Burns came about, dismounted and tied his horse to a drooping limb. He’d seen a helicopter and decided to use a stand of Gambel oaks as cover. He thought the chopper might be on an aerial deer survey, but it didn’t pay to broadcast one’s whereabouts. Especially on public land.

He pulled the saddle, let the mustang go on a long tether. The saddle smelled of sweat, age, good leather. He tossed his bedroll down at the base of a stunted oak and began scrounging for firewood. With the darkness would come a long silence, free of intruding eyes.

There was a small stream a hundred feet to the east of his camp. He wandered down to the water and filled his canteen, noticed the prints of raccoon and a single cat paw. The idea that a cougar might be in the neighborhood made him smile. Any place healthy enough to support a big cat was prime real estate in his opinion.

He carried the water back to camp as the light gave out. A few stars appeared, ice crystals against a purple background. Within the hour whatever heat had mustered during the sun’s arc would dissipate, leave the ground cold and still.

Burns broke some small limbs, stacked them and waited. He heard his horse grazing and decided to bring it in closer in case the cat was about. His Winchester was propped against the tree behind him. But if the cat came, it would probably require pistol work. He hoped it didn’t come to that.

When the dark started to envelope his camp he struck a match and got the fire going. When there were coals, he set a pot to boil, made coffee. He found a box of Saltines and a can of sardines, thought about it and decided on beans and jerky. No point advertising to the cat.

A few insects started up, then stopped, leaving a deafening quiet. Burns thought he heard the insides of his ears whir.

He pulled a map from his pack, illuminated it with a small flashlight. If he followed his own trail it looked like an aimless line with no apparent direction. He put his finger on the map, slid it along the page, tapped a spot. He let his finger rest there for a moment, then put the map back where he’d found it. He was a long way from the spot on the map, but he had all the time in the world.

The helicopter reappeared mid-day. He watched the bird circle a copse of trees, hover, then slide sideways towards a sheer expanse of red rock. He considered getting the Winchester out but simply sat his horse and waited.

When quiet returned he moved, led his horse around a massive rock slide. The sun warmed his back, cut short shadows across the desert. Sage and cholla, grasshoppers, a raven squawking.

He lifted his hat, let the wind tussle his hair. He was leaving tracks in the sand but didn’t figure it mattered. He looked around at the vastness of his surroundings, felt the mustang’s solidity beneath the saddle, the Winchester. All the security he needed was within arm’s reach.

At a creek he dismounted, let the mustang drink, filled his canteen. The desert was friendly this high up, plenty of water coming down from the higher elevations, rains coming with the shifting seasons.

He ate the sardines and some crackers. When he got farther into the wilderness he’d take a deer with the Winchester, out of earshot. He’d make camp, dress the animal out, stay long enough to made good use of the kill. There was money in good deer hide, something to trade with.

The sun dropped across a table-top mesa and took some of the light. He rode another half hour then held up beneath a large shelf of burnished rock. There were shards of pottery near a fire ring so he moved to the other end of the shelter. He let the mustang go on its tether and built a fire, watched it throw shadows on the rocks behind him. People had been camping here for as long as human memory could track and he found the place to his liking.

The mustang snorted and ambled to the end of its rope. Burns nodded; best horse he’d ever met. It was amazing how intuitive an animal could be, sensing a rider’s intentions before the bit or spur was needed. He put some sticks on the fire, sat back against the saddle, looked at faint outlines dancing on a rock ledge. He couldn’t make out the exact shapes but knew they were made a hell of a long time ago. There were people who knew what the pictographs signified but that kind of information didn’t interest him enough to make inquiries.

He dug through his pack and came up with a can of peas and some spiced jerky. Not much, but enough. There might be trout in the larger streams up ahead. If he could figure out a way to catch them, things would take a turn for the better. Maybe he’d tie a fly using hairs from the mustang’s tail. Fashioning a hook was the fun part. Line he had plenty of; it came in handy for a number of reasons.

A thin slice of new moon crawled above the treetops. Burns tilted his hat and went back to his peas. Next opportunity he would score some salt. Did wonders for peas.

Burns heard the rattles before he saw the snake. He pulled the mustang up, felt her back-peddle a few steps. The snake was curled by the side of the trail, guarded a spot of sunlight. Burns thought the rattles were a clever design of nature, at least until humans entered the picture.

He dismounted, kept an eye on the reptile. The snake wouldn’t wait to be attacked, would move into the rocks under provocation. Burns pulled a long knife from the sheath on his belt and found a stick a few paces to his left. With a slow fluid motion he took the stick and slid around behind the snake, reached out and pinned its head to the ground. He applied pressure until he heard the snap then eased down and severed the rattler’s head with the knife.

He picked the snake up, admired the animal’s markings. Eight rattles. He took it behind some rocks, away from the mustang and cleaned the guts. When he had the innards removed he carried the body to his pack, deposited it in an oiled canvas parfleche.

Burns was pleased. He didn’t enjoy taking the snake but would appreciate eating it later. He’d have to improvise to obtain the most flavor out of the flesh, would grill it over the coals nice and slow. There was no point being in a hurry in this place. Or anyplace else.

He mounted and let the mustang follow its own lead towards the east. Later they would veer northward, aiming for higher country and game animals. The sky was full of buttermilk clouds, odd shapes. He considered getting out his harmonica but couldn’t think of any tunes he wanted to hear. The mustang seemed adverse to his playing anyway, pinned its ears back at the first sign of a song.

They walked up an arroyo, skirted an open expanse of ground, out of view from the air. At the end of a slot canyon he coaxed the mustang up a steep embankment and made for a jumble of red rocks. Wildflowers bloomed in sparse patches, reds and yellows. A hummingbird worked the blossoms. Burns liked the way the birds sounded as they sped past, like a chittering motor noise.

The mustang held up, turned its ears. Burns guided the horse under a small overhang and watched for signs. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his pack and scoped the area. About a mile from his position were a couple of hikers making good time across the arroyo he had just ridden. He steadied and focused the glasses, saw the light green shirts of the Forest Service.

Burns noticed the antennae, figured the men were tracking a collared animal. Maybe the cat. One of them pointed at the ground, the other nodded.

Burns sat the mustang, sheltered by the overhang, a few Gambel oaks. The Forest Service men tracked up the arroyo, came to where Burns had veered northwest and went the other direction. He stowed the glasses and took a drink from his canteen. By this time tomorrow he’d be in high country where horse tracks were nothing worth looking at. He knew a Navajo near the big reservoir, would pay the man a visit, maybe borrow a light rod and some tackle.

They made good progress until dusk, camped beside a trickle of a stream in the bottom of a narrow canyon. He built a fire and made coffee. The mustang drank from the stream while the last light vanished. A chill followed the appearance of a sprinkling of stars.

Burns skinned the snake and skewered it on a thin oak branch. When the fire allowed, he held the meat a few inches above the coals, listened to it sizzle. The snake smelled good, caused Burns’ mouth to water. It would be a decent switch from jerky and canned beans.

He heard the mustang grazing, the faint sound of creek water. The sky was a dark velvet, peppered with shimmering lights. It was a good place to be, no matter the circumstances.

There was a crack a few yards off to his right, opposite the mustang’s last sounding. Burns eased the .45 from its holster, crouched lower. He heard the mustang neigh, alarmed. The horse was talking to him.

Burns gripped the pistol with both hands, took a series of slow deep breaths. Something moved, barely a shadow. The mustang made a move away from the fire, finding the end of its tether. Like an apparition, a faint trace of features appeared. Burns held steady, breathed, waited. The fire was low, only enough flame to maintain heat for the snake.

He saw a face, a pair of marbles peering at him through the night. He moved the pistol slightly, found a target for when the time was right. The cat lowered itself, its eyes on Burns and the snake. It was weighing the situation, verifying available facts. When the odds were clear, it would move in one direction or another.

Burns heard the mustang neigh again, saw the cat look askance for an instant. It was all the time he needed to pull the trigger and be done with it. The cat turned back, looked at Burns. The animal’s eyes were lit from within. The effect was mesmerizing.

"You might have nine lives but this here .45 is serious business," Burns said.

The cat went lower then swung around and disappeared into the void. As if a hole had opened up and swallowed the animal.

Burns remained in his crouch until his legs rebelled. He kept the pistol aimed across the fire, eased forward and whistled. The mustang obeyed, came back towards the camp. Burns rotated the skewered meat with one hand, the pistol in the other. When the snake was done, he tossed plenty of wood on the fire, stoked it, throwing light everywhere.

When he felt sure of his safety, Burns tore into the snake. Later he would say it was the best piece of meat he’d ever tasted.

Ned Mudd, author, musician, philosopher and mad man, lives in Birmingham, Alabama and is a regular contributor to The Zephyr. His email address is:

nedmudd@bellsouth.net