Henry looked at the dead puma. Jesus H. Christ…Never seen anything like this shit. He nudged the corpse with his boot. Two-year-old male. He bent down, pulled his Buck knife from its worn leather sheath, and used the fixed blade tip to raise the dead lion’s outer lip to examine its teeth
and gums. Full set of healthy teeth, including razor sharp fangs. Henry scraped a little bit of blood and flesh from the teeth. The puma had a tuft of bristly boar hair stuck in its lower lip. He bit that hell hog at least once.
Henry checked the claws next; they were also healthy. From the front left paw, he pulled another tuft of the boar’s coarse hair from between the toes. He pushed the pad just under one of the retractable claws, forcing it out. The claw also had dried blood on it. Raked him, too.
He rolled the corpse on its back. Damn, that hell hog splayed him open, mid-stomach to ball sack. Henry ran his hand over the rib cage; he felt at least three broken ribs. That bastard steamrolled him, just like the two cur dogs and pitbull he killed a couple weeks back. This bastard is big.
Henry dragged the cat off the single track by the tail, then used his knife to skillfully cut its head and paws off. He carried them over to his side-by-side and wrapped them in his camo jacket. As a professional hunter, Henry knew this was illegal as shit in California. Hell, I only seen one mountain lion in my life. I ain’t gonna get this chance again. I’ll make me a claw necklace and euro mount the head. He unsnapped the tie downs holding his shovel, then headed back to bury the remains.
#
From the top of the ridge at the edge of his ranch, Randall Miller waved for Henry to come up. Henry nodded and waved his cowboy hat, then jockeyed the ATV up the twisty dirt road. He stopped at the cattle gate leading into Randall’s ranch.
Randall greeted him, his old .44-70 with iron sites resting on his shoulder and his .44 magnum revolver strapped to his hip. Jesus, the old boy looks like he can barely carry his own weight let alone that old lever action and the hand cannon.
“Howdy, Randall. I found that dead lion you told me about down in the wash below west ridge.”
Randall blew snot cowboy-style from his nostril, then spat Redman juice into the dust. He looked at Henry with his good eye, his blind milk-white eye locked vacantly to the right.
“Ain’t never seen a damn thing like it,” Randall said.
“Amen to that. This is the nastiest boar I’ve ever heard of.”
“You gonna find and kill that sombitch before it kills another dog of mine?” Randall asked.
Henry smiled. Worry about yourself old man…that boar’ll kill you if he gets a chance.
“Yep. Randall, I’ll kill that boar for you. For now, you just keep your dogs in their pen for a few days. Tomorrow, I’ll bring out my ankle biters and scent hound and catch his ass.”
Randall spat chew juice again.
“You kill ‘em and bring me the skull and cape and I’ll pay you double. I want to mount that sombitch and hang him on the damn wall.”
Henry nodded, turned, gave a wave without looking back and headed to his side-by-side.
#
In the shade of the canyon, Henry drove down the dirt track just faster than he could walk, his body leaning out, his eyes scanning the dirt hoping to cut a fresh track. His scent hound, Clovis, sat next to him on the passenger side, his nose lifted into the breeze trying to catch the first pungent whiff of boar. Behind them, their leashes clipped to a D-ring bolted to the bed, his rat terrier, Mabel, and his jack russell, Gertie, laid on each other napping. Henry loved watching the little dogs fearlessly latching on to the ankles or ball sacks of pissed-off boars.
Henry spent the entire morning zig-zagging the network of ranch roads and trails that wound through the canyon. He knew the pigs would push up into the foothills soon; the days were getting hotter, and the creek was a trickle now. The mud would dry soon. I need to kill this bastard before he kills another dog or moves up into the hills for summer.
Around noon, Henry stopped atop a knob to glass. He hadn’t cut any fresh sign. He let the dogs loose. Mabel and Gertie stretched, sniffed, pissed, then began chasing each other in a big zig-zag.
“That’s it girls, get some exercise. We ain’t finding this bastard today.”
Clovis ambled a few yards out on the point and made a few circles with his nose held high. Smelling nothing, he laid in the dirt and promptly fell asleep. Henry pulled out his cooler and grabbed a cold Diet Coke and some jerky. He had two cold beers ready for after he killed the pig. Where the fuck did you go, you nasty fucker? Hell, I don’t even know what you look like…
#
Sometime around 1:00 a.m., Randall’s hounds began howling and yapping in their pen. Sombitches best not be yapping at a goddamn skunk again. The cacophony grew in volume, becoming frenzied after a minute or two.
Clad in long johns, Randall grabbed his .44 magnum, wrestled himself into his cowboy boots, and donned his cowboy hat. He’d almost tottered to the dog pen when he caught the rancid stench of wild boar. Goddamn he’s close.
Randall opened the pen and his four remaining cur hounds raced toward the small avocado orchard behind the ranch house. Randall gave chase in a slow, unsteady jog. He could hear the dog’s barks becoming more urgent. They’re on his ass now.
Randall became winded. I ain’t gonna catch ‘em on foot. He decided to get his ATV. I’m gonna kill that bastard myself!
He was halfway across his yard to his garage when the big boar charged. Half-deaf from age and gunshots, he heard a grunt right before impact.
As he laid in the dirt, blood trickling from his mouth and ears, and a warm torrent of blood running down his thigh, he realized the dog’s barks were moving further away. Then Randell realized the boar had returned. He reached for his pistol.
#
Just after sunup, Clovis picked up the scent. Henry clicked on the dog’s collar, made sure it was registering on the iPad display, then cut Clovis loose. As a scent dog, Henry had trained him to track and point when he was within a hundred yards.
“Once old Clovis finds that bastard, you girls are going to catch him and fuck his nuts up,” Henry said to his little terriers. Gertie pawed at the air, ready to work. Mabel yawned.
Henry watched the iPad icon of his hound move on the GPS grid. Clovis worked in a slow arc, first moving away from Henry, then looping back. That boar is moving slow.
Around 9:30 a.m., Clovis stopped moving. Henry checked the display. Shit, he’s only 200 yards north of me. Looking at the GPS topo map, Henry could see the boar had likely bedded increek bed below. He pushed back his cowboy hat and massaged his temples. He hit the recall button for Clovis.
“I ain’t losing old Clovis or you girls,” he said aloud.
#
Henry loaded his Remington .300 magnum with 180-grain solid bullets. He worked the bolt, put one in the pipe. He turned his scope down to its lowest power. He strapped his Ruger.44 loaded with bear rounds to his right hip, grabbed his shooting sticks and left the dogs leashed
to the side-by-side.
He walked up a steep fifty-yard rise in the road to the top of the ridgeline. On top, he angled toward the canyon edge running above the creek. Henry figured the boar was bedded in a small wallow he’d found a few days earlier. The morning was already pushing 70 degrees Fahrenheit. That old boy will be laid up in the shade near the mud and water.
Henry moved slowly watching the ground for loose scree and rattlers. Crouching, he made his way to a small series of boulders. Keeping low, he peeked around the boulder. It took a minute to see the boar with his naked eye. A seventy-yard chip-shot.
Partially obscured by brush, the boar laid in the shade of a young oak tree. Henry spied the hind quarters through the scope. He can’t see or smell me. No hurry. He set his rifle down, took off his flannel overshirt and laid it atop the flattest boulder he could find. He got set and began to examine the scrub brush obscuring the boar’s front half. Through the scope, Henry could just make out a section of the boar’s light-skinned belly and its front leg. There it is… Lung shot…
He mentally rehearsed his plan. Aim. Half-breath, squeeze on the exhale. Reload, anchor back hips with follow-up. He practiced moving the scope from his first planned shot to the hindquarters.
He steadied himself, breathed, and took his shot. He heard the tell-tale “thwack” of the heavy solid bullet hitting the boar. He was surprised the boar’s hindquarters were not flopping as he lined up and took the second shot. The second thwack echoed.
Henry chambered another round, but the big body laid motionless. Stoned his ass on the first shot. Goddamn.
Henry made his way down to the dead boar. I’ll cape him and pack the head out now…leave the meat for other pigs or coyotes.
When he approached the dead boar, the smell struck him like a fist. It was ranker than the typical boar musk. Henry could smell the putrid stench of festering wounds. Must be those puma bites turned green.
“Holy Christ,” he said aloud when he finally saw the full size of the boar.
He must go 475 lbs…those cutters are at least six inches showing. Fucker looks like a cross between a Russian boar and a warthog.
He wanted a couple kill photos and skin out the cape for a shoulder mount, and pushed the boar onto its belly, bent its hind legs, and pushed them under the boar to stabilize it. When he repeated the process up front. Henry stopped and shook his head. Son-of-a-bitch was probably
already dead when I shot him. He crouched and pulled the boar’s tattered right ear back and examined the entrance wound. Then he ran his hand back to the exit wound. A chunk of skull was missing a couple inches behind where the bullet entered. Randall must have got him…then he slowly died down from a brain bleed here.
He took his photos and went to work.
#
In the early dusk, Henry sat on Randall’s front stoop bathed in red and blue flashing lights. He ran his hands through his graying hair, while giving the head game warden his statement. The deputy warden walked over to join them.
“Looks like the old guy got a round off and nicked the boar’s brain before it killed him,” the second warden reported.
“Did Randall die right away?” Henry asked.
The wardens exchanged looks.
“It took a while. That boar slashed him good in a few places…then still fed on him for a while before leaving.”
Henry almost vomited, composed himself, and asked, “what about Randall’s dogs?”
“They’re fine. We locked them back in their pen. We think they got on a smaller boar and chased it when the big boar ambushed the poor old guy.”
“Jesus,” Henry said.
“The dogs were laying next to the old guy’s body when the ranch hands found him this morning.”
Henry shook his head and sighed.
“Never seen anything like it,” the head warden said.
The deputy warden patted him on his shoulder and started to walk off.
“Can I take his dogs? He’s got nobody,” Henry asked.
“I don’t see why not. They’d be going to the shelter anyway. They look like good hog dogs,” the deputy warden said.
“Those dogs…my dogs…we’re all retired,” Henry said as he got up and headed for the pen.
JD Clapp is a writer based in SoCal. His creative work has appeared in over 50 different literary journals and magazines including Cowboy Jamboree, The Dead Mule, trampset, and Revolution John. He is a two- time Pushcart Prize nominee (non-fiction) and a three-time Best of the Net nominee (fiction and poetry). He has two forthcoming story collections (2024/2025): Poachers and Pills (Cowboy Jamboree Press) and A Good Man Goes South (Anxiety Press). He can be reached at www.jdclappwrites.com X @jdclappwrites; Bluesky@jdclappwrites.bsky.social; IG @jdclapp
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