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and ruthless. Usually a well-placed blow to a particular part of the male anatomy was enough to get the point across but on occasion she’d had to resort to damaging other parts as well.
    She hadn’t killed anyone yet, but she’d meted out some fractures and severe contusions in the few seconds it took for Brutus and the wolves to come to her aid. Fortunately, Brutus’ presence alone was enough to deter most men from acting upon any testosterone-induced idiocy.
    Offenders were escorted out of the woods posthaste and did not receive a refund.
    Period.
    Nobody had ever sued over it, either. Jim Awiakta was a shrewd businessman who knew how to draw up contracts like a corporate legal shark. He had included a morals clause in the basic contract right along with a waiver requirement for accident, injury, or death- especially if the client’s own actions precipitated it. Cover your ass with both hands and Kevlar drawers was one of his favorite axioms.
    It was a fine fall day on Powell Mountain. She could see Newman Ridge southward across Snake Hollow and an occasional glint from Blackwater Creek as it ran the northeastward course. The sky was a crisp blue and the air sweet and cool with just the slightest tang of wood smoke. Her family lived in one of the more remote parts of the county despite Big Sycamore Creek Road which traversed the length of Snake Hollow from the southern-most end of Powell Mountain to State Route 70 up in Virginia. Sneedville lay in a valley to the south of Newman Ridge but to Callie it existed only when she gave it any thought.
    The first frost had already fallen and the nights were quite chilly. Leaves were falling heavily, carpeting the forest floor with red and russet and gold accents while those still on the trees rustled their songs in the breeze. The deep green of pines and cedar trees stood in stark contrast to the half-bare deciduous trees. As Callie and her children chatted, blue jays called, squirrels barked, a hawk whistled high overhead, and an elk bugled in the distance.
    The elk and deer were in full rut now, with the males battling for territory and harems and the females picking out the time, place, and male of their choice for breeding. Of course, the predators knew that while the adults were so preoccupied with the getting of next year’s offspring that this year’s fawns were a bit more vulnerable to predation. This also made the cougars and bears a bit more vulnerable too, since they could be more easily found by hunters.
      Guests paid well for the chance to get a bison, elk, or bear and even more so for the very few tags allowed for an adult mountain lion. Tags for deer were far less expensive, and for hogs only a hunting license was required. Feral hogs were considered invasive pests and destructive to the environment.
    The local ones were huge, often weighing nearly one thousand pounds and reaching eight to nine feet in length. Dubbed “hogzillas” after a huge hog shot in southern Georgia, they were extremely dangerous even for the most experienced hunter. It took a .308 or higher caliber rifle to kill one and usually more than one shot was required to do the job.
      Hunting hogs was Jonas’ specialty. His pack of Black Mouth Curs was well-trained to bring a hog to bay while staying clear of its tusks and he knew how to bring one down. Still, he admitted it scared the piss out of him every time he looked a hog in its mean, beady eyes. They were the most unpredictable and dangerous animals in the forest, far more so than even bear or lion. Too many things could go wrong when hunting or cornering them, and if folks had the misfortune to stumble across a herd of sows with their pigs they’d be lucky to escape with their lives.
    Callie could see the smoke from the lodge rising up about a half-mile away. She wondered briefly about the men she’d be escorting this day but didn’t involve herself in speculation. Beyond the fact that they were clients whose money provided her