

21:04check in the next morning. Lauren

21:06reported the missing livestock to the

21:08grazing official.

21:10I considered calling the police about

21:12the window, but there had been no clear

21:14attempt to enter, no tracks, and no

21:16person I could describe. We agreed to

21:19wait. On the drive back, Tessa admitted

21:22that Ida's warning came from something

21:24that had happened when her mother was

21:26young. She knew only pieces. An animal

21:29had been seen around several homes

21:31during one winter. People heard

21:33relatives calling from places where they

21:35couldn't have been. One family left for

21:38several weeks. After they returned, the

21:41incident stopped. "What animal?" I

21:44asked.

21:46Tessa stared through the passenger

21:47window. They called it a coyote when

21:50kids were listening. I asked whether she

21:52had ever seen one. "No, and don't say

21:55the word you're thinking. Not out here."

21:58I didn't. We reached Ida's place around

22:014:30. The sun was still above the

22:04western messa. The smaller pen was empty

22:07for several seconds. Nobody moved. Then

22:10Lauren breakd hard and drove across the

22:12yard. The latch hung closed on the gate.

22:15Every feed pan remained attached. There

22:18was no torn wire. 13 animals had

22:21vanished in daylight. Ida stood in the

22:24back doorway looking at us. She hadn't

22:26heard the sheep become frightened. She

22:29hadn't seen anyone near the pen. She'd

22:31checked them less than 20 minutes

22:33earlier. Lauren opened the gate and went

22:36inside. At the rear of the shelter,

22:38behind a stack of old boards, we found a

22:41section of livestock panel lifted 6 in

22:43off the ground. The ties holding it to

22:46the posts were still in place. The

22:49bottom edge had been bent outward just

22:50far enough for the smaller animals to

22:52crawl beneath it one at a time. There

22:55was wool caught on the wire, and a line

22:57of prints leading north. The sheep

22:59hadn't vanished. They'd been driven out.

23:02That discovery should have made the

23:04situation less frightening. It meant we

23:06had missed a physical opening and it

23:08gave us a trail to follow. Instead, the

23:12position of the bent panel made my

23:13stomach tighten. It was behind the

23:16shelter where nothing outside could

23:17reach it. Something had entered the pen,

23:20lifted the panel from within, and forced

23:23the animals through. The tracks beyond

23:25the fence were confused, but clear.

23:29We followed them across the flats toward

23:31the sandstone rise. Lauren carried a

23:34rifle. I brought a strong flashlight,

23:36although we still had about an hour of

23:38daylight. Tessa came despite Ida

23:41ordering her to stay. After a short

23:44argument, Ida locked herself inside the

23:47house and made us promise to return

23:49before sunset.

23:51The trail divided near the wash. Most of

23:54the animals had turned east, but a

23:56single set of goat tracks continued

23:58north. Mixed with them were prints from

24:01a coyote.

24:03Lauren sent Tessa and me after the

24:04larger group while he followed the goat.

24:07We found 11 animals bunched against a

24:09wire fence about half a mile away. They

24:12were exhausted and difficult to move.

24:15One u had a cut along her hind leg, but

24:18none had been bitten. We pushed them

24:21slowly back toward the house. The sun

24:23reached the mesa and the temperature

24:26began dropping. We were still several

24:28hundred yards from the corral when a

24:30rifle fired to the north. The animals

24:32scattered. Tessa called Lauren's name.

24:36His answer came from beyond the wash.

24:38I'm all right. We couldn't see him. What

24:41did you shoot? She called. There was a

24:45pause. Then Lauren's voice answered from

24:47the same direction. Close that gate

24:50behind you. Tessa stopped moving. It was

24:53an odd response. The nearest gate was

24:56hundreds of yards away at Ida's yard,

24:58and from Lauren's position, he couldn't

25:00have seen whether it was open. I called

25:03for him again. This time, the answer

25:05came from our left, much closer. Close

25:09that gate behind you. Every sheep turned

25:12at once and looked toward the wash.

25:14Tessa grabbed my sleeve. We started

25:17driving the animals toward the house as

25:18fast as we could. behind us. Lauren's

25:22voice repeated the same sentence a third

25:24time. The words were identical, but the

25:26pauses between them were wrong. Close

25:29that gate behind you. We didn't answer.

25:33Loren appeared on the far side of the

25:35wash about a minute later. He was

25:37carrying the missing goat under one arm

25:39and holding his rifle in the other hand.

25:42Even at a distance, I could see that he

25:44was looking past us toward the place

25:46where the second voice had come from. He

25:48crossed the wash quickly. The goat had a

25:51shallow cut across its shoulder. Lauren

25:54had found it pinned against a rock shelf

25:56with the large coyote standing over it.

25:58He'd fired into the ground because the

26:00goat was directly behind the animal. The

26:03coyote had jumped sideways and

26:04disappeared before he could fire again.

26:07I asked if he'd called to us. I said I

26:10was all right. That was it. Tessa asked

26:14about the sentence we had heard. Lauren

26:16looked at the sheep. I said that to him

26:19yesterday. To who? He pointed at me.

26:24When you two came through the corral, I

26:26told him to close the gate behind him.

26:29The exact words had been closed that

26:31gate behind you. Something near the wash

26:34had heard Lauren say them the previous

26:36afternoon. Now it was using the sentence

26:39without understanding when it belonged.

26:41We got the 11 animals and the injured

26:43goat back to Ida's yard just before

26:45sunset. One animal from the original

26:48group was still missing. Lauren wanted

26:51to search for it, but Ida came outside

26:53and ordered him into the house. There

26:55was no discussion this time. The pen no

26:58longer seemed secure, so we put the

27:00animals in the workshop. It had a

27:03concrete floor, two small windows, and a

27:06wide rolling door that locked from

27:07inside. We moved the tools and fuel cans

27:10into the yard, spread hay across the

27:13floor, and led the animals in. It wasn't

27:16a good place to keep them, but nothing

27:18could bend the lower wall or climb over

27:20it. 12 animals went inside. We counted

27:24three times. I parked our Toyota across

27:27the workshop door. Lauren backed Ida's

27:30old pickup against the smaller side

27:31entrance. If a person tried to open

27:34either door, they'd have to move a

27:36vehicle first. By the time we finished,

27:39there was no light left in the western

27:40sky.

27:43The second night,

27:45we kept every exterior light on. Ida

27:48shut the curtains and Lauren placed his

27:50rifle on the kitchen table. I set the

27:53tire iron beside the mudroom door,

27:55although it seemed useless after what

27:57we'd heard in the wash. Nobody wanted

28:00dinner. We drank coffee and sat in the

28:02main room while the workshop filled with

28:04the low movement of confined animals.

28:07The house was small enough that we could

28:09see all three bedroom doors from the

28:10table. At 7:40, [music]

28:13a feed pan fell from the empty corral.

28:16The metal struck the ground and rolled.

28:18A second pan fell several yards away.

28:21Then a third came loose at the far end

28:23of the fence. Whatever was outside was

28:26moving around the pen in order. Lauren

28:29reached for his rifle. Ida put her hand

28:31over the stock. "They're not in there,"

28:34she said. "It knows that." The fourth

28:37pan dropped. I moved to the kitchen

28:40window and lifted one edge of the

28:41curtain. The porch light showed the

28:44empty pen and part of the workshop.

28:46Nothing stood near the fence. The fallen

28:49pans lay several feet apart. The fifth

28:52pan didn't fall. It rose slowly until

28:55the wire holding it became tight. For a

28:58second, it hung level with the top of

29:00the fence. Then the wire snapped and the

29:03pan disappeared on the dark side of the

29:05corral. I let the curtain close. Tessa

29:09asked what I'd seen. I told her. Lauren

29:13checked the time. Nobody opens a door

29:15until morning. At 8:15, the animals in

29:19the workshop began moving. Their hooves

29:22scraped over concrete. They crowded

29:24toward the wall nearest the house, then

29:26shifted to the opposite side as

29:28something passed between the buildings.

29:31The porch light over the workshop went

29:33out. It didn't flicker. The bulb simply

29:36stopped. The next light was above the

29:39mudroom. It remained on for another 10

29:41seconds, then went dark, too. I thought

29:44we'd lost power, but the lights inside

29:47the house were still working. So was the

29:49fixture above the front door. I knew the

29:52outside lights were on separate

29:54switches. I had checked them that

29:56morning while tightening the window

29:57frames. The bulbs were new compact

30:00fluorescents protected by wire cages.

30:04Something had moved from the workshop to

30:05the back of the house and disabled two

30:08of them. I told everyone to stay away

30:10from the windows. We turned off the main

30:13room lamps so our eyes could adjust. The

30:16wood stove gave off enough red light to

30:18see one another. For nearly an hour,

30:21nothing happened. At 9:12, someone tried

30:25the mudroom door. The outside handle

30:27turned down. The latch pressed against

30:30the strike plate and stopped. The handle

30:32returned to its resting position. After

30:35a few seconds, it turned again. This

30:38wasn't an animal brushing past.

30:40Something was operating the handle.

30:43Lauren raised the rifle and aimed

30:45through the open kitchen doorway. I

30:47stood beside the steel bar Ida had made

30:49me reinforce. Tessa stayed with Ida in

30:52the main room. The handle moved a third

30:55time. Then whoever held it pushed. The

30:58door flexed inward. The steel rod took

31:01the pressure. It wasn't a violent hit.

31:04The pressure increased gradually until

31:06the old frame creaked around the screws.

31:08Then it eased. I heard movement near the

31:11bottom of the door. The weather strip

31:13lifted slightly and cold air crossed my

31:16ankles. Something passed along the gap

31:19from left to right, feeling for an

31:21opening. The goats in the workshop began

31:23balling again. The outside handle

31:25stopped moving. From the yard, Tessa's

31:29voice said, "Can you give me a hand?" My

31:32entire body reacted before my mind did.

31:35I turned toward the door and reached for

31:37the bar. Tessa caught my wrist. She was

31:40standing directly behind me. I hadn't

31:43heard her leave the main room. For one

31:45confused second, I thought the voice

31:47behind the door had been real, and the

31:49woman holding my arm was the thing Ida

31:52feared. "Tessa must have seen it on my

31:55face. She placed both hands against my

31:57cheeks and made me look at her. "I'm

32:00here," she said quietly. The voice in

32:03the yard repeated the sentence. "Can you

32:06give me a hand?"

32:08It sounded exactly like her. The pitch,

32:11the slight roughness at the end, even

32:14the way she shortened the first word.

32:16But Tessa hadn't said that sentence

32:18since the afternoon when she'd asked me

32:20to help lift the bent livestock panel.

32:23The thing outside had been close enough

32:25to hear her then. Ida crossed the room

32:28and pulled Tessa away from the door. She

32:31motioned for all of us to stay silent.

32:33The copied voice tried again from the

32:35far side of the yard.

32:37Can you give me a hand? It moved to our

32:40bedroom window. Can you give me a hand?

32:43Then it came from the front of the

32:45house. Can you give me a hand? Each time

32:49it used the same rhythm. There was no

32:51fear or impatience in it. It wasn't

32:54asking for help. It was playing back a

32:57sound and waiting to see which door

32:59opened. The voice stopped around 10:00.

33:02At 11, the fixture above the front door

33:04went out. We waited in the dark house

33:07for the next handle to move. None did.

33:11Instead, something walked around the

33:13exterior wall close enough that its coat

33:15brushed the siding. It passed our

33:18bedroom, the front room, Ida's room, and

33:21the mudroom. Then, it made the same

33:23circuit again. On the third pass, it

33:26stopped outside the kitchen window. The

33:29curtain shifted inward as something

33:31touched the glass. I could hear its

33:33breathing. The breaths were deep and

33:35quick, coming through an open mouth. A

33:38coyote might have breathed that way

33:40after running, but this animal had been

33:42moving slowly. Ida sat with her eyes

33:45closed. Her lips moved, but no sound

33:48came out. Loren kept his rifle trained

33:51on the window. The breathing rose until

33:54it came from above the middle of the

33:55glass. The bottom of that window was

33:58about 4 ft off the ground. Whatever was

34:01outside had lifted its head higher than

34:03mine. One of the goats screamed in the

34:05workshop. The sound was cut short by the

34:08rest of the flock crashing against the

34:10metal door. The breathing disappeared

34:12from the window. The Toyota's alarm

34:15began blaring. I had never heard it

34:17sound on its own. The vehicle was parked

34:20nosefirst against the workshop at least

34:2250 yard from the house. Its lights

34:25flashed across the yard, giving us brief

34:28views through the edges of the curtains.

34:30During one flash, I saw the coyote

34:32beside the driver's door. During the

34:35next, it was standing at the rear of the

34:37vehicle. On the third, it had moved onto

34:40the hood. The image lasted less than a

34:43second. The animal faced the house. Its

34:46front legs were straight, and its

34:48shoulders sat higher than the windshield

34:50wipers. It was too large to be the same

34:53coyote we'd watched beyond the pen, yet

34:55its coat had the same pale band around

34:57the neck. Then the alarm stopped. We saw

35:01no more of it that night. Just before

35:04dawn, a heavy impact struck the

35:05workshop's rolling door. The animals

35:08scattered inside. Loren and I both moved

35:11toward the mudroom, but Ida blocked us.

35:14"It's almost light," I told her. "Almost

35:16isn't light." We waited another 40

35:19minutes. When the sun cleared the

35:21horizon, we went outside together. The

35:25workshop doors were still locked. The

35:27vehicles hadn't moved. All 12 animals

35:30were alive. The Toyota's hood was

35:33covered with dusty prints. Most were

35:36coyote tracks. Four near the windshield

35:39were long and narrow with separated

35:41marks at the ends. They looked less like

35:44paws than the impressions left by

35:46someone wearing gloves.

35:48The driver's handle had been pulled

35:50outward so hard that the trim around it

35:53had cracked. Above the mudroom, the wire

35:56cage had been opened and the light bulb

35:58unscrewed.

36:00The workshop bulb had been removed the

36:02same way. "We found both bulbs placed

36:05upright beneath our bedroom window."

36:07Lauren looked at them for a long time.

36:10"It has hands," he said. Ida corrected

36:14him. "It uses hands."

36:17The third day,

36:20Lauren brought his stock trailer from

36:22home shortly after breakfast. We loaded

36:25the 12 remaining animals and moved them

36:27to his corral in two trips. His house

36:30was closer to other relatives and the

36:32pen stood under a yard light. He planned

36:35to sleep in his workshop beside them.

36:37Tessa wanted Ida to go with him. Ida

36:40refused again. This time I supported

36:43Tessa. Whatever was visiting the house

36:45had tried the doors. disabled lights and

36:48pulled at our vehicle. The fact that it

36:50hadn't entered didn't mean it couldn't.

36:53Ida listened without interrupting, then

36:55said she would leave the following

36:57morning. She wanted time to close the

36:59house properly and collect medication

37:01and clothes. I thought that was

37:03stubborn, but not unreasonable. It was

37:06full daylight. Lauren would return after

37:09sunrise, and the three of us could drive

37:11to Tessa's cousin's home near the

37:12highway. We could stay there while the

37:15family decided what to do about the

37:16livestock.

37:18Lauren made me promise not to leave Ida

37:20alone. Before he drove away with the

37:23second load, he gave me a short

37:24leveraction rifle and showed me how to

37:27work it. He said he kept a second rifle

37:29at his house. I'd fired rifles before,

37:33but never at an animal. He told me not

37:36to shoot through a window unless I knew

37:38exactly where Ida and Tessa were. The

37:41rest of the day passed quietly. I

37:43replaced the outside bulbs and added

37:45padlocks to the workshop. Tessa helped

37:48Ida pack. We carried food, blankets, and

37:51important papers to the Toyota so we

37:53could leave quickly in the morning. By

37:55early afternoon, I inspected the marks

37:58on the hood again. The dust had been

38:00disturbed by the wind, but one long

38:03print remained near the passenger side

38:04wiper. It had a pad at the base and four

38:08narrow extensions.

38:10There was no fifth mark where a thumb

38:11would be. I couldn't decide whether it

38:14was a damaged coyote track or a hand

38:16missing one digit. I wiped the hood

38:19clean. Around three, Tessa and I walked

38:22the yard. Without livestock in the pens,

38:26the place felt exposed. The wire fences

38:29offered no protection. The empty

38:31workshop stood where we'd parked the

38:33Toyota the previous night, and the low

38:36sandstone rise blocked our view of the

38:38northern flats. We found the missing U

38:41near the bottom of the wash. She was

38:43alive. The animal stood with her head

38:46lowered facing the bank. When Tessa

38:49approached, the U didn't turn. A length

38:52of bailing wire had been looped loosely

38:54around one hind leg and secured to a

38:56greasewood branch. The wire wasn't tight

38:59enough to injure her. It only kept her

39:01from climbing out. I freed the leg. The

39:05knot was a simple twist, the kind Lauren

39:08used around the corral. The U finally

39:10raised her head. Her wool was damp

39:13around the neck, but I found no bite. We

39:16led her back to the yard and put her in

39:18the locked workshop. Lauren could

39:20collect her in the morning. "It kept

39:23one," Tessa said. "Maybe she caught

39:25herself. It kept one where we'd find her

39:28after the others were gone." I couldn't

39:31argue. We returned to the wash with the

39:34rifle and searched the bank. Coyote

39:37prints surrounded the place where the U

39:38had been standing. They went up and down

39:41both sides. Among them were several

39:44marks with extended heels. Near the

39:47greasewood branch, the sand held the

39:49impression of two knees. Something had

39:52knelt there while it fastened the wire.

39:54We went straight back to the house. As

39:57dusk approached, the wind increased.

39:59Dust moved across the flats in low

40:01sheets. The sky remained clear, but a

40:04bank of darker clouds hung far to the

40:06north. Ida closed every curtain before

40:09the sun reached the mesa. We ate early

40:12and washed the dishes while there was

40:14still light. I checked the steel bar

40:16across the mudroom door, locked the

40:18front, and placed Lauren's rifle on the

40:21table. The U moved occasionally inside

40:24the workshop. Aside from that, the yard

40:26was silent. Tessa turned off the porch

40:29lights. I asked why. It used them to

40:32watch us, she said. Tonight, it doesn't

40:35get to see where we are. Ida approved.

40:39We left one lamp on in the central room

40:41and kept the bedroom doors open. Before

40:44full dark, Ida told us the rule she had

40:47not wanted to explain. It can't call in

40:50a voice it hasn't taken time to learn,

40:52she said. First it listens, then it uses

40:56what it heard. If it speaks with

40:58somebody's voice, that means it has been

41:00close to them. I asked how close. Close

41:04enough. Tessa looked toward the door.

41:07Lauren was 12 mi away, alone beside the

41:10remaining flock. We had no service at

41:13the house. We couldn't warn him without

41:15driving to the ridge, and the last of

41:17the daylight was gone. Ida said Lauren

41:20already knew. At 7:20, the U in the

41:24workshop began calling. The sound

41:26continued for several minutes, steady

41:28and anxious. Then another U answered

41:31from somewhere north of the house. There

41:33was only one animal on the property. The

41:36answering call came again, closer to the

41:38corral. The U in the workshop became

41:41frantic. She struck the door from inside

41:44and made the metal shake. I moved toward

41:47the kitchen window. Tessa stopped me. It

41:50wants you looking out. We stayed in the

41:53center of the room. The false you called

41:56from beside the workshop, then from the

41:58yard, then from directly outside the

42:00mudroom. Each call was a nearly perfect

42:03copy, but they were all the same length.

42:06The back door handle turned. It pressed

42:09once against the locked latch and

42:11released. A moment later, the front door

42:14handle moved, too.

42:16The thing outside was no longer

42:18repeating one action for an hour. It

42:20remembered both entrances. The front

42:23handle moved again. Then our bedroom

42:25window shifted against its lock. It was

42:28checking the house in the same order

42:30we'd checked it before sunset.

42:32I realized it must have watched us

42:34during the day. At 8, a vehicle appeared

42:37on the southern road. Its headlights

42:40rose and fell behind the low ground as

42:42it approached. Tessa hurried to the

42:44kitchen window and looked through the

42:46curtain. It's Lauren's truck. I felt

42:49immediate relief. Ida didn't move from

42:52her chair. The headlights stopped at the

42:55outer cattle guard a quarter mile from

42:57the house. The engine remained there for

43:00a few seconds, then shut off. Darkness

43:04returned to the road. We waited for the

43:06truck to start again. It didn't. 5

43:09minutes passed. Then Lauren called from

43:12outside the mudroom. Open up. My truck

43:15quit. Tessa moved toward the kitchen.

43:18Ida caught her around the waist. No, Ida

43:22said. It's him. We saw the truck. Look

43:26first. I went to the narrow window in

43:28the back door. The yard beyond it was

43:31dark. I couldn't see anyone on the step.

43:35Lauren spoke again. Open up. My truck

43:38quit. The voice came from directly below

43:41the window where a person would have

43:43been visible. I raised the rifle but

43:45kept it pointed at the floor. Lauren, I

43:49said, "What did you give me this

43:50morning?" Ida made a sharp sound behind

43:54me. I realized too late that I had

43:56answered it. The thing outside went

43:59quiet. I waited for Lauren to name the

44:02rifle. Instead, his voice said, "What

44:06did you give me this morning?"

44:08It had learned my sentence after hearing

44:10it once. Something struck the door with

44:12enough force to shake the kitchen wall.

44:15Tessa pulled me back. The steel rod

44:17held. The next impact landed lower. The

44:21old wood split near the bottom hinge,

44:23but the screws stayed in the frame. I

44:26worked the rifle's lever and aimed at

44:27the damaged section. Ida told me not to

44:30fire. You don't know what's behind that

44:33door. The copied voice returned, still

44:36using Lauren's tone.

44:39What did you give me this morning? It

44:41moved away from the mudroom. Seconds

44:44later, it repeated the question at the

44:46front door, then at our bedroom window,

44:49then at Ida's. The voice had begun

44:51copying me while still sounding like

44:53Lauren. At the last window, the words

44:56changed.

44:57Tessa, open up. That phrase wasn't

45:01repeated. The voice sounded natural. It

45:04held the exhaustion and irritation

45:06Lauren would have felt after walking

45:08from a broken truck. Tessa covered her

45:11mouth. Tessa, I need help. The second

45:15sentence was also new. Whatever stood

45:17outside had listened to Lauren for more

45:19than one night. It had enough pieces of

45:22his speech to build its own requests.

45:25Ida pulled us into the main room and

45:26kept us away from the windows. "That's

45:29not him," she said. The voice called for

45:32Tessa twice more. Then it asked for Ida.

45:36When no one answered, it began using

45:38Tessa's voice. Grandma, let me in. Tessa

45:42was beside Ida, holding her hand.

45:44Grandma, I'm cold. Ida's face changed.

45:49Tessa told me later that the second

45:50sentence was something she'd said often

45:52as a child when she came home after

45:54tending sheep. The thing outside could

45:56not have heard it from us that week. It

45:59had known her voice before we arrived.

46:02The copied Tessa went from window to

46:04window asking Ida to let her in.

46:07Sometimes it sounded like my wife did

46:09now. Sometimes the voice became younger.

46:12Ida didn't respond, but tears ran down

46:15both sides of her face. At 9:30, the U

46:19stopped moving inside the workshop. The

46:21sudden quiet pulled my attention toward

46:23the west wall. I stepped into our

46:26bedroom and approached the curtain

46:27without touching it. A thin strip at the

46:30side gave me a view of the yard. The

46:32coyote was standing beneath the workshop

46:34light. I had switched that fixture on

46:37from inside during the impacts at the

46:39door. Its glow covered the empty corral

46:42in the front of the workshop. The animal

46:44stood between them, facing our window.

46:47For several seconds, it looked ordinary,

46:49though far too large. Its back reached

46:52the top rail of the smaller pen. Its

46:54coat was thin along the ribs, and the

46:57pale fur around its neck hung in uneven

46:59strips. One ear bent forward. Its tail

47:03lay straight behind it in the dirt. It

47:05took one step toward the house. Then it

47:08lifted its front legs. There was no jump

47:11and no quick motion I could

47:12misunderstand.

47:14Its hips lowered, its spine rose, and

47:17its rear legs straightened under it. The

47:20four legs came away from the ground and

47:22hung at its sides. The joints turned

47:24inward. What I had taken for narrow paws

47:28opened into long, dark fingers. The body

47:31remained covered in coyote fur. The head

47:34stayed the same. Everything below the

47:37neck arranged itself into the posture of

47:39a tall, thin person. It stood completely

47:42upright. Its head reached higher than

47:44the workshop door. Tessa entered the

47:47bedroom behind me. Before I could stop

47:50her, she looked through the gap. The

47:52thing tilted its head, its mouth opened.

47:55In my voice, it said, "I need to know

47:58what we're dealing with." That was the

48:00sentence I'd said to Ida the previous

48:02morning while the house had seemed

48:04empty. It had been outside the wall

48:06listening then, too. One long hand rose

48:09above its head. The fingers closed

48:12around the wire cage, protecting the

48:13workshop light. The wrist turned. The

48:17light went out. Tessa and I backed into

48:20the main room. Something crossed the

48:22yard on two legs. The mudroom handle

48:25turned again. This time it didn't test

48:27the latch gently. It held the handle

48:30down and leaned into the door. The new

48:32screws groaned inside the wall. A crack

48:35opened in the old trim beside the

48:37bracket nearest the latch and dropped a

48:39thin line of plaster onto the floor. I

48:42aimed the rifle at the center of the

48:43door. The pressure stopped in my voice.

48:47The thing outside said, "Don't shoot

48:49through the window." It had heard Lauren

48:52warn me that morning. The handle rose.

48:55Long nails moved across the outside of

48:57the wood until they reached the crack

48:59beside the bracket. A dark nail pushed

49:03through the split in the frame and

49:04hooked beneath the steel rod. One end of

49:07the rod began rising from its bracket.

49:11Whatever stood on the porch had worked

49:12out what was holding the door shut. I

49:15stepped forward and drove the rod back

49:17down with the tire iron. The metal hit

49:19made Tessa flinch. The nail vanished

49:22through the crack. On the other side,

49:25the thing let out a short sound that

49:27began as a coyote's bark and ended with

49:30a human breath. The door shook once,

49:33then the weight moved away. It tried the

49:36front door next. We heard the lock take

49:38pressure, followed by a slow push

49:40against the frame. When that failed, the

49:43living room window lifted against its

49:45latch, then Ida's window, then ours. It

49:50knew every opening now. For the next two

49:53hours, it moved around the house,

49:55returning to each one. Sometimes it used

49:58a voice. Sometimes it only turned a

50:00handle and waited. It called Tessa in my

50:03voice and Ida in Tessa's. It told me the

50:06truck had quit in Lauren's voice. Once

50:09it copied Ida so well that all three of

50:12us looked toward her bedroom before

50:13remembering she was seated beside us.

50:16The real Ida gripped my hand. "It wants

50:19one mistake," she said. Sometime after

50:23midnight, the thing stopped moving. We

50:26didn't assume it had left. We remained

50:28in the main room with the doors open and

50:30the rifle across my lap. The U in the

50:33workshop settled. The wind weakened.

50:36Nothing touched the house for the rest

50:38of the night. At 4:40, we heard a man

50:41cry out near the cattle guard. It

50:43sounded like Lauren. Unlike the

50:45sentences from earlier, this was raw and

50:48brief. Tessa stood before Ida could stop

50:51her. The cry came again, farther from

50:54the house. Then Lauren shouted Tessa's

50:57name. She pressed both hands over her

50:59ears. I checked the clock every few

51:02minutes until the eastern sky turned

51:04gray. We waited until we could see the

51:07wire fence clearly before removing the

51:09bar from the mudroom door. No one stood

51:12outside.

51:13The fourth day, the first sunlight

51:16showed deep marks in the back door. Four

51:18narrow grooves surrounded the split

51:20beside the bracket. A bright scrape on

51:23the steel rod ended almost half an inch

51:25above its resting place in the cradle.

51:27If the thing had kept working at it, it

51:29could have lifted the bar free without

51:31breaking the door. Every window screen

51:33had been disturbed. One was cut from top

51:37to bottom. Another had been peeled away

51:39at the corner.

51:41A gray strand of fur remained caught

51:43beneath the front door handle. The U was

51:46alive in the workshop. She stood in the

51:48center of the room, refusing to approach

51:51either door. Our Toyota had four flat

51:54tires. None were slashed. The valve caps

51:57had been removed and the small cores

51:59inside the stems were gone. The four

52:02black caps sat in a row along the bottom

52:04of the windshield. It had learned how to

52:06keep us at the house. I had a portable

52:09compressor, but the tires wouldn't hold

52:11air without valve cores. I found two on

52:14an old utility trailer behind the

52:15workshop, one on a broken wheelbarrow

52:18tire, and a fourth on the spare tire

52:20from Ida's pickup. Removing them without

52:23the proper tool took most of an hour.

52:25inflating all four Toyota tires with the

52:28small compressor took another two. While

52:31I worked, Tessa and Ida searched the

52:33yard for any sign of Lauren. His truck

52:35was no longer visible from the house

52:37because of a rise in the road, but fresh

52:39tire marks crossed the outer cattle

52:41guard. The lights we had seen were real.

52:44At 10:30, the Toyota was drivable. We

52:48spread a tarp across the cargo area,

52:50secured a short livestock panel behind

52:52the upright rear seats, and loaded the U

52:55through the back hatch. Then the three

52:57of us got into the Toyota. The bags and

53:00Ida's medicine were already inside. We

53:03drove toward the cattle guard with the

53:05doors locked. Lauren's truck sat about

53:0830 yard short of it, angled into a

53:10shallow drainage ditch. The front

53:12passenger wheel had dropped off the

53:14road, and the bumper rested on hard

53:16dirt.

53:17The driver's door was open. There was no

53:20sign of Lauren. I parked where I could

53:23turn around without backing into the

53:24ditch. Ida stayed in the rear seat.

53:28Tessa and I approached the truck

53:30together. The keys were in the ignition.

53:33The engine started, but the wheel spun

53:35when I tried to reverse. The rifle rack

53:38behind the seat was empty. Two empty

53:40cartridge cases lay on the passenger

53:42floor. There was blood on the inside

53:44door handle and along the outer edge of

53:46the seat. Tessa called his name once.

53:50Ida lowered her window. Don't.

53:53The road north of the truck held a

53:55confused group of tracks. Lauren's boots

53:58led toward the wash. Coyote Prince

54:01crossed them, disappeared on the hard

54:03ground, then appeared ahead of them.

54:06Near the bank, we found a long strip

54:08torn from Lauren's jacket and a third

54:10spent casing. No blood continued beyond

54:13that point. We drove to the service

54:16ridge and caught one bar. Tessa called

54:18her cousin Melinda who lived near the

54:20highway. Melinda hadn't heard from

54:23Lauren. She promised to contact two

54:25relatives and come with another truck

54:27and towing gear. Getting the truck ready

54:30and reaching us would take close to 4

54:31hours. Tessa called the police next. She

54:35reported Lauren missing, described the

54:38abandoned truck and blood, and gave the

54:40nearest road junction she could name.

54:42The dispatcher said officers would start

54:44toward us, but couldn't promise an

54:46arrival time. We were too far from town

54:49for quick help. I wanted to take Ida to

54:52Melinda's house and let the police

54:53search for Lauren. Ida refused. Tessa

54:57refused, too. Leaving would mean

54:59abandoning him somewhere close to the

55:01road, possibly injured. We agreed to

55:05search only in daylight and never move

55:06out of sight of the Toyota. For the next

55:09several hours, we drove the nearby

55:11tracks and stopped at every high point.

55:14I used the horn rather than calling

55:16Lauren's name. We checked an old sheep

55:19shelter, two empty water tanks, and a

55:22line of utility poles that followed the

55:24road. We found no further blood. Around

55:272, I saw the coyote. It stood on a low

55:30ridge north of us, perhaps 400 yd away.

55:34In daylight, it looked smaller. Its coat

55:37matched the dirt and dead grass, and if

55:40it hadn't moved its head, I might have

55:42missed it. The pale band around its neck

55:45was clearly visible. I stopped the

55:47Toyota and pointed it out. Tessa saw it.

55:51Ida refused to look. The coyote watched

55:54us for several seconds, then walked down

55:56the far side of the ridge. We drove

55:59there. No tracks continued from the

56:01place where it had been standing. At

56:043:30, we returned to the cattle guard to

56:06wait for Melinda. Lauren's truck still

56:09blocked part of the road. I considered

56:11using the Toyota to pull it free, but I

56:14didn't want to damage our only working

56:15vehicle. I turned around and parked

56:18facing south. Ida had brought water and

56:21food. None of us ate much. The sun moved

56:24lower and the high clouds from the

56:26previous evening spread across the sky.

56:28Melinda should have arrived by 4. At

56:314:30, there was still no sign of her. We

56:34drove back to the ridge and called. The

56:37connection failed twice before Tessa

56:39reached her. Melinda and her brother

56:41were less than 10 mi away, but Lauren's

56:44abandoned truck blocked the narrow

56:46stretch immediately north of the cattle

56:48guard. approaching from the south. They

56:51couldn't use the shoulder we had

56:52squeezed through. They were trying to

56:54pull the truck far enough out of the

56:56ditch to make room. The sun was less

56:58than an hour from setting. We drove

57:01south to meet them on the other side of

57:03the blocked truck. If Lauren returned

57:05after we left, the police could bring

57:07him out. We were halfway to the cattle

57:10guard when a man stepped into the road.

57:12He came from the wash on our right,

57:14limping badly. His jacket was torn and

57:17dried blood covered one side of his

57:19face. He held a rifle by the barrel and

57:22raised his other hand. It looked like

57:25Loren. Tessa reached for the door lock.

57:28I grabbed her wrist. Wait. I stopped the

57:32Toyota more than 50 yards from him. The

57:34man kept his raised hand still. Ask him

57:38something, I said. Tessa lowered her

57:41window 2 in. What did you give him

57:43yesterday morning?

57:45The man looked at me, then at her. My

57:493030. He still has it. The rifle beside

57:53my seat was a 3030. The answer was

57:56right, but the thing had heard our

57:57question the night before and might have

57:59heard Lauren identify the gun at some

58:01earlier time. I asked what had fallen

58:04out of my truck when he helped us move

58:05into our first apartment in Phoenix. He

58:08looked angry. Your red toolbox fell out

58:10of the truck and broke my thumbnail. Get

58:13me in the car.

58:15That had happened in a parking garage in

58:17Phoenix, and Tessa and I had never

58:19discussed it at Ida's. It was the best

58:21proof we were going to get. Tessa raised

58:24her window and unlocked the door. Lauren

58:27had barely pulled it open when the U

58:29began kicking against the livestock

58:30panel. Ida shouted for him to get

58:33inside. The coyote came over the bank

58:35behind Lauren. It didn't climb. Its head

58:39rose first, then the shoulders, then a

58:42pair of long arms hooked over the edge.

58:44The hands dug into the dirt and pulled

58:46the rest of its body up. For one second,

58:49it crouched in the shape of an animal.

58:52Then it stood. The thing crossed the

58:54distance between the wash and the Toyota

58:56faster than a person could sprint. I hit

58:59the accelerator before Lauren had closed

59:01the door. One long hand caught the edge,

59:04its fingers wrapped around the interior

59:06panel. Tessa twisted around in the

59:09passenger seat and dragged the rear door

59:11toward its frame. Lauren struck the

59:14fingers with the stock of his rifle.

59:16They were covered in coarse fur, but the

59:18nails were flat and pale. The hand

59:21released, the door shut. I drove toward

59:24the cattle guard with the rear wheel

59:26throwing dirt. In the mirror, the thing

59:29dropped to all fours and followed. It

59:32kept pace with us over the rough road.

59:35At 30 m an hour, its body stretched into

59:37a coyote's running shape. At every dip,

59:40it disappeared behind us, then returned

59:43closer. The pale fur at its neck

59:46remained visible, even after the rest

59:48blended into the ground. Lauren told me

59:51not to stop at his truck. The gap beside

59:53it was narrow, but passable. I kept the

59:56Toyota's left wheels on the road and

59:59forced the right wheels through brush

1:00:00along the ditch. Branches scraped both

1:00:03doors. The coyote ran on the opposite

1:00:06side of Lauren's pickup and vanished

1:00:08from the mirror. We cleared the cattle

1:00:10guard. Something landed on the roof. The

1:00:13metal folded inward above the rear seat.

1:00:16Ida ducked. Lauren rolled onto the

1:00:19floor. A hand reached down over the

1:00:22passenger side of the windshield,

1:00:24searching for the top of Tessa's door.

1:00:26The face appeared upside down against

1:00:28the glass. At that distance, the head no

1:00:32longer looked fully animal.

1:00:34The muzzle was too short and bare skin

1:00:36surrounded the eyes. Its mouth opened

1:00:39farther than the jaw should have

1:00:40allowed. Behind the narrow teeth was a

1:00:43human tongue. In Lauren's voice, it

1:00:46said, "Open up. My truck quit." Tessa

1:00:50screamed and pulled away from the door.

1:00:52I jerked the wheel toward the edge of

1:00:54the road, then back. The Toyota tilted

1:00:57hard enough that the U fell in the cargo

1:00:59area. The thing lost its grip on the

1:01:01passenger side, but held the roof rack

1:01:03with one hand. Lauren rose from the

1:01:06floor, pressed the rifle barrel against

1:01:08the rear side window, and fired upward

1:01:11through the glass. The blast inside the

1:01:14vehicle left my hearing dull. The rear

1:01:16side window shattered. The thing rolled

1:01:19off the roof and struck the road behind

1:01:20us. I didn't slow down. The last

1:01:24sunlight disappeared as Melinda's

1:01:25headlights appeared ahead. She and her

1:01:28brother had pulled Lauren's truck far

1:01:30enough aside to bring their vehicle

1:01:31through the cattle guard. They were

1:01:33standing beside it when we passed. I

1:01:36leaned on the horn and kept driving

1:01:38until we reached the pavement. Melinda

1:01:41followed. For the first mile, I saw

1:01:44nothing behind her truck. Then, a dark

1:01:46shape entered the road at the limit of

1:01:48her headlights. It ran upright for

1:01:51several steps before dropping out of

1:01:53sight. Melinda later said she never saw

1:01:56it. We reached her house after 8. More

1:01:59relatives arrived within the hour,

1:02:01followed by two police officers.

1:02:04Lauren needed stitches along his scalp

1:02:06and had a badly sprained ankle, but none

1:02:09of the blood in his truck came from a

1:02:11serious wound. He told us what had

1:02:13happened after his headlights stopped at

1:02:15the cattle guard. A little after 7, the

1:02:18animals at his corral had crowded

1:02:19against the southern fence. The outside

1:02:22yard light went dark and something using

1:02:24Tessa's voice called from the road.

1:02:27Lauren knew he should stay where he was,

1:02:29but he also knew we were alone with Ida.

1:02:32He took his second rifle and drove back

1:02:34to warn us. The coyote had appeared in

1:02:37the road. When he slowed, it rose onto

1:02:40two legs. Lauren swerved and put the

1:02:43truck into the ditch, striking his head

1:02:45against the door frame. The animal came

1:02:47at the driver's side before he could

1:02:49reverse. He fired twice through the open

1:02:52door, twisted his ankle, jumping from

1:02:54the cab, and ran north into the wash. At

1:02:57the bank, he turned and fired once more.

1:03:00It followed him for several hours

1:03:02without attacking directly. It used

1:03:04Ida's voice to call him toward the

1:03:06house. Later, it used Tessa's. He heard

1:03:10his own voice coming from Ida's yard and

1:03:12realized that we might open the door for

1:03:14it if he approached. He hid beneath the

1:03:17collapsed roof of an old sheep shelter

1:03:19until sunrise. During the day, he tried

1:03:22to circle back, but the animal kept

1:03:24appearing on the ridges ahead of him.

1:03:27Each time he changed direction, it

1:03:29disappeared and returned closer to the

1:03:31house. It had been driving him toward

1:03:34the road at the exact time we were

1:03:36trying to leave. The police searched the

1:03:38area the next morning. They found damage

1:03:41to the house, the empty valve stems,

1:03:44Lauren's abandoned truck, and the tracks

1:03:46of a large coyote. They found no person.

1:03:50The animal Lauren shot left no blood

1:03:52that anyone admitted finding. Ida never

1:03:55slept in that house again. Two more

1:03:57animals disappeared from Lauren's corral

1:03:59during the following week. After that,

1:04:02relatives divided everything that

1:04:04remained among several properties. The

1:04:06losses stopped. The family handled the

1:04:09rest privately. I wasn't included and I

1:04:12didn't ask. Tessa attended with Ida and

1:04:15Lauren. When she returned, she said the

1:04:18family had done what they could, but I

1:04:20should never assume that leaving the

1:04:22reservation meant we had left the thing

1:04:23behind. At the time, I thought she meant

1:04:26the memory.

1:04:28What followed us?

1:04:30We stayed with Melinda for 5 days before

1:04:32returning to Phoenix. I wanted to wait

1:04:35longer, but I had to go back to work.

1:04:38Tessa didn't want to remain near Ida's

1:04:40place, and Ida planned to stay with

1:04:42relatives for the winter. The Toyota

1:04:45needed a new door handle, a rear side

1:04:47window, and repairs to the roof. We paid

1:04:51for the work ourselves and told the body

1:04:52shop we'd slid into a dead tree on an

1:04:54unpaved road. I cleaned red dirt and

1:04:57gray fur from the roof rack before we

1:04:59drove home. The trip to Phoenix was

1:05:02uneventful. We stopped once near

1:05:04Flagstaff and reached our house before

1:05:06dark. We lived in a small development on

1:05:09the northern edge of the city. Then

1:05:12desert began less than half a mile

1:05:13beyond our back wall, but coyotes

1:05:16weren't unusual. We heard them several

1:05:18times a week. They crossed the streets

1:05:21early in the morning and drank from

1:05:22backyard pools. Seeing one there

1:05:25wouldn't have meant anything by itself.

1:05:28For the first two weeks, nothing

1:05:30happened. Then I found the bulb above

1:05:32our back door unscrewed. I blamed

1:05:34vibration and tightened it. Two nights

1:05:37later, the bulb over the garage was

1:05:39loose, too. The fixtures were different,

1:05:42and both bulbs had been installed for

1:05:44years without trouble. I didn't tell

1:05:47Tessa. I replaced them and checked every

1:05:50door and window.

1:05:52The following Saturday, we came home

1:05:54from dinner and found both backyard

1:05:56gates open. Each had a latch that lifted

1:05:59from inside the yard. The outer handles

1:06:02didn't work. Nothing had been stolen.

1:06:05Tessa stood in the kitchen looking

1:06:07through the sliding glass door. "It

1:06:09knows this house now," she said. I told

1:06:13her a neighborhood kid could have

1:06:14climbed the wall. She asked why a kid

1:06:16would open every gate and leave without

1:06:18taking anything.

1:06:20That night, we pushed a heavy table

1:06:22against the sliding door and wedged

1:06:24wooden rods into the window tracks. A

1:06:27week passed. At 2 one morning, the

1:06:30handle on our back door turned. I woke

1:06:33immediately.

1:06:34Our bedroom was on the second floor, but

1:06:37the house was quiet enough that I heard

1:06:39the latch press against the deadbolt.

1:06:42Tessa woke when I sat up. The handle

1:06:44turned again. I kept a baseball bat

1:06:47beside the bed. I took it and went as

1:06:50far as the upper landing. Tessa stayed

1:06:52behind me with her phone, ready to call

1:06:54the police. From outside the kitchen

1:06:57below, my voice said, "Can you give me a

1:06:59hand?" Those were the words it had first

1:07:02copied from Tessa at Ida's house. Now it

1:07:05used my voice perfectly.

1:07:08I backed into the bedroom and locked the

1:07:09door. We heard movement around the

1:07:12outside of the house for almost an hour.

1:07:15It tried the back door, the side gate,

1:07:17and the dining room window. It never

1:07:20struck hard enough to leave damage. It

1:07:22was learning what was locked and what

1:07:24wasn't. The police found nothing when

1:07:27they arrived. The block wall held no

1:07:30clear prints. A neighbor across the

1:07:32street had been awake and hadn't seen a

1:07:34person or vehicle. We moved 3 months

1:07:37later. Our next home was closer to the

1:07:39center of Phoenix, surrounded by

1:07:41streets, businesses, and other houses.

1:07:44We told very few people the new address.

1:07:47For almost a year, we heard nothing

1:07:49unusual.

1:07:51Then Ida called one afternoon. She asked

1:07:54if we'd seen a coyote near the house.

1:07:56Tessa put the phone on speaker and said

1:07:58no. Ida was quiet for several seconds.

1:08:02One came to my window last night. She

1:08:05said it spoke with his voice. She meant

1:08:08mine. I'd never visited the house where

1:08:10Ida was staying. She hadn't seen me in

1:08:13person since the night we escaped.

1:08:15Whatever came to her window had carried

1:08:17my voice all the way back to the

1:08:18reservation. That was when I understood

1:08:21that it hadn't simply followed us to

1:08:23Phoenix. It was moving between us. It

1:08:26knew the family now and it could choose

1:08:28which house to visit. Ida refused to

1:08:31describe what happened after that. She

1:08:34only repeated the rules. Don't answer.

1:08:37Don't look longer than necessary. and

1:08:39never open a door because a familiar

1:08:41voice says it is cold. The worst

1:08:44incident before Ida died happened six

1:08:46months before her death. Tessa and I

1:08:49were asleep when a motion light came on

1:08:51behind our house. The brightness reached

1:08:54the edge of our bedroom curtain. I

1:08:56checked the time. It was 3:16.

1:08:59Our current yard is small, enclosed by a

1:09:02block wall. The rear gate stays locked

1:09:05with a padlock. No tree grows close

1:09:08enough for an animal to enter from

1:09:09above. I didn't get out of bed. The

1:09:12light stayed on for about a minute, went

1:09:14dark, then came on again. Something

1:09:17pressed against the screen below our

1:09:19bedroom window. Tessa was awake beside

1:09:21me. I put my hand around hers before

1:09:24either of us moved. From the yard,

1:09:27Tessa's voice said my name. She squeezed

1:09:29my hand so hard that her nails broke the

1:09:31skin. The voice below us asked me to

1:09:34open the back door. We remained silent

1:09:37for several minutes. It used sentences

1:09:39Tessa had spoken during the week. It

1:09:42asked whether I'd taken out the trash.

1:09:44It said she'd forgotten her keys. It

1:09:47told me her phone was dead. Then it

1:09:50stopped using her voice. The screen

1:09:53moved again. Something rose along the

1:09:55wall until its breathing reached the

1:09:57level of our second floor window. The

1:10:00curtain shifted inward. In my own voice,

1:10:03it said, "I'm here."

1:10:06Tessa and I stayed in bed until sunrise.

1:10:09When we went outside, the padlock was

1:10:12still on the gate. The dirt below our

1:10:14window was smooth. The screen had been

1:10:16lifted from its frame and placed upright

1:10:19against the wall. On the glass, more

1:10:21than 10 ft above the yard, were four

1:10:24long marks left by narrow fingers.

1:10:27We still live in that house. Moving

1:10:30again wasn't financially possible. And

1:10:32after it found our second address, we

1:10:34had no reason to believe a third house

1:10:36would keep it away. We keep every door

1:10:38locked, even during the day. We don't

1:10:41call to each other from outside, and

1:10:43neither of us opens a door until we can

1:10:45see the other person's face. If one of

1:10:48us comes home late, we call from the car

1:10:50and wait under the street light.

1:10:53Sometimes weeks pass without anything

1:10:55happening. Sometimes the back door

1:10:57handle moves after midnight. It has

1:11:00never entered. I don't know whether that

1:11:02means it can't. I think it is still

1:11:04waiting for one of us to make the

1:11:06mistake it wanted on the first night.

1:11:09Last Tuesday, Tessa left before sunrise

1:11:11to take her grandmother's belongings to

1:11:13a relative in Flagstaff. I watched her

1:11:16car pull out of the driveway. She called

1:11:19me from the highway 20 minutes later.

1:11:21While I was speaking to her, someone

1:11:23walked around the side of our house and

1:11:25stopped at the back door. The handle

1:11:28turned once. Then Tessa's voice called

1:11:30my name from directly outside the

1:11:32kitchen window. This time it didn't ask

1:11:34me to let it in. It said, "You forgot to

1:11:38lock the window.

1:11:48My name is Mike Pac. I'm 58 years old

1:11:50now. I was 53 when this happened and I

1:11:54owned the feed and hardware store in a

1:11:56town of about 1100 people on the

1:11:58Colorado side of the San Juan Mountains.

1:12:00I've owned it for 26 years. Before that,

1:12:03my father owned it. I know how many bags

1:12:06of sweet feed are on the pallet in the

1:12:08back without walking over there. I know

1:12:10how many boxes of 16 penny nails are on

1:12:13the shelf and how many there were last

1:12:15Tuesday. Counting isn't a habit with me.

1:12:18It's closer to a way of breathing. My

1:12:21wife used to say I counted the stairs

1:12:23going up to bed. I did. There are 14.

1:12:27I'm telling you that first because the

1:12:29rest of this is a list of things I

1:12:31counted while I was trying not to die.

1:12:33And I want you to know that the counting

1:12:35is accurate. I can't make you believe

1:12:38the rest of it. I stopped trying about a

1:12:40year after it happened. The counting

1:12:42I'll stand behind. Carol died in March

1:12:45of 2018. She was 54. I'm not going to

1:12:49talk about that much except to say that

1:12:51she and I hunted elk together for 22

1:12:54seasons. Second rifle every October out

1:12:57of the same camp. And that the first

1:12:59October after she was gone, I didn't go.

1:13:03The second October I went alone because

1:13:05staying home was worse. That was October

1:13:07of 2019.

1:13:10What I'm going to tell you happened in

1:13:11October of 2020. It was my second season

1:13:14alone. Second rifle season in our unit

1:13:17ran from October 24th to November 1st

1:13:20that year. I drove up on the afternoon

1:13:22of the 23rd, the day before the opener,

1:13:25with the truck and camper shell and set

1:13:27camp at the same spot we'd always used

1:13:30at the end of a two-track road above a

1:13:32creek I'm not going to name about 9

1:13:34miles from pavement. There's nothing

1:13:37special about the spot. It's flat,

1:13:40there's water, and you can get a truck

1:13:42to it. That's all we ever wanted from

1:13:44it. I had the same rifle I've carried

1:13:46since 1994, a boltaction 300 6 with a

1:13:50Woodstock that Carol refinished once

1:13:52after I dropped it on a scree slope. I

1:13:55had a pack and in it was one steel 1

1:13:58quart water bottle. One water filter,

1:14:01the squeeze kind. One lighter, orange,

1:14:04[music] in the zipped hip pocket on the

1:14:06left side. One box of waterproof matches

1:14:09in the lid. One headlamp with fresh

1:14:11batteries. One folding knife. One fixed

1:14:15blade knife. 50 ft of orange flagging

1:14:17tape on a spool. One topographic map of

1:14:20the unit paper folded in a gallon

1:14:23freezer bag. One compass, the kind with

1:14:26a mirror. One emergency blanket, the

1:14:29foil kind. One roll of tape. 50 feet of

1:14:32parachute cord. Five cotton game bags.

1:14:36One first aid kit the size of a

1:14:38sandwich. One road flare, the 15-minute

1:14:41kind that had been in the lid of that

1:14:43pack for probably 6 years because Carol

1:14:45put it there and I never took it out.

1:14:48Two protein bars. One bag of trail mix.

1:14:52One bag of jerky. One extra pair of wool

1:14:54socks. One rainshell, one down jacket

1:14:58packed small. 20 rounds of ammunition in

1:15:01a belt pouch, plus four in the rifle. I

1:15:04didn't carry a satellite messenger.

1:15:06Carol had one. I'd never bought my own.

1:15:10I'd thought about it at the store in

1:15:12September and decided it was one more

1:15:14thing to charge. That decision is one of

1:15:17maybe four in this story that I'd take

1:15:19back if anybody were offering. Nobody

1:15:22is.

1:15:24Opening day, the 24th, I hunted the

1:15:27bench above camp, saw two cows and a

1:15:29spike at 300 yards, and let them go. The

1:15:33morning of the 25th, I hunted the same

1:15:36bench and saw nothing. That afternoon, I

1:15:39decided to go higher, up onto a ridge

1:15:42we'd always called the saddle, which is

1:15:44not what it's called on the map. From

1:15:47the saddle, you can see down into a

1:15:49drainage on the far side that Carol and

1:15:51I never hunted because there's no road

1:15:53into it. The sides are steep, and if you

1:15:56kill something down there, you're going

1:15:58to spend 3 days packing it out. We used

1:16:01to glass it from the saddle and say,

1:16:03"Someday." We never went. I got to the

1:16:06saddle at about 3:30 in the afternoon. I

1:16:09glassed the far side for an hour. At

1:16:124:40, in the last good light, I saw a

1:16:15bull come out of the dark timber about

1:16:17600 yardds below me and start feeding

1:16:19across a small open park on the far

1:16:22slope. I put the binoculars on him and

1:16:24counted six points on his right side and

1:16:26five on his left. He was the best bull

1:16:29I'd seen in that unit in probably 10

1:16:31years. I want to tell you that I thought

1:16:34about it. I didn't think about it for

1:16:36very long. I thought, it's 4:40. The sun

1:16:40goes behind the ridge at about 5:15 and

1:16:43I have 35 minutes to close the distance

1:16:46to something I can shoot at. I thought

1:16:49he's on the far slope and the wind is

1:16:51coming up the drainage toward me, which

1:16:54is right. I thought if I drop off the

1:16:57saddle and go down the near side, I can

1:16:59get to the bottom of that park and he'll

1:17:02be about 200 yd above me with a rock for

1:17:05a rest. I didn't think. and then it'll

1:17:08be dark and I'll be on the wrong side of

1:17:10the saddle in a drainage I've never

1:17:12walked with a dead bull. I dropped off

1:17:15the saddle at 4:45. It took me 25

1:17:19minutes to get to the bottom of the

1:17:20park. He was still there. He'd fed up

1:17:23the slope a little and turned. He was

1:17:25quartering toward me and uphill, and I

1:17:27ranged him at 210 yard. I got down

1:17:30behind a rock the size of a washing

1:17:32machine. Rested the rifle on my pack

1:17:34across the top of it, put the crosshairs

1:17:37where I wanted them, let out half a

1:17:39breath, and squeezed. I hit him. I know

1:17:43I hit him. He went down on his front

1:17:45knees, got back up, turned downhill, and

1:17:49ran into the timber on the far side of

1:17:50the park. I fired a second shot as he

1:17:53ran, and I'll tell you, I don't know

1:17:55where that one went. It was 512. The sun

1:17:59was off the slope by the time I got to

1:18:00where he had been standing. There was

1:18:03blood, good blood, bright with bubbles

1:18:06in it, which meant lungs. I stood there

1:18:09and looked at the blood and looked at

1:18:10the timber and looked at my watch. The

1:18:13rule is you wait. A lungshot elk is

1:18:16going to lie down within a couple

1:18:18hundred yards and die if you leave him

1:18:19alone. If you push him, he gets up and

1:18:22runs on adrenaline, and you find him a

1:18:24mile away the next morning, or you don't

1:18:26find him at all. Everybody who has

1:18:29hunted elk for more than one season

1:18:31knows this rule. I'd known it for 28

1:18:34years. I gave him 20 minutes. That

1:18:37wasn't long enough, and I knew it, but

1:18:39it was getting dark, and I was on the

1:18:41wrong side of the mountain, and I was

1:18:43standing next to enough blood that I

1:18:45thought he couldn't have gone far. There

1:18:47was also a part of me that wasn't going

1:18:49to leave that animal lying wounded in

1:18:51the dark all night while I went back to

1:18:53camp and slept.

1:18:55Carol wouldn't have left it, and neither

1:18:57did I. I put the headlamp on and

1:19:00followed the blood into the timber at

1:19:015:35.

1:19:03The blood was easy for the first 100

1:19:05yards. Then it thinned. Then it got

1:19:08hard. The slope was steep and the timber

1:19:11was old spruce and fur, big trunks, lots

1:19:14of deadfall, and the ground was soft

1:19:16under the needles so that I kept losing

1:19:19the trail and finding it again by a

1:19:21smear on a log or a drop on a rock. I

1:19:24went down. I kept going down. The

1:19:27drainage got narrower and I could hear

1:19:29water somewhere below me. I found him at

1:19:32650. He was dead. He'd gone down through

1:19:36the timber almost to the creek, gotten

1:19:38his hind legs across a downed log, and

1:19:41died there with his head downhill and

1:19:43his antlers caught in the branches so

1:19:45that he was hung up in a way that was

1:19:47going to be miserable to deal with. I

1:19:50put my hand on his neck. He was still

1:19:52warm. I sat down on the log next to him

1:19:55and turned the headlamp off and sat in

1:19:57the dark for a minute. I want to

1:20:00describe that minute accurately because

1:20:02it was the last minute of the whole

1:20:04thing that felt normal. It was full

1:20:06dark. There was no moon yet. It was

1:20:09cold, probably 30°, and I could hear the

1:20:13creek maybe 50 yard below me and the

1:20:16wind in the tops of the trees. But down

1:20:18where I was, there was no wind. I could

1:20:21smell the elk, blood, and spruce. I was

1:20:25tired in a good way. I was thinking

1:20:28about the work ahead and how I was going

1:20:30to get several hundred lb of meat and

1:20:32bone up a slope I'd barely gotten down.

1:20:35I was thinking that I'd quarter him that

1:20:37night, hang the quarters, go back over

1:20:40the saddle to camp in the dark with the

1:20:42headlamp, return in the morning with the

1:20:44pack frame, and make three trips. I was

1:20:47thinking that Carol would have laughed

1:20:49at me for going down there. That was the

1:20:52minute. I've gone back over it a lot of

1:20:54times. There was nothing wrong with it.

1:20:57Nothing was watching me. I think I'd

1:20:59know now. I didn't know then. And I

1:21:02don't believe there was anything to know

1:21:04yet. I believe it found me later after

1:21:07I'd made the noise of butchering a large

1:21:09animal for 2 hours in a drainage where

1:21:11nobody goes. I turned the headlamp back

1:21:14on. I got the tag out of my wallet and

1:21:17notched the date on it and signed it and

1:21:20slipped it into my shirt pocket because

1:21:22that's the first thing you do. Then I

1:21:25got to work. I'm going to move through

1:21:27the butchering fast because there's

1:21:29nothing in it. It took me until a little

1:21:31after 9. I removed the hide and quarters

1:21:34from one side, rolled him over, and did

1:21:37the other side. I took the backstraps,

1:21:40neck meat, and tenderloins. I left the

1:21:43hide on the ground next to him because

1:21:44there was no way I was carrying a wet

1:21:46elkhide up that slope. Using the

1:21:49parachute cord I always carry, I hung

1:21:52the quarters from a branch of a big fur

1:21:54about 30 yards from the carcass. Two on

1:21:56one side and two on the other high

1:21:59enough that I thought a bear would have

1:22:00to work for them. I put the back straps,

1:22:03neck meat, and tenderloins into one game

1:22:06bag, tied the tag to it with a short

1:22:08piece of parachute cord, and put it in

1:22:11my pack. That was maybe 45 lb. I could

1:22:15carry that. The other four bags were

1:22:18still empty. Then I stood at the bottom

1:22:20of that slope with the headlamp and

1:22:22looked up and I understood that I wasn't

1:22:24going back over the saddle that night.

1:22:27The slope I'd come down wasn't a trail.

1:22:30It was 600 vertical feet of deadfall and

1:22:32loose duff in the dark. And I'd come

1:22:34down it following blood, not any route I

1:22:37could see now. My headlamp threw about

1:22:4040 ft of light. Above that was black. I

1:22:44had a compass and I knew the saddle was

1:22:46roughly northwest of me, but roughly

1:22:48northwest in that timber in the dark on

1:22:51that grade could leave me crawling

1:22:53beneath a cliff band or lying somewhere

1:22:56with a broken ankle. And I knew it. I

1:22:59wasn't scared. I'll say that plainly. I

1:23:02was annoyed. I'd have to spend the night

1:23:04down there, which was going to be cold

1:23:06and uncomfortable, and then climb out in

1:23:08the morning, get the [music] pack frame,

1:23:10and come back down.

1:23:13that was going to eat most of a day. I

1:23:15was annoyed at myself and at the bull. I

1:23:18went down to the creek because there was

1:23:20flat ground there and water. It was a

1:23:23small creek, maybe 8 ft wide, running

1:23:26fast and cold out of the drainage from

1:23:28the east and heading west. I found a

1:23:31spot on the north bank where there was a

1:23:33bench of flat dirt maybe 20 ft across

1:23:36with a big spruce on it. I gathered wood

1:23:39for an hour, built a fire, and sat down

1:23:42against the spruce with the down jacket

1:23:44on, the emergency blanket over my legs,

1:23:47and the rifle across my knees. I didn't

1:23:50sleep much. It was cold, and the ground

1:23:53was hard. I fed the fire. Sometime after

1:23:57midnight, the moonlight finally reached

1:23:59the tops of the trees on the south side

1:24:01of the creek. I could see the slope I'd

1:24:03come down. It looked steeper from the

1:24:05bottom than it had from the top. I want

1:24:07to tell you about one thing that

1:24:09happened that first night because I

1:24:11didn't think anything of it at the time

1:24:13and I think about it now. At about 2:00

1:24:16in the morning, I was awake feeding the

1:24:18fire when I heard the elk quarters move.

1:24:22They were hanging 30 yard away in the

1:24:24dark up the slope and I heard the branch

1:24:26creek and the cord scrape against the

1:24:29bark the way it does when something

1:24:31hanging turns. It was a small sound. I

1:24:35turned the headlamp toward it and saw

1:24:37nothing but trunks. I figured it was the

1:24:39wind, the cord [music] settling, or a

1:24:42pine martin. I said something out loud.

1:24:45I don't remember what. The kind of thing

1:24:48you say to a coyote to let it know

1:24:50you're there. Then I sat back down. The

1:24:53thing I think about now is that it

1:24:55wasn't the wind. There was no wind down

1:24:57at the creek. There hadn't been any all

1:25:00night. In the morning, I climbed out. It

1:25:04was October 26th. I left the creek at

1:25:07first light, which was about 7, and I

1:25:09went back up past the carcass and the

1:25:11hanging quarters. The quarters were

1:25:14fine. Nothing had touched them. The

1:25:16carcass was fine, too, which surprised

1:25:19me a little, because in that country, a

1:25:21fresh gut pile usually has birds on it

1:25:23by dawn. There were no birds. I noticed

1:25:27that and I didn't think about it. I did

1:25:30something that morning that I'd done a

1:25:32hundred times in a hundred different

1:25:34pieces of timber and I'm going to

1:25:36describe it in detail because everything

1:25:38that came later hangs off it. I flagged

1:25:41my route out. Flagging tape is orange

1:25:44plastic ribbon on a spool. You rip off a

1:25:47piece about a foot long and tie it

1:25:49around a branch at eye level. You do

1:25:51that every 50 to 100 ft. So when you

1:25:54come back down, you can stand at one

1:25:56piece and see the next. It's the

1:25:58simplest thing in the world. We'd used

1:26:00it for 22 years. I tied the first piece

1:26:03to a branch of the fur the quarters were

1:26:05hanging from. I tied the next one about

1:26:0880 ft up the slope on a spruce on the

1:26:11uphill side of the trunk. I kept going.

1:26:14I picked my way up the slope, choosing a

1:26:17line that a man with a heavy pack frame

1:26:19could climb and going around the worst

1:26:21of the deadfall. Every time I could

1:26:23barely see the last piece of tape behind

1:26:25me, I tied another one. It took me 2

1:26:28hours and 10 minutes to climb that

1:26:30slope. I tied 30 pieces of tape on the

1:26:33way up. I counted them. I always count

1:26:36them because when you come back down,

1:26:38you want to know when you're close. I

1:26:40came out onto the saddle at about 9:20

1:26:43in the morning. I stood there and looked

1:26:45back down at the drainage. I could see

1:26:47the park where I'd shot him. I couldn't

1:26:50see the creek. I couldn't see any of my

1:26:52tape from up there, which is normal

1:26:54because it's small and the timber is

1:26:56thick. But I could see the line of the

1:26:58slope, and I knew it now. I knew where

1:27:01the tape started at the top. I tied a

1:27:03double piece, two ribbons on a limber

1:27:06pine right at the edge of the saddle

1:27:07where the slope dropped off. And I built

1:27:10a car next to it, three rocks stacked

1:27:13for good measure. 31 markers altogether,

1:27:1630 singles on the slope, and the double

1:27:18at the top. Then I went back down the

1:27:21other side to camp. I got to camp at

1:27:2311:30. I ate. I drank about a quart of

1:27:27water. I put the tagged game bag in the

1:27:30cooler. I got the pack frame out of the

1:27:33truck, moved everything out of the

1:27:35dayack into the frame packs bag, matches

1:27:37and map and flare and all of it and

1:27:40strapped the four empty game bags to it

1:27:42and put the rifle back on my shoulder

1:27:45and started back for the saddle at

1:27:4612:15.

1:27:49I want to stop here and tell you how I

1:27:50felt because I've been asked. I felt

1:27:53fine. I felt tired and I felt pleased

1:27:56with myself. I had a big bull hanging in

1:27:59the timber, a root flag to him and all

1:28:02afternoon and the next day to get him

1:28:03out. I was thinking about the quarters

1:28:06and how the front ones were going to be

1:28:07the miserable ones. I thought I'd

1:28:10probably get two of the four out that

1:28:12day and the other two the next morning.

1:28:15I got back up to the saddle at about

1:28:172:00 in the afternoon. The Kairen was

1:28:19there. The double ribbon on the limber

1:28:21pine was there. I dropped over the edge

1:28:24and started down. And I got to the

1:28:26second piece of tape and it was there.

1:28:29And I got to the third and it was there.

1:28:32And I kept going. And I want to say it

1:28:34was around the 10th or 11th piece that I

1:28:37started to feel like the slope was

1:28:38wrong. It's hard to explain what I mean

1:28:41by wrong. I'd climbed that slope 6 hours

1:28:44before. I'd picked every step of that

1:28:46line. I was standing at a piece of my

1:28:48own orange tape tied the way I tie it on

1:28:51a branch at eye level. I was looking

1:28:54down at the next piece, maybe 70 ft

1:28:56below me, and the ground between them

1:28:58was a stretch of open duff between two

1:29:00big deadfalls that I didn't remember. I

1:29:03remembered a lot of deadfall. I

1:29:05remembered going around the uphill end

1:29:07of a big downed spruce with the root wad

1:29:10still on it. I didn't see that spruce. I

1:29:13stood there and told myself, "You

1:29:16climbed this in 2 hours with your head

1:29:17down and everything looks different

1:29:19going downhill."

1:29:21That's true. It's also the kind of thing

1:29:24you tell yourself. I kept going. I went

1:29:27from tape to tape. The tapes were all

1:29:29there. I counted them. 12, 13, 14. The

1:29:36slope kept getting steeper than I

1:29:38remembered. At 20, I was in a stretch of

1:29:40timber so thick I had to take the pack

1:29:42frame off and push it ahead of me

1:29:44between the trunks. And I knew I knew

1:29:48that I hadn't climbed through anything

1:29:50like that in the morning because I

1:29:51wouldn't have flagged a route through

1:29:52it. I'd have gone around. I stopped at

1:29:5622. I sat down on a log. I got the map

1:30:00and compass out, took a bearing on the

1:30:02piece of tape I'd just come from uphill

1:30:05and found that the bearing was westn

1:30:07northwest. It should have been

1:30:09northwest. I'd climbed that slope going

1:30:12northwest. I'd come down from the saddle

1:30:15going southeast. A backbearing of westn

1:30:18northwest meant the tape I just followed

1:30:20downhill for 45 minutes had been bending

1:30:22me east a little at a time. Not far

1:30:25east, a little east at each piece. a few

1:30:29degrees at each one. Enough that after

1:30:3222 pieces, I was, by my best guess with

1:30:34the map, about a third of a mile east of

1:30:37where I should have been in a side gully

1:30:39off the main slope, heading toward a

1:30:41place on the map where the contour lines

1:30:43bunched up into a cliff band. I sat

1:30:46there for a while with the map on my

1:30:48knees. I'll tell you what I thought in

1:30:51order. First, I thought I'd made a

1:30:54mistake reading the compass. I took the

1:30:57bearing again. It was the same. Then I

1:31:00thought that maybe I'd flagged the route

1:31:02wrong that morning. That I drifted east

1:31:04while climbing without knowing it. That

1:31:06was possible for a piece or two. It

1:31:09wasn't possible for 22 because I'd come

1:31:11out on the saddle right at my can. And

1:31:13if I drifted east the whole way up, I'd

1:31:15have come out somewhere else. Then I

1:31:18thought that somebody had moved my tape.

1:31:20I want to tell you that I didn't go from

1:31:22that thought to anything else. I didn't

1:31:24think something has moved my tape. I

1:31:28thought some person. There was another

1:31:31hunter in the drainage and he'd found my

1:31:33flagging and for whatever reason moved

1:31:36it. People do strange things in the

1:31:38woods. I'd once seen a man cut down a

1:31:41fully loaded treeand because it was on

1:31:42what he thought was his spot. So, I was

1:31:45angry and a little spooked, but it was

1:31:47the kind of spooked where you're

1:31:48thinking about a man. I got up and

1:31:51started back uphill, following my tape

1:31:53in reverse. I counted the pieces and

1:31:56looked at everyone. And here's the thing

1:31:58I noticed on the way back up that I

1:32:00hadn't noticed on the way down. They

1:32:02were tied the way I tie them around the

1:32:05branch, single overhand, loose ends

1:32:08hanging down, but three of them, numbers

1:32:1219, 16, and 11 were tied on the downhill

1:32:16side of the trunk. I always tie the tape

1:32:19on the uphill side. I do it so that when

1:32:22I'm coming down, I see the tape and the

1:32:24trunk behind it, not the tape against

1:32:27the open air of the slope below where

1:32:29it's harder to see. I've done that for

1:32:3222 years. It's not a rule. It's a habit.

1:32:35Nobody knows about it. Carol knew.

1:32:38Somebody had taken my tape off one tree,

1:32:40put it on another, tied it my way, and

1:32:43gotten the side wrong on three out of

1:32:4522. I got back to the saddle at 4:15 in

1:32:48the afternoon. I didn't go back down. I

1:32:52went back to camp. It was almost dark

1:32:54when I got there. I didn't sleep well

1:32:57that night either, but I slept in the

1:32:59camper shell with the truck doors

1:33:00locked. And I want to be honest, I felt

1:33:04foolish about locking them. In the

1:33:07morning, the 27th, I did what I should

1:33:09have done to begin with. I didn't follow

1:33:11the tape. I went to the saddle with the

1:33:13pack frame, stood at the can, and looked

1:33:16at the park where I'd shot the bull. I

1:33:18could see it plainly in daylight, so I

1:33:21took a bearing and went straight down

1:33:22the slope with the compass in my hand,

1:33:25checking it every 50 ft. I ignored the

1:33:28tape. I could see pieces of it off to my

1:33:30left as I went down, orange in the

1:33:32timber, and I didn't go to them. It took

1:33:35me 2 and 1/2 hours. I came out at the

1:33:38bottom about a 100 yards upstream of my

1:33:40fire ring on the creek. I walked down to

1:33:42the fire ring and then up the slope to

1:33:44where the quarters were hanging. The

1:33:46quarters were gone.

1:33:48The cord was still there, cut, hanging

1:33:51from the branch. Not chewed, cut. The

1:33:55four cut ends hung down about 2 feet and

1:33:58moved a little in the air. There was no

1:34:00meat on the ground under them. There was

1:34:03no blood on the ground under them. A

1:34:05bear or a lion that takes a hanging elk

1:34:08quarter drags it. And there's a [music]

1:34:10trail. There was no trail. There was

1:34:13nothing on the ground at all. Not a

1:34:15hair, not a drop, not a scuff.

1:34:19I stood under that branch for a long

1:34:21time. Then I walked 30 yards to the

1:34:24carcass. And I want to describe what I

1:34:26found there as exactly as I can because

1:34:29it was the first thing I saw with my own

1:34:30eyes that I couldn't explain as the work

1:34:32of a man. The carcass was where I'd left

1:34:35it, across the log, head downhill,

1:34:39antlers hung in the branches. I'd left

1:34:41the hide on the ground next to it in a

1:34:43wet heap. The hide was gone. The head

1:34:47was gone, not cut off. The neck had been

1:34:50separated from the body at the joint

1:34:52between two vertebrae cleanly, the way

1:34:55I'd have done it with a knife and some

1:34:57work, except I hadn't done it, and there

1:35:00was no knife mark I could find on the

1:35:01bone. The rib cage was open the way I'd

1:35:04left it. The gut pile was where I'd left

1:35:07it. There were still no birds. There

1:35:10were no flies. It was a warm morning,

1:35:1350° in the sun, and I was standing next

1:35:16to a two-day old gut pile without a

1:35:18single fly on it. I want to tell you

1:35:20that I didn't run. I didn't.

1:35:24I did something that in hindsight was

1:35:27stupider. I got out my map and compass

1:35:30and started reasoning. I reasoned that

1:35:33somebody had come down into the drainage

1:35:35from another direction, found my kill,

1:35:37and taken it. That happens. It's rare,

1:35:41but it happens. And I'd read about it.

1:35:44If there was a way in, a man with a

1:35:46horse could have come up the creek from

1:35:47below, packed out four quarters, ahead

1:35:50with a 6x5 rack and a hide, and been

1:35:53gone in a night. I looked at the map.

1:35:57The creek went west out of the drainage,

1:35:59and according to the map, joined a

1:36:01bigger creek about 4 miles down, and

1:36:03there was a jeep trail marked along that

1:36:05bigger creek. So, there was a way in

1:36:08from below. A long way, but a way. So, I

1:36:12told myself, he came up the creek, four

1:36:15miles up the creek with a horse in the

1:36:17dark to steal an elk. Fine. And he moved

1:36:20my tape so I'd spend a day wandering

1:36:23into a cliff band instead of coming down

1:36:25and catching him at it. Fine. That's a

1:36:28bad man, but it's a man. And then he cut

1:36:31the head off with no knife marks and

1:36:34carried a wet elk hide and four quarters

1:36:36and a head 30 yards to a horse without

1:36:39leaving one mark on the ground. And the

1:36:41birds and the flies decided on their own

1:36:44to stay away from the gut pile. I put

1:36:46the map away. I remember my hands

1:36:49weren't steady as I slid it into the

1:36:50bag. I decided to go down the creek, not

1:36:54back up the slope. If there was a man

1:36:56with a horse, he'd gone down the creek

1:36:59and I was going to find horse sign or

1:37:01find him. If I went down the creek four

1:37:03miles, I'd hit the jeep trail and from

1:37:06there I could walk out to the county

1:37:08road. It would be a long walk, 12 or 14

1:37:12miles to the county road and then I'd

1:37:14have to get somebody to drive me around

1:37:16to my truck. But I'd be walking on flat

1:37:19ground downhill along water with a

1:37:22marked trail at the end of it. That's

1:37:24better than climbing a slope where

1:37:26somebody or something is moving your

1:37:28tape. I had food for 2 days if I was

1:37:31careful. I had a filter. I had a rifle.

1:37:35I started down the creek at 11:40 in the

1:37:38morning on October 27th. I didn't know

1:37:40it then, but I wasn't going to walk out

1:37:43of that drainage on my own feet. The

1:37:45creek was hard walking. There was no

1:37:48trail along it, and the banks were

1:37:49choked with willow, alder, and deadfall

1:37:52from the timber above.

1:37:54Every couple hundred yards, I had to

1:37:56cross where it pinched down between

1:37:58rocks, which meant wet boots. I made

1:38:01about a mile an hour. I looked for horse

1:38:03sign the whole way and didn't find any.

1:38:06No prints in the mud at the crossings.

1:38:08No manure, no broken willow. There was

1:38:12nothing at all on that creek that said

1:38:14anything bigger than a mink had been

1:38:15down it since summer.

1:38:17At about 2:00 in the afternoon, I

1:38:19stopped, ate half a protein bar, sat on

1:38:22a rock, and listened. I want to tell you

1:38:25about the listening because it was the

1:38:27second thing. When you sit down in the

1:38:29woods in the fall and stop moving, it

1:38:31takes the woods about 5 minutes to

1:38:33forget about you. Then the birds start

1:38:36up again. Jay's mostly in that country,

1:38:39and chickades and nutcrackers up high,

1:38:43and squirrels. If you sit still for 10

1:38:46minutes in October in the San Juans,

1:38:48you'll hear a red squirrel chattering at

1:38:50something. And in the mornings and

1:38:52evenings during the rut, you'll hear a

1:38:53bull bugle somewhere. And you'll hear

1:38:55cows chirp. I sat on that rock for 20

1:38:59minutes. I heard the creek. I heard the

1:39:02wind in the tops. I didn't hear one

1:39:04bird. I didn't hear one squirrel. I

1:39:08hadn't heard a bird, I realized, since

1:39:10I'd come off the saddle that morning. I

1:39:12tried to think back and I didn't think

1:39:14I'd heard one the day before either on

1:39:17the slope following the tape. I'd heard

1:39:20them at camp. I'd heard Jay's at camp

1:39:22that morning while I was eating. I sat

1:39:25and counted minutes of silence. I don't

1:39:28know why I did it. It's what I do. I got

1:39:31to 23 minutes and got up and kept

1:39:33walking. At about 4:30, the drainage

1:39:36widened, the creek slowed, and I came

1:39:39into a stretch of open meadow. maybe 200

1:39:42yards long with the creek winding

1:39:44through it and beaver ponds at the lower

1:39:46end. It was the first open ground I'd

1:39:49seen since the park where I shot the

1:39:51bull. I stopped at the upper edge of it

1:39:54in the trees and glassed the whole

1:39:56thing. Nothing. Grass going brown water.

1:40:02I'd have expected a cow moose in a place

1:40:04like that, or at least elk sign along

1:40:06the edge. There was nothing. The grass

1:40:09along the creek wasn't even trampled. I

1:40:12decided to camp at the lower end of the

1:40:13meadow by the beaver ponds because it

1:40:16was open and I'd be able to see. It was

1:40:19also going to be dark in an hour and a

1:40:20half, and I hadn't seen a flat spot in

1:40:22the timber all day. I built a fire on a

1:40:25gravel bar with the meadow behind me and

1:40:27the ponds in front. I filtered water. I

1:40:30ate the other half of the protein bar

1:40:32and some jerky. I laid out the foil

1:40:35blanket, put on my down jacket, and set

1:40:37the pack beneath my head. I hadn't found

1:40:40the man with the horse. I hadn't found

1:40:42any sign of him. I'd covered four miles

1:40:45of creek according to my pacing and

1:40:48should have hit the bigger creek in the

1:40:49jeep trail by then, but I hadn't. I had

1:40:52the map out again by fire light, but I

1:40:55couldn't make my location match it. I

1:40:57was tired. My feet were wet. And I told

1:41:00myself that I'd paced it wrong, that the

1:41:02Jeep trail was another 2 miles away, and

1:41:05that I'd hit it by noon the next day. I

1:41:08went to sleep at about 8:30 with the

1:41:09rifle next to me. I woke up at 11:50. I

1:41:13woke up because of a sound. It was a

1:41:16sound I knew. It was the sound of

1:41:18something stepping in water. Not

1:41:20splashing, stepping one foot out of the

1:41:24water, a pause, then the foot back in.

1:41:27I'd heard elk cross the creek at camp a

1:41:29hundred times, and an elk doesn't pause

1:41:31between steps. An elk walks. The fire

1:41:35was down to coals. The moon was up,

1:41:38nearly full, and the meadow was silver

1:41:40with it, and the ponds were black. I sat

1:41:43up with the rifle, and I looked at the

1:41:45ponds. It was standing in the near pond

1:41:48about 60 yard from me in water up to

1:41:52what would have been its knees. I'm

1:41:54going to describe it now the way I saw

1:41:56it that first time in moonlight at 60

1:41:59yard. I'm going to do it once and then

1:42:02I'm not going to keep describing it

1:42:04because I saw it on three more nights

1:42:06after that and once in daylight. It

1:42:09didn't get any easier to look at and

1:42:11there's no point in you hearing it five

1:42:13times. It was standing on two legs. It

1:42:16was taller than a man. I've thought

1:42:18about this a lot and I'd say 7 feet,

1:42:21maybe a little over, but it was hard to

1:42:23tell because of how it stood. Back bent

1:42:26forward, arms hanging so low that its

1:42:29hands, if they were hands, were near the

1:42:31surface of the water. Its legs bent the

1:42:35wrong way. I don't mean backward. I

1:42:38mean, the joint where a knee would have

1:42:39been was too low, near where a shin

1:42:41would be, and it flexed toward the

1:42:43front. Above it, the thigh was too long.

1:42:47It stood that way easily. It wasn't

1:42:50straining. It was comfortable. It had

1:42:53the hide on, the bull's hide. I knew it

1:42:57the moment I saw it because of the

1:42:58color, that dark brown over the neck

1:43:01going pale on the flanks, and because of

1:43:03the rack. The head was on it. The head

1:43:07and antlers were on top of its head,

1:43:09sitting there, six points on one side

1:43:11and five on the other. Not attached, I

1:43:14don't think, just balanced [music]

1:43:15there. The hide hung off its shoulders

1:43:18and back with the empty legs hanging

1:43:20down in front and behind, and the whole

1:43:23thing was on wrong. It was inside out. I

1:43:27could see the pale side, the flesh side,

1:43:29the side I'd skinned facing out. There

1:43:33was still fat on it, and the fat caught

1:43:35the moonlight. It was looking at me. I

1:43:38couldn't see a face. Under the elk head,

1:43:41there was just dark, but I knew it was

1:43:44looking at me. You know when you're

1:43:46being looked at. I raised the rifle and

1:43:48put the crosshairs on the middle of it.

1:43:51It was a bright night. The scope

1:43:53gathered light, and I could see it well

1:43:55enough. My hands were shaking so badly

1:43:58that the reticle was moving a foot in

1:44:00every direction across its chest. It

1:44:02didn't move. It stood in the water and

1:44:05watched me point a rifle at it. I didn't

1:44:07shoot. I'm not sure. Part of it was the

1:44:11shaking. Part of it was that I've never

1:44:14in my life pointed a rifle at something

1:44:16without knowing what it was. Part of it,

1:44:18I think, was that the rifle didn't seem

1:44:20to bother it. It had walked into that

1:44:23pond and stood in the moonlight 60 yard

1:44:25from a man with a 30 [music]

1:44:27six and it wasn't hiding, charging, or

1:44:30afraid. I think part of me understood

1:44:32even then that if I shot it and it kept

1:44:35standing there, I was going to be in a

1:44:37worse place than I was already in. We

1:44:40stayed like that for 11 minutes. I

1:44:42looked at my watch. I don't know why. 11

1:44:45minutes. me with the rifle raised and

1:44:48that thing standing in the water with

1:44:49the hide inside out and my bull's head

1:44:52balanced on its own head. Then it turned

1:44:54slowly, walked out of the pond on the

1:44:57far side, one wrongjointed step at a

1:45:00time, and crossed the silver meadow

1:45:02upright, not hurrying. It went into the

1:45:05trees at the upper end, the way I'd

1:45:07come. I didn't sleep again that night. I

1:45:11built the fire back up, sat with my back

1:45:13to the gravel bar and the rifle across

1:45:16my knees, and watched the tree line. At

1:45:19some point, I started counting the

1:45:21trunks I could see in the fire light. I

1:45:24got to 41, counted them again, and still

1:45:27got 41. I kept counting until it got

1:45:30light. In the morning, the 28th, I

1:45:33checked the pack. I checked it because

1:45:35sometime in the last hour before dawn,

1:45:38I'd put my hand into the left hip pocket

1:45:40for the lighter to build the fire up

1:45:41again, and it wasn't there. The pocket

1:45:44was zipped. I'd unzipped it, felt

1:45:47around, and found nothing. I told myself

1:45:50I'd put the lighter in a different

1:45:51pocket. I'd built the fire up with a

1:45:54stick from the coals. When it got light,

1:45:57I went through every pocket of that

1:45:59pack, laid everything out on the gravel

1:46:01bar in a row, and made a list. The

1:46:04lighter was gone. The map was gone. The

1:46:07gallon freezer bag was there in the lid

1:46:10pocket, folded and empty. The map had

1:46:13been in it. I'd put the map back in that

1:46:16bag by fire light the night before after

1:46:18I couldn't make it match the creek. I

1:46:20know I did. The water filter was there.

1:46:23The matches were there. The knives were

1:46:26there. The headlamp was there. the tape,

1:46:29the compass, the blanket, the first aid

1:46:32kit, the food, the socks, the shell, the

1:46:36road flare, 20 rounds in the belt pouch,

1:46:40two in the rifle, which hadn't left my

1:46:42hands. I'd fired two on the 25th and

1:46:46hadn't thought to reload. sitting there

1:46:49on the gravel. I loaded two more from

1:46:51the pouch. 18 in the pouch. Four in the

1:46:55rifle. Two things gone that I could see

1:46:58at a glance. The lighter, which was the

1:47:01thing I used to make fire. The map,

1:47:04which was the thing I used to know where

1:47:05I was.

1:47:07I sat on the gravel bar and thought

1:47:09about the pack. It had been under my

1:47:11head. I'd been asleep on it from 8:30

1:47:14until 11:50 with my head on the lid

1:47:17pocket where the map was and the hip

1:47:19belt with the lighter pocket beneath my

1:47:21shoulder. Something had come, unzipped

1:47:24the pocket beneath my head, taken the

1:47:26map out of its plastic bag, folded the

1:47:28bag, put it back, and zipped the pocket.

1:47:31Then it had unzipped the hip pocket

1:47:33beneath my shoulder, taken the lighter,

1:47:36and zipped that pocket again, all while

1:47:38I slept. Afterward, it had gone and

1:47:41stood in the pond and waited for me to

1:47:42wake up. Or it had done it afterward

1:47:45while I sat with the rifle across my

1:47:47knees counting trunks. It had come

1:47:50around behind me on the gravel bar and

1:47:52put its hands into my pack. I didn't

1:47:54know which. I still don't. I've decided

1:47:58it was during those 3 hours of sleep.

1:48:01I've decided that because the other

1:48:02possibility is worse. I want to tell you

1:48:05what I understood that morning, sitting

1:48:07on the gravel bar with everything I

1:48:09owned laid out in a row. I'm not going

1:48:12to say it was a comforting thing to

1:48:13understand, but it was better than not

1:48:15understanding. It wasn't going to attack

1:48:18me. If it had wanted to hurt me, it had

1:48:21already had two nights to do it while I

1:48:23slept. It hadn't. It had moved my tape

1:48:27so I'd walk into a cliff band. It had

1:48:29taken my meat, so I'd have nothing to

1:48:31carry out and no reason to climb back

1:48:34up. It had taken my map so I couldn't

1:48:37find the jeep trail. It had taken my

1:48:39lighter so I'd burn through the matches.

1:48:42It had made the woods go quiet so I'd

1:48:44know it was there. It had stood in the

1:48:46water and let me look at it for 11

1:48:48minutes so I'd know what it was. It

1:48:51wasn't hunting me. It was taking things

1:48:54away from me, one advantage at a time.

1:48:57and it wasn't in a hurry. Then I counted

1:49:00the matches. The box had originally held

1:49:0230 waterproof matches. I hadn't struck

1:49:05one yet. I'd used the lighter every

1:49:08night. There were 28 left. It had taken

1:49:11two of those, too. Not the box. Two

1:49:14matches out of the box so that I'd count

1:49:17them. I kept going down the creek. I

1:49:20didn't know what else to do. I had no

1:49:22map, but I had the compass. Water runs

1:49:26downhill and downhill eventually leads

1:49:28to a road. I'd started to think that

1:49:31rule was true everywhere in the world

1:49:32except where I was. I want to tell you

1:49:35about the 28th because it was the day I

1:49:38found the trail. I walked from about

1:49:408:00 in the morning until noon down the

1:49:42creek below the beaver ponds through

1:49:45more willow and deadfall. At noon, the

1:49:48creek dropped over a ledge into a narrow

1:49:50rocky section that I couldn't follow

1:49:52along the bank. So I climbed up the

1:49:54north side to get around it. About a

1:49:57hundred feet above the creek, I came out

1:49:59onto a twotrack.

1:50:01A jeep trail, two ruts, grass in

1:50:04between, old but a road going west

1:50:08downhill, the same way the creek went. I

1:50:12stood in those ruts and I want to tell

1:50:14you that I nearly sat down and cried. I

1:50:17didn't. I stood there and said out loud,

1:50:20"There it is." Then I got onto that road

1:50:23and walked west as fast as I could go

1:50:25with wet boots and a pack. The road went

1:50:28along the north side of the creek above

1:50:30it in the timber. It went west for a

1:50:33while. Then it turned north to go around

1:50:36a knob. Then it went west again before

1:50:39turning southwest, dropping to cross the

1:50:42creek at a ford, climbing the south side

1:50:44and heading west once more. I was making

1:50:472 m an hour on it, maybe better. I

1:50:51checked the compass every few minutes

1:50:52and the road was going in the right

1:50:54direction, more or less. I was thinking

1:50:57about what I'd say to the first person I

1:50:59saw. I'd tell them I had a truck at the

1:51:02end of the road. They'd drive me around

1:51:04to it and I'd go home and never tell

1:51:06anybody anything ever.

1:51:09At about 3:30 in the afternoon, the road

1:51:12turned north again, then northeast. I

1:51:15told myself it was going around another

1:51:17knob, and I kept walking. It continued

1:51:20northeast, then east. I stopped and

1:51:23looked at the compass, looked at the

1:51:25road, and kept walking because the road

1:51:27was a road and it had to go somewhere.

1:51:30At about 4:15, the road came out of the

1:51:33timber onto the edge of a small open

1:51:35park. I stood there at the edge of that

1:51:38park and knew it. I'd lain behind a rock

1:51:41at the bottom of it and shot a bull elk

1:51:43at 210 yards 3 days before. The road

1:51:47didn't go to the park. There was no road

1:51:49to that park. I'd glassed it from the

1:51:52saddle for 22 years. I'd walked it.

1:51:55There was no two track. I was standing

1:51:58in two ruts with grass between them at

1:52:00the edge of a park that had no road to

1:52:02it. I turned around and the ruts went

1:52:05back into the timber the way I'd come. I

1:52:08looked at them, then looked again. They

1:52:11were there. I didn't walk back down

1:52:13them. I want you to understand that I

1:52:17didn't go back and try to figure out

1:52:18where I'd gone wrong. I understood that

1:52:21I hadn't gone wrong. I'd walked a road

1:52:23for 4 hours and it had brought me back

1:52:26to where I started. The road hadn't been

1:52:28there 3 days earlier and I didn't think

1:52:31it would be there the next day. I went

1:52:34down through the park and into the

1:52:36timber below it, then followed the slope

1:52:38to the carcass because I knew the way.

1:52:41It was the only piece of that drainage I

1:52:43knew. The carcass was gone. The log was

1:52:47there. The gut pile was gone. The ground

1:52:50was clean. The four cut ends of

1:52:53parachute cord still hung from the

1:52:55branch of the fur. My first piece of

1:52:58orange tape was still tied there under

1:53:00them. I had 31 markers on that slope. I

1:53:04looked up the slope in the last of the

1:53:06light and I could see the second one

1:53:08[music] and the third.

1:53:10I didn't go to them. I went down to the

1:53:13creek and to my first fire ring, the one

1:53:15from the night I killed the bull. It was