The Challenger by Terri Farley

Ranch, behind River Bend, and on past Linc Slocum’s Gold Dust Ranch. It offered about twelve miles of easy access to all three ranches and their livestock. If she were an injured cougar, she’d use it instead of roaming over the range.
    Jake shook his head, not speaking until Ace and Witch fell into step. “No. A few tracks and signs, though. They were headed this way when I lost them.”
    Jake leaned right, then left, checking the ground as they rode. Witch was used to his weight shifting in the saddle, but Ace shied.
    Sam snugged her reins and let Jake ride ahead. If there were cat tracks along this ridge, she didn’t want to trample them.
    â€œLet’s try Aspen Creek,” Jake said. “The altitude’s lower, it’s warmer, and mule deer go there towater. Those things oughta attract the cats.” He didn’t sound convinced.
    â€œWhy are you worried?” Sam asked.
    â€œWhatever’s wrong with the mom cat, she’s getting worse. Instead of limping, she’s dragging the injured paw. It’s on a hind leg, and she needs both hind legs to hunt.”
    â€œI thought cougars got up in trees and dropped down on their prey.”
    â€œSometimes, but look around.” Jake gestured at the terrain. “The trees are bare and there aren’t any cliffs. That’s why I want to go down by Aspen Creek, where there are still trees with leaves.”
    Oh good, Sam thought, so they can drop down on us.
    â€œWhat about that?” Sam pointed at an overhanging shelf of old snow.
    â€œThat’s just left over from the last storm,” Jake said. “It doesn’t look too stable to me. I bet if you rode up there, it would break right off.”
    After a closer look, Sam decided Jake was probably right. But then she thought of this morning.
    â€œBut the cougars were down by our chicken coop,” Sam told him. “I know that’s what I saw.”
    â€œI believe you,” Jake said. “But a healthy cougar can travel twenty-five miles a day, and it’s only three or four miles from here to River Bend.” Jake shrugged. “That’s not good news that they were down by the house,” he added. “She’s already shown her cub how to wait in the brush. He doesn’t need to practice that. Wait. Stalk. Act.” Jake emphasized thewords as if they were a process all mountain lions memorized. “They should be working on step three. A cougar as big as this one shouldn’t be hoping to catch a hen.”
    â€œHow old do you think her cub is?”
    â€œAt least a year,” Jake said, and Sam knew his certainty came from the size of the cougar’s paws. “He’s big, but inexperienced. She should be teaching him how to rush a deer before it scents him. He’s big enough to spring on a deer’s back and still keep his hind legs on the ground for stability.”
    Sam pictured that kind of attack. It would be like the attack of a rearing stallion—only with teeth and claws.
    â€œGood-sized cats like this one have been known to kill even bears that way,” Jake said, “with a single bite on the neck.”
    Instinctively, Sam hunched her shoulders and glanced around. “What kind of tracks are we looking for?”
    â€œI’ll take care of finding tracks. You look for scrapes and scratches.”
    Sam tried to understand exactly what he meant. Jake must have seen her confusion.
    â€œScrapes are piles of dirt kicked up by a cat’s hind feet. And you know how house cats tackle a scratching post? They mark trees the same way, reaching high up and pulling their claws down like they were ripping your sofa.”
    â€œWe’ve never had a house cat,” Sam admitted.“Just barn cats and they’re pretty wild.”
    â€œYou’re joking.” Jake’s smile said he couldn’t believe he wouldn’t know this about her. “Mom’s calico is about to have a