One end of the living room was completely faced with a stone wall that held the biggest fireplace Sandy had ever seen. Splendid heads of elk, mule deer, mountain goats and pronghorn antelope filled up the rest of the space. One animal, though, was significantly missing. Mike was the first to notice it.
“How come no mountain lions, Hank?” he asked.
They were stretched out in front of the fireplace, deep in comfortable chairs, relaxing as the stiffness of a hard day in the saddle drained slowly out of their tired bodies. A full meal and the warm glow of the fire had made them all pleasantly drowsy.
Mr. Cook and Hank Dawson were both drawing thoughtfully on their pipes. Joe sat with his head thrown back against the stone wall, the smoke from his cigarette curling lazily through his fingers. Mike was propped up on one elbow, staring into the fire with glazed fascination. Sandy was lying on a large, overstuffed sofa, one hand absent-mindedly scratching the floppy ear of a big-chested tan-and-black dog.
The dog, Drum—Hank’s favorite lion hound—had adopted Sandy the first moment they met. Ignoring everyone else, even Hank, he insisted on padding around after him all evening and was now settled happily by his side.
Mike’s question broke a contented, peaceful silence that had lasted for nearly ten minutes.
Mike repeated his question. “I see every other kind of trophy up there, but no lion,” he added.
Hank tapped the bowl of his pipe reflectively against the side of the fireplace. “Frankly,” he said, “I don’t think they’re worth mounting.”
Mike looked surprised. “I thought they were the best prize of all.”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t agree. Oh, they’re dangerous, all right. Don’t make any mistake about that.”
“They vary,” Hank replied. “Mountain lions or pumas or cougars—they’re the same animal, you know—are found all the way from British Columbia down to the tip of South America. And the farther north you go, the bigger they get. A full-grown male will weigh as much as two hundred pounds. That makes them bigger than an African leopard.”
“Then why don’t you like to hunt them?” Mike asked.
“I kill them. There’s a big difference.” Hank shrugged and reached for a match. “At least there is for me.”