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Gus Macmillan, the renowned hunter across all five states, is adding one more animal to his list of trophies. He’s not letting age prevent him from shooting the rumored panther terrorizing the people at Braithwaite Manor. That damn cat’s been pouncing on unsuspecting riders, wagons, stagecoaches—going as far as to be seen sneaking ‘round the houses on the Braithwaite property and eating a few workers. In no time, the panther will be preying on the townsfolk of Rhodes. Gus won’t let that happen, because of the money he’s been paid to kill the son of a bitch.
Not because a panther is more thrilling to hunt than a wolf or bison…
…Not even because his heart can’t handle another lion.
Sweat glistening on his forehead, he dismounts his horse, loosely ties his horse to a tree, and starts equipping his necessities: a rifle, a shotgun, a revolver, a knife, ammunition, and a pouch of fresh meat. His scent’s also no issue since he’s been neglecting a proper bath, preferring the cleanliness of a river than in a tub. Once he’s gotten himself armed to the teeth, he treads into the woods of Bolger Glade. It’s been recently sighted here according to the Braithwaites. They inform him of its dark-as-night fur, how Gus will surely have trouble finding it and should be cautious. Ha! He could barely keep himself from telling them his tale of successfully hunting a giant, black wolf in the tundra of Russia, that Gus found the wolf first before it saw him—after the bullet hit its shoulder.
The pelt wasn’t what he was gunning for, luckily enough. Its head is hung proudly on the wall of his cabin, the first thing one will see alongside the lion, walrus, elephant…
His thoughts are abruptly halted when he hears a twig being snapped, raising his rifle like lightning and swiveling on the spot to gauge his surroundings. With the sun up high in the sky, its rays filtering through the forest canopy, it provides ample light for Gus to identify bushes, tree trunks, yarrow, boars, and deers.
No panther.
Creeping forward slightly, still on guard, he feels something give beneath his foot. He looks down and lifts his front foot. A broken, thin stick is found, and Gus could only sigh. He eases the tenseness in his shoulders and drops his hold on the rifle a bit. He gives the area one last sweep of his eyes before continuing to walk, constantly surveying and listening.
(╯ಠvಠ）╯︵ ┻━┻
For hours.
Gus has been surveying and listening for hours . He hasn’t seen hide nor hair of that damn panther, and this Rhodes heat is taking a toll on his aging body, as much as he hates to admit so. His fingers have grown stiff from his gripping the rifle, turning at every noise the forest makes. Nothing .
“Might just be looking at the wrong place,” grumbles Gus. He rubs a cramped hand on his oily face. “Cat probably went off somewhere else while I was here lookin’ at trees.”
Shouldering his rifle across his back, he walks over to a large boulder beside the trail near the Lannaheche River, but a weight barrels into him before he could get there. The orange-pink light of the evening breaks through the foliage yet does nothing to illuminate the animal scratching at him on the ground—it’s the yowling and claws slicing skin as it tears through his clothes that helps him figure out that, yes, it’s a panther.
The fucking panther.
Gus pushes the thing away as best as he can with his cut-up arms. His heart’s beating and his panting fills his ears, body burning and numb, when he scrambles to sit up, grabbing his revolver from its holster on his belt while the animal quickly gets back on its paws. It growls angrily at him. It bears its sharp teeth at him, crouching low behind Gus’s iron-sight. His hand is shaking bad as he sticks his fat forefinger through the trigger guard, as the panther steps forward and starts running at him. He curses the Lord above then pulls back the hammer.
If he dies, this is what he wants to die of, not any of that namby-pamby crap. This is his natural cause. This is what people will remember. But at the same time, he wants to die victorious. He wants to die bleeding out after putting a fatal bullet between its eyes. He blames—he hates his heart for giving up on him. Did he not train himself to handle this type of excitement? He’s fulfilling his purpose, isn’t he? So why —!
Birds, deer, boars, and such flee at the deafening bang of the gun. The panther screeches. The bullet misses it by a fraction. A larger, darker-furred creature had rammed into the side of the panther. Gus chokes, having held his breath for too long, and watches the panther get plowed over. All Gus could see is the panther, with its coat shining from the spotted sunlight and shadows. Pressed down against the ground by its adversary, it squirms and cries but moves not an inch from beneath it—partly due to how the bigger has the panther’s neck in its drooling maw, reminiscent of a canine’s. In no time, the crying ceases and movement ends. The creature had clamped its mouth shut, a resounding crunch bouncing off the trees of the silent forest.
Shoulders rising and falling—the curious sun arching over the glade, the only visibility possible for Gus—accompanied by labored breaths, the predator is an inordinate being. With it bent over the panther carcass, Gus commits the sight to memory. A rarity. Thick, midnight fur covers the entirety of its figure in wavy locks; a stiff, bushy tail sweeps up dust-dirt as it sways restlessly; a broad, back and long, strong hind-legs. Strange in many ways than one, it’s quite a unique animal, and likely worth a fortune.
As an avid animal lover, in a way less appreciated by some, Gus could only stare and raise his hand with the gun slightly. Though, he has to stop intermittently. The creature’s head has gone up, and its shoulders have become still. Gus internally curses at having put off oiling his guns—how they rattle and squeak, stirring the attention of the creature. He watches the creature's triangular ears twitch while continuing to ready his revolver, to aim for its head or spine. Steadying his hand, he finds his target—the creature has raised its head too much, allowing him to have a clear shot. However, he knows he will have to cock the hammer quick and shoot fast .
He won’t make the same mistake twice. God forbid. So he pulls fast and the bullet is shot quick with a bang!
And yet, the animal turns like a blur, faster and quicker than the fucking bullet, pouncing on and pinning Gus down. The gun is knocked out of his hands before mean claws sink into the skin of his neck—it’s hands wrapped around his neck!
The animal—
“I saved your life, and you want to shoot me, you son of a bitch?”
It’s more like a human up close. Of course, the fur and size says otherwise, but the dexterity? The speaking?
“What are you?” Gus manages with his restricted airway.
He’s suddenly released, and Gus takes the opportunity to back away, clutching his bruised neck. The animal, kneeling on the dirt a foot away, glares at him with bright, green, human -like eyes despite the close physical resemblance to a wolf.
It pulls its upper lip back, revealing its sharp rows of teeth. “Fuck off,” it sneers.
Then, it bounds back up on its large feet and scampers off into the night. Fur tickled by the full moon for mere moments, it disappears, leaving Gus staring after it. Finally breathing after it.
A talking , monstrous animal… never been seen before, except by him. No one has ever documented such a thing, at least not in proper papers. It's story-books, fairy tales...
What a fortune, indeed.
He spits blood to the side after clearing his throat. Staggering as he stands, he picks up his wayward rifle and revolver to shoulder and holster them, albeit with shaky hands. Then, he walks to the dead panther. He kicks it. “Piece of shit.” A whistle from his trembling lips calls for his horse. “Gave me so much trouble.”
His obedient horse comes, having easily pulled away from the tree. His anger eases at the sight of her walking up, because she hadn’t worsened his day any. Panther on his shoulder, he stows the carcass on her behind and secures it with rope. Blood stains his shirt, but he couldn't care less.
“I’m gonna kill it,” vows Gus, stepping onto his horse. As soon as he collects the money, he’ll gallop back to Bolger Glade and track the damn thing. He swears that he will. He’s hunted bigger animals and lived .
The Lord has tested him, and he has succeeded each and every one of them.
That beast’s head will be hung on his front door, if it’ll be the last thing he does.
God willing.