Free Durango by Gary Hart

his privacy now. He had found one or two old-timers who still seemed to carry a grudge against Sheridan, whose noses turned up and mouths turned down when Patrick asked them about him. He let us down, was about all they would say.
    Patrick wondered if Caroline Chandler might know some things that she had not revealed and, if so, if she would be willing to discuss them now.
    14.
    Leonard Cloud had tried to find Dan Sheridan for days after his resignation from the county commission back then. Though reluctant to impose on his old friend’s privacy, he had even driven up to the Sheridan ranch on two occasions. But Sheridan was not there. Harv Waldron’s son was keeping the place up and looking after the animals. Cloud did note that Toby didn’t dash out to greet him, and the big red horse was not in his usual corral.
    Sheridan was somewhere up in the Weminuche, the tribal chairman had concluded. He’d come down when it was time to.
    Years before, while still in high school, Dan Sheridan had found a small high meadow, no more than a dozen acres, with a small stream forming a natural lake deep in the wilderness. The place was miles off the nearest trail, and that was a remote one. It was totally surrounded by tall ponderosas and was protected on two sides by twenty-foot cliffs. Well trained by woodsmen grandfather and father alike, Sheridan knew to build a fire pit near the lake and well away from the pines. There was a perpetual supply of beetle-kill timber on the ground for firewood. He packed in supplies, strung them from a high limb, and pulled them up high at night. What little food waste there was he buried well away from the campsite to prevent bear visits day or night.
    Besides the food he packed in, the stream seemed always to have six- to eight-inch trout eager for his hand-tied flies. He had calculated in his youth that if the country were overrun with aliens of one kind or another he could survive in his secluded hideaway for about as long as he needed to.
    And, of course, he had the Winchester he had inherited from his father. Through repeated practice with cans on fence posts, Sheridan had assured himself he could handle bear or cougar so long as they didn’t jump him in the night. He had learned the creatures’ habits from his father and grandfather. Grandfather Sheridan told endless tales of encounters with the predators hunting his horses or cattle, some virtually on the ranch house doorstep. One of Sheridan’s earliest memories—chilling at the time—was hearing the late-night mating scream of the cougar. From time to time over the years, the big cats would venture down near the top of Florida Road, usually very early in the morning or as the sun set, looking for a deer or young elk or even one of Sheridan’s calves.
    You would see them…and then you wouldn’t. You would think you saw one, but then you weren’t sure. Once or twice he had passed under a tree without checking above eye level only to hear a deep purring growl. Once he found himself fifteen feet away from a full-grown mountain lion. Its leaping range was thirty feet. Though he knew better, he could not help but look fully into the wide, staring, incredibly wise yellow eyes of the magnificent creature. He never forgot the sense of beauty and strength the great cat possessed.
    He had never killed one and hoped he would never have to. Survival would be the only defense for doing so. And even then, being in the cat’s territory might justify some punishment for his trespass.
    Leonard Cloud might not know the exact location Sheridan’s retreat, but he strongly suspected it would be a remote corner of the Weminuche. After a week or two had passed, Sheridan appeared on his doorstep outside Ignacio. Harv’s son said you’d been up to see me, he said.
    Cloud took him down the street to a small restaurant and they had a beer. Just wanted to see how you were doing, he said. I also wanted to see