The Kill

            Her father stopped the pick-up near the tree line.

            “This is your stop,” he said.

            The engine had warmed enough that when he spoke there was no sign of his breath, and the glow from the horizon was enough that she saw the smile behind his beard.  Amy couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled.

            “Do you have everything?”

            She felt her bulging pockets.  There was the crumple of the tags and the cling of the extra cartridges.  At the bottom was her cell.  She pulled it out and turned it silent.

            “Yeah, I have everything.”

            The air outside was crisp.  Her smell wisps of breath quickly became nothing.  She heaved the case from the bed of the truck and set the butt on the ground.  From inside it she pulled out the cold steel and wood of the rifle by its leather strap and slung it over her shoulder.

            She put the case back in the bed and walked back to the cab.

            “Now, if you need me, I’ll be up over that crest, in the back of the draw,” her father said.

            Amy nodded. 

            “And wait until I’m out of sight before doing anything,” he said.

            She pushed the door shut.  He waited for her to trudge to the tree line before driving back onto the double tracks.  The truck’s red taillights were quickly all she could see, and soon they were gone, over the crest.

            From the tree line Amy could not see the glow from the horizon.  The tree line was thicker there as it followed a draw.  She gripped the straps tighter and followed the path in.

            It was cooler inside the trees, and down around the draw there were traces of morning fog.  She stepped carefully between the rocks washed into the path where it crossed the draw.  Her boots scraped along the sand covering the rocks.  She became more aware of how loud she was and stopped. 

She was not alone.  A twig snapped.  A bush was rustled.  She felt something watching her.  The glow from the horizon was finally beginning to penetrate through the trees.  Her eyes began to see shapes, but they were only broken branches, uprooted trees, and tree stumps.  She smiled.  There was nothing.  It was only the wind or a squirrel.

From the draw and the trees she made her way onto a long sloping fallow field.  At its edge she heard murmuring.  She stopped again and listened. 

There was an outburst and an explosion of feathers beside her.  Three or four turkeys frantically flapped their wings as they lifted their heavy bodies from the ground to the highest branches inside the tree line.  They settled in the dark of the trees and were quiet.

Amy left them alone and trudged through the moist dirt and the cut grass stalks of the field.  She tripped a few times on clumps of dirt and grass, and when she reached the top of the field her body was beginning to sweat under the weight and warmth of her thermals and coveralls and rifle.  Pausing, she reached under her orange vest and unzipped the coveralls.  The cool air met her sweat. 

The sun soon peaked over the horizon.  Its warmth struck her face.  She closed her eyes.  Her boots sunk into the dirt. 

If the sun was nearly up that meant her chances were nearly gone.  She felt all right with that.  She wasn’t sure what she would have done with a deer.  Could she have killed it?  Placed the bullet right into its heart?  She opened her eyes into the brightness of the orange glow of the sun.  What if she missed?

The sun was above the far treetops.  She would just keep walking.  Her father would stay out as long as he had to, and she hadn’t heard a shot yet.  She would follow the trees around back to where she began and if she hadn’t heard from him she would walk back towards where the truck had to be.

She trudged backed down the field into a stretch of the tree line where she hadn’t been.  There was a leaning fence of barbed wire strung from posts of thick gnarled branches planted into the ground.  The underbrush was not thick but her baggy coveralls caught on branches and thorns.  She stopped to untangle herself and to pull the thorny branches and leaves from her clothes.  By the time Amy reached an intersection of fence her hands were scratched and red with exposed flesh. 

The animals of the tree line by then were awake and scampered away as she broke through branches and snapped twigs.  Squirrels sprinted through the grass and twisted up the trees to jump from the high branches to other trees.  Rabbits bounded away, jumping through the barbed wire and down into another draw that snaked by.  It was deep near her, and there were puddles of water standing among its dark mud. 

Amy rested against the post intersection.  With the rifle cradled in her crossed arms she listened to the birds.  She wasn’t sure who was who except for the bobwhites.  She whistled their tune, and saw it move.

It had jerked its head up.  She hadn’t heard or seen it before.  It was only fifteen yards from her on the other side of the fence.  It turned its head so that a dark eye was watching her.  She slowly shouldered the rifle and pointed it towards the deer.  The scope magnified it to a mass of light brown.  She shifted less than an inch and searched until she found its head.  The cross hairs lined up and she slid her index finger onto the trigger.  The deer stood still, its eye never blinking, watching her.  Amy gently squeezed the trigger and braced for the explosion and recoil.  There was only a click.  She had not turned the safety off.

The deer started but did not flee.  Ignoring the suddenness and noise, Amy quickly thumbed off the safety.  She sighted the deer again and remembered to aim not for the head but for the heart.  Once the cross hairs were lined on the chest she squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the shot deafened all other sounds and the rifle butt jerked hard into her shoulder.  After the split second when she blinked during the shot, the deer stumbled and bounded off through branches and brush.  Amy lowered the rifle looking for any sign of the animal.  There was nothing.

She reached over the fence and rested the rifle against the opposite side of the post.  Her feet pushed the wire down and the barbs sunk into her boot soles as she climbed the fence.  She maneuvered her boots between the barbs and pulled a gloved hand off another barb and then jumped the three feet down.

Amy collected the rifle and set off in the direction that the deer had sprinted.  Her body was shaking and her head felt light.  She wasn’t sure whether she wanted a hit.  They could run for a hundred yards before dropping dead.  She hoped she had missed.  But what if she’d only wounded it?

Her breathing quickened as she made her way slowly through what was not her great uncle’s tree line but someone else’s woods.  At any moment she could come across its dead body, or worse, its living body writhing in pain as blood gushed from the hole in its flesh that she had torn away.

She stopped at the bank of the snaking draw.  The ground dropped six feet into mud and puddles.  Surely if it was wounded it couldn’t cross this gap?  She walked along the bank scanning the draw and its opposite side.  There was no sign, no tracks, and no blood.

She heard a distant crack and froze.  This was not her great uncle’s land.  Even though she might have shot and killed a deer it was on someone else’s property.  Amy didn’t want to be caught, or worse, shot.  But she didn’t want to give up on the possibility that she’d shot the deer.  She didn’t know whether she wanted to find its body, but she knew she wanted to find out what had happened to it.

Her path back to her great uncle’s property was long and arching as she searched for the deer.  She reached the fence and climbed it again.  As she slung the rifle back over her shoulder she heard her father calling.

Harold pulled hard on the taut barbed wire loop, and forced it off the top of the gatepost.  He stepped over the fallen gate and walked away from it. The oak and hickory leaves crunched beneath his boots.  Autumn was near an end, and soon the ice would come.  These trees would be encased in it, the grass would be frozen and broken, and some of the livestock would be dead.  Probably a calf and a of couple piglets.

And maybe Maude.  She didn’t remember much.  Hopefully she was still in bed.  He’d walk a while and meet up with Clark and Amy, and then make Maude lunch.  She’d like that.

He stopped and shifted the rifle from one shoulder to the other.  Maybe he was too old for this.  Maybe it’s about time to let the young ones alone, just let them use the land.  He liked seeing Clark and Amy.  It was too bad Beth was too busy to come with them.  But she would not have enjoyed.  She’d always been a bit squeamish, not that Clark was good.  He never would have made a good farmer.

Harold continued through the woods.  The trees were mostly young, but even some had branches snapped off from storms or disease.  The late morning sun shined down on the back of his neck.  Sweat began to build up underneath his arms.  The young trees did not provide much cover now, not that they did much in summer.

Near the edge of the woods Harold stopped.  The wood had been cut ten yards out from the fence.  On the other side were two deer.  One was smaller than the other and had the white spots of a fawn.  The other was surely the mother.  Harold raised his rifle and aimed.

Neither deer started.  Both continued with their heads bowed, eating the tall grass that was never cut around the fence posts.  The crosshairs came together on the doe’s neck.  She lifted her head and looked at him.  He waited for her to start, to sprint off.  She did neither, but resumed eating beside her young.

Harold lowered his gun.  He was too old for this.  If he killed her then he would have to dress her.  He’d have to drive across the county to the nearest checkpoint to report her and then drive to the Shannon’s for butchering.  The bed would be stained blood red and the stench would remain at least for a week.

The doe lifted her head again and looked at him.  She turned and began to slowly walk back through the field.  At twenty yards she stopped and waited for the fawn.  It moved slowly towards her.  He could still take a shot. 

Harold raised the rifle.  He thumbed off the safety.  The cross hairs lined up, but he waited.  The fawn reached the doe and they began to move quicker.  Harold tightened his grip.  He was too old for this.

When he lowered the rifle again the doe took off in a sprint followed by the fawn.  They bounded and jumped across the field throwing up dirt as they kicked off.  Harold raised the rifle one last time and aimed deliberately under and then fired.  A small fountain of dirt exploded fifty yards ahead of him.  The deer by then had slipped into the distant tree line.

Harold thumbed on the safety then slung the rifle onto his shoulder.  It was getting late.  He would circle back to the pick-up and return to the house.  Maybe make some lunch for Maude and for Clark and Amy when they get back.  He wondered whether Clark got one.  He was always looking for a trophy.  So far though, the best he’d done was a few years back with that eight-pointer.  But what if Amy got one?  What if she’d gotten the trophy?

He chuckled.  Clark would be mad.  He’d always had that temper.  But what a first time out it’d be for Amy.  She’d been so excited last night when they’d arrived.  Of course this morning she was tired and quiet.  Probably nervous.  The excitement never went away, but the nerves could always subdue it.

He was halfway back to his pick-up when he saw the brown body still in the brush.  Harold came up to it and felt it.  The body was warm and the legs were not yet stiff.  It had not been that long since it dropped.  He circled the body and noticed two small nubs hidden behind the ears.  It had to have been Clark or Amy.  Nobody else should be out on this land.  Unless Old Man McManus was letting someone else out here.  But McManus wouldn’t do that, not while he was leasing it.  Most likely it was Amy.  Clark usually went out further northwest towards where the big draws met.

It would be best to drag it back to his pick-up.  He’d walk back and try to see how far in he could get. 

“Amy!”

That’d be Clark.  That’d mean they’re around.

Harold turned back and began to walk through the woods towards the call.  Clark called out again a few moments later.  He must be in the other field past the north tree line.  Harold walked along through the woods near the clearing before the fence.  The brown rugged field came to an end at the north tree line.  On the other side was a field he had let fallow for hay.  There was not much now left.  It was mostly rugged as well but with grass stalks cut off and laying about.

He tugged on his orange cap and looked at his orange vest.  Amy was a beginner.  He wasn’t sure about her reactions.  Clark was experienced, but even so.

“Clark!  Amy!”

He could see them standing near the crest of the fallow field.  They looked towards his direction.  Harold pushed through branches and brush and came to the fence.  Clark and Amy had started to walk towards him.

“How’s your morning going Harold?” asked Clark.

“Not too bad.  Did you get anything?”

“I got a little seven pointer back where those two draws meet.  It looks like it last one antler.  And Amy thinks she might have hit one a little earlier.”

Clark gave a brief smile.  Harold looked at Amy and winked.

“Did you now?” he asked her.

She looked towards the woods.

“Yeah, I shot him over there.  I saw him stumble so I think I hit him.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, I came across a young button buck up in those woods not far from here.”

“A button buck?” she asked.  “I thought it was a doe.”

“No,” Harold said.  “It’s a button buck.  And I’d say it’s yours.  I haven’t heard any other shots out this way, and I’ve been walking through the woods for a while now.  The body’s still warm, so I’d say it’s yours.”

She looked at him and smiled.  It faltered though on a few moments thought.

“I won’t get in trouble for shooting a button buck will I?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Harold said.  “You can’t even see them nubs unless you get up close behind him.”

“It’ll be ok,” Clark said.  “Well, we better go dress him.  Are you ready to do that?”

Amy looked back at the woods.

“Well, I guess so.  I don’t remember exactly where to start.”

“We’ll help you,” Harold said.

He helped Clark and Amy over the fence.  They started into the woods.  Amy slung her rifle on her should like Clark.  She walked a little to the side and behind them.  Her eyes were moving nervously.  It is her first kill.  They came to the body.  Clark circled it and felt it.  Amy stood back staring at it.

“Well Amy, are you ready?” Clark asked.

She nodded.

“Lay your rifle down gently and come watch me,” Clark told her.

She did as told, and Clark pulled a hatchet from his backpack. 

“You have to swing hard enough right here in the sternum,” he said.

Clark tapped the deer’s sternum with the blade and then raised the hatchet above his shoulder.  With a heavy swing Clark cracked into the sternum.  The skin broke instantly and the blood permeated the fur crimson.  The hard fibers of the sternum were smashed but not completely broken.  Amy’s face became pale.  She looked away but then back.  Clark raised the hatchet again but not as high.  With another swing the sternum broke open.  The tearing of the fibers cracked in succession like ice. 

Amy backed up.  She put out a hand to a nearby tree.  Clark looked back at her.

“Now remember this for next time, if you still want to come again,” he said.  “This is all part of hunting.”

Harold smiled at her.

“That’s why I don’t do it so much,” he said.  “I’m a farmer.  I’ll let the slaughterhouses take care of my animals.”

She smiled weakly.

“My way you don’t have to get your hands as dirty.  Though you do have to take care of some sickly animals and every once in a while a death.  I guess it just don’t seem as dirty.”

Amy turned away.  Clark was prying the sternum open.  The stench was instant.  Harold felt sorry for her.  She would never make it out here.  Most people wouldn’t.  Clark didn’t.  He never liked it.  Everyone thinks it’s too dirty, too much work.

Clark began to pull out the intestines.  They slipped from his gloved hands down along the deer’s body.  Amy took a few steps back.

All anyone wants is to take it easy.  He was getting too old for this.  He should be getting back to take care of Maude, make her some lunch.  But first he’d have to help get this deer back to the pick-up.  They could go back to the house, grab a bite, feed Maude, and then go to the county checkpoint.  After that he’d help take the deer out to that processing plant that Clark liked nearby just inside Osage County.  Amy wouldn’t like that.  The carcasses lying about in the sun waiting to be butchered.  The blood caked dirt.  The smell.

Harold looked back at Amy.  She was watching now, but looked faint.  She probably wasn’t expecting this.  Nobody really does expect it.  But sometimes it has to be done.