Black Hills

cops for long, but it gave him a thrill to stay out in the open, to use good old Jim’s little Canon to take photos.
    He moved among them, he thought, but they didn’t know him. He even made a point to talk to other hikers. Just another asshole, he thought, tromping around on sacred ground like he had a right.
    Before he was done, everyone would know who he was, what he stood for. What he could do. He would be a legend.
    He’d come to understand this was what he’d been born for. He’d never seen it prior to now, not clearly. No one had known his face, no one had known his name, not in all the years before. That, he realized, had to change for him to turn truly toward his destiny.
    He could not, would not move on as he had in the past when he’d felt the hot breath of pursuit on the back of his neck, or feared—he could admit the fear now—capture. It was meant to be here, in these hills, on this land.
    Live or die.
    He was strong and wise and he was right. He believed he would live. He would win, and that victory would add his name to those who’d come before him.
    Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Red Cloud.
    Years before, before he had understood, he’d made sacrifice to this land. When the woman’s blood had spilled, by his hand, it had begun. It had not been an accident, as he’d believed. He understood now his hand had been guided. And the cougar, his spirit guide, had blessed that offering. Had accepted it.
    She had defiled that sacrifice. Lillian Chance. She’d come to the place of his sacrifice, his holy ground, where he’d become a man, a warrior, by spilling the blood of the woman. She’d brought the government there, in the form of the police.
    She’d betrayed him.
    It all made sense now, it all came clear.
    It must be her blood now.
    He traveled with a small group, merged with them as a helicopter buzzed overhead. Looking for him, he thought, and felt the pride fill his chest. When the group chose one of the many crossings over a narrow creek, he waved them off.
    It was time to slip away again.
    If he fulfilled his destiny, the government would surely have to disclose to the public what they’d stolen. And perhaps one day, the true people would erect a statue of him on that very land, as they had to Crazy Horse.
    For now, the hunt and the blood would be their own reward.
    He moved quickly, covering the ground—the rises, the flats, the high grass, the shallow creeks. Even with his speed and skill, it took most of the day to lay the false trail west toward the Wyoming border, leaving behind signs he thought, derisively, the blind could follow. He sweetened it with Jim Tyler’s wallet before backtracking.
    Once again he headed east through the pine-scented air.
    Soon the moon would be full, and under that full moon, he would hunt.
     
     
     
    LIL PERSONALLY PLANTED pansies in the bed across from Cleo’s enclosure. They’d handle the frosts that weren’t just likely but inevitable, and the spring snows that were more than probable for the next few weeks.
    It felt good to get her hands in the dirt, and satisfying to see that splash of color. Since the jaguar watched her avidly, Lil crossed over to the path. “What do you think?”
    Cleo appeared to have no particular bias against or liking for pansies. “If you’re still waiting for some Godiva, you’re doomed to disappointment.”
    The cat pressed her flank against the fence, rubbed back and forth. Interpreting, Lil went under the barricade. She watched Cleo’s eyes as she approached, and watched them slit with pleasure when she stroked and scratched through the fencing.
    “Miss that, don’t you? No chocolate or poodles, but we can give you a little personal attention now and then.”
    “Doesn’t matter how often I see you do that, I’m never tempted to try it for myself.”
    Lil glanced back to smile at Farley. “You pet horses.”
    “A horse may kick the hell out of me, but it’s not going to rip my throat out.”
    “She’s used to being touched, to being spoken to, to the scents and voices of people. It’s not just humans who need physical contact.”
    “Tell that to Roy. Or Siegfried. Whichever one of them had that real contact with the tiger.”
    “Mistakes cost.” She backed away, ducked under to join Farley. “Even a kitten will scratch and bite when it’s annoyed or bored. Nobody who deals with cats gets out without a few scars. Were you looking for Tansy?”
    “I wanted to see you, too. I just wanted you to