@page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } October 29th, 2010 Saturday Rand Armstrong had picked up the tracks in the fresh dusting of snow two miles east of the edge of his property on Rocky Mountain National Forest land. There had been no mistaking them: three-lobed heel pads; teardrop-shaped toes in uneven lines; no appreciable claw marks; and the feathery halos surrounding the prints from the fringe fur. No doubt this was the mountain lion he was after. Damn prints were nearly the size of a tiger’s. No way this wasn’t the bastard that had snuck over his fence and torn apart his huacaya alpacas. He’d already lost three in as many weeks, and he wasn’t about to risk losing any more. Breeding those fluffy llamas may have sounded like a pathetic way to eke out an existence, but he was pulling twenty grand a head. Even with that kind of income, he sure as hell wasn’t about to blow another ten thousand bucks electrifying nearly five miles of fencing like the Forest Service suggested.
