Hunting the Devil
A shot echoed across the valley toward McCutchen’s position on the side of the hill. It came from behind him. Spinning Chester on his heels, he searched the brush for signs of his quarry. Two more shots rang out. He scanned the larger area for clues as to what was happening. Riders from the ridgelines converged on the source of gunfire until he heard shouting. A rancher on the ridge above him waved his arms before cupping his hands around his mouth. “It’s coming right for you! In the brush. Fast as hell!” Chester sensed it first, whatever it was, and tensed. “Whoa, boy.” McCutchen pulled both his Colts from their holsters, deciding it better to leave his rifle sheathed. The brush directly in front of him exploded with commotion as a full-grown jaguar barreled toward him from thirty feet
- Writer
