The Lion
John had been hunting the Twin Lakes mountain lion for ten years. Most Maine folk didn’t even believe that it existed. But John knew better. And to prove it, he had dragged his nephew Mark with him on a warm December morning.
As John doggedly struggled up the long slope from the Twin Lakes area, his nephew complained vociferously. “Uncle John, why are we going up? Didn’t you see it down there?” He pointed through the leafless trees.
“Yup,” John breathed heavily.
“My dad says that you’re crazy,” Mark lashed out. John ignored the comment, tightening his grip on the rifle, heading north along a long cliff that rose high from the surrounding trees.
A few minutes later, a huge brown shape moved through the bare trees to their left, lumbering in their direction.
“Shoot it! What are you waiting for?” Mark panicked.
“Naw, old bear ain’t gonna hurt us. Hasn’t smelled us yet.”
But Mark wasn’t listening. He backed up, nearing the edge of the cliff.
“Watch out, son.” The hunter waved. Just then, the bear reared on its hind legs, smelling them for the first time, and John fired a warning shot in the air. Mark screamed, turned to run, and promptly slid off the red cliff, smashing his head on a rock a few yards below, and then plummeting silently. The bear ran up the slope.
“That was no bear,” muttered John, his lips pulled back on his teeth. “That was a mountain lion.”