Mike reached his cabin just as the sun was dipping below the horizon. His hands were so stiff he could barely turn the key. Inside, the air was cold and the stove was dead, but it was home. He found his backup radio and called the dispatcher, forcing out the coordinates and the names of the men who’d jumped him.
The dispatcher promised a team at first light. Mike hung up the radio and collapsed onto his bed, fully clothed. He fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep that felt like a small death. He dreamed of a golden cat, massive and strong, patrolling the ridges with a family of his own.
In the dream, there was a female and a growing cub—the one Mike had saved. The cub only had three legs, but he ran just as fast as the others. Mike realized then that he hadn’t just saved a cub; he’d saved a lineage. He’d given them a future, and they’d paid him back in kind.
The sheriff’s deputies worked quietly the next morning, taking photos and collecting evidence, while Mike was driven down to the clinic in Oak Creek. The doctor patched him up and started him on a round of antibiotics. A week later, they caught the poachers. They’d tried to cross the state line, but the Highway Patrol picked them up at a checkpoint.
In their truck, they found the hides of three black bears, elk antlers, and a stash of gallbladders. They were prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Mike, sitting in the courtroom, didn’t feel anger or triumph—just a profound sense of closure. Then he went back to the mountain, because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
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