Part 05

After struggling to wade out to the fallen deer, Gramp secured the rope around Buck’s body and began to pull his way to solid ground.

“Nice deer, Willard,” said a voice.

“That it is Ben,” said Gramp, stopping halfway between the deer and the shore.

“Nice deer your Gramp has, boy,” said Ben Morrison.

“It’s his,” said Willard looking at Ron.

“Old Buck. Fancy that,” was Ben’s response.

“Got it hisself,” Gramp said.

“That so, boy?” Morrison asked turning to Ron.

Speechless, Ron could only return an awkward gawk.

“Well, he aint claimed so, Willard! So if it ain’t his and it ain’t yours, then by God it must be mine. Ain’t that right boy?”

“Morrison, we don’t want no truck with you,” Gramp said.

“You got truck with me, Willard! Me and my brother,” said Morrison, raising his own shotgun to shoulder level.

“You’ve got to give a man half a break,” pleaded the old hunter.

“You’ve had yours,” said Ben, aiming at Gramp, “and you won’t get no second chance neither.”

Gramp Willard heard the explosion and saw the flesh leap off Morrison’s chest: the blood and bone exposed. Morrison’s right arm was lying fourteen feet away from his body. The lower right half of his face was missing; the bloody tongue flopping out between the remaining exposed teeth. Gramp saw Ron, who still had two fingers on both triggers lying on his back.

“Ron! Ron!” yelled Gramp, struggling to pull himself up the bank. “Ron,” said the grandfather, kneeling beside the boy.

“Is he… is he dead?” the youth whimpered.

“He is.” said Willard, holding Ron’s head.

“I… I killed him, Gramp. I killed him. I killed him…”

“You did right. It was right,” said the old deer slayer, taking the shotgun from Ron’s hands. “You did right.”

Gramp and Ron pulled Old Buck out from the bog and strung him up. The deer had to be dressed out. First however, the took the remains of Ben Morrison’s body down into the bog. Gramp tied the dismembered arm to the body and weighed them down with semi flat stones. He pushed the body into the mud. Down, under the surface, gone.

***

She handed him a glass of wine. It was red. Hearty Burgundy. He didn’t want to drink it. Wine and beer didn’t mix in his system. He drank.

“It’s good,” he said.

“I like it,” she said. “What would you like to hear?”

“Anything, he replied.

She put several records on the stereo, walked to the couch and sat beside him.

“You’re a quiet guy.”

“I’m a good listener,” he said.

“Sometimes you have to do more than listen.”

“I know,” he said.

As she kissed him, she slid her hand along the inside of his thigh. His legs felt numb. He had to piss. He was nauseated. His head was starting to throb.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked, breaking away.

“Through there, second door on the left.”

When he returned, he saw her sitting on the couch. She was naked. She was holding her glass of wine. She smiled. He was drunk. He slumped into the space beside her. He wanted it. For sure. Damn wine and beer!

“Well, aren’t you going to do anything?” she demanded.

He didn’t do anything. He didn’t say anything. He saw the bog mud.

***

Ron helped hang Old Buck from a rafter in Gramp’s barn. It was a prize deer. A legendary deer that hung in a dark, dank, empty stall. Gramp, unlike he had planned, never told anyone about the deer. No. The very next day after their return, Gramp butchered Old Buck without so much as a word.

***

Ron sat back in his black leather swivel chair and looked at his books. He thought he could hear them speaking. He thought one of the authors said something about hay bags, but he wasn’t sure. They were all talking at once; it was impossible to understand. He was still drunk. He begged them to be silent. The clamor continued. He took a novel from the shelf. The rest of the works became silent. He loved his books.

End

Part 04

Ron thought he heard a noise. He looked upstream, hearing a snap and a splish. Then he heard a larger more human sound. Something was moving toward him and it was moving quickly. It jumped. It was Old Buck. Ron could barely see Gramp, who was running along the stream, following Buck’s trail. Ron knew this was his time; that he wouldn’t get a second chance. He shouldered his gun, pointing it upstream. He held his breath. Old Buck was sixty yards away. Ron started to lead him. He had two fingers on the two triggers. You don’t get a second chance. He exhaled quickly and drew in another breath. Old Buck jumped again. The deer easily cleared a fallen tree. Ron closed his eyes, holding them tight.

He pulled both triggers of his twelve gauge double barrel Knickerbocker.

After opening his eyes, he picked himself up. The blast had knocked him flat. He reloaded instantly. He ran down the ridge.

“Gut shot him,” yelled Gramp as he grabbed Ron’s arm and pointed to the blood on the ground. They followed the trail of blood up over the ridge. They stood at the edge of the bog. Old Buck was there. He had gotten twenty feet out into it and was caught up to his chest, bearing a large splattered patch of red. They watched as Buck fought the bog.

“Ain’t he something,” said the veteran deerslayer.

Ron watched the deer kick and flounder.

“Lad, give him one more.”

Ron saw Buck throw his head back.

“Be a man. He’s yours.”

“Gramp! Gramp… I…”

“Shoot him! It’s cruel not to!”

“Gramp…”

“Shoot!” Yelled Gramp.

“I can’t,” said the boy.

As Gramp shouldered his single shot, Ron turned away. Ron heard the noise from the blast echo off the far bank of the bog. When he turned back around he saw Old Buck slumped forward. Moitionless.

“Here,” Willard said after removing a coil of rope from his belt. “Tie this end on that oak over there.” The old hunter took off his jacket and started down into the bod Ron saw the old man was already up to his knees in the mire.

***

“Do you come in here often?” he asked.

“No. Do you?”

“Not much anymore,” he said.

“It’s an alright place, I suppose,” She said.

“Not bad,” he added.

Ron refilled his glass and held the pitcher suspended over the table’s center. She replied by sliding her glass toward him. After filling the glass he set down the empty pitcher.

“Beer is publican’t piss,” she said. “Give me a hearty Burgundy. Do you like wine?”

A member in good standing of the Dithryambic Players and Layers Association,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Sometimes I like a glass of Port after dinner but usually I prefer Chablis.”

“Another pitcher?” asked the waitress who had approached the table.

“Would you like to go somewhere else?” asked the woman.

Ron looked at her. He looked at the waitress. He thought. “I guess we won’t have anymore beer, thank you.” he said to the waitress who snatched up the pitcher.

“Ready?” asked the woman.

“Lead the way,” Ron said. He stood. His legs were a little unsteady but he didn’t stagger.

“Let’s take my car,” she said, walking across the parking lot.

“Okay,” he replied.

“It’s the green Vette over here,” she said.

“Did you have any place in mind?” Ron asked after entering the car.

“Not really? How about R.A.’s?”

“Sounds fine,” he said.

Ron thought he could buy her a few rounds at R.A.’s. Suggest they hop over to the Bum Steer or to where? Anywhere. Sure, talk about books. Anything. He was flexible. Everything was smooth. Right? It’s work. In the car. He’d ask her up to his place. He had it made. What could go wrong?

“Look,” she said, “let’s go over to my apartment. Ive got some wine and I’m tired of crowds. Okay?”

“You’re driving,” he said.

Part 03

Walking behind the old man through a thicket of briers, Ron was snagged and scratched by the sharp needles. He wondered if he’d done right, agreeing to hunt with Gramp. He wanted it for sure, but…

“Don’t dawdle, boy,” Gramp said, using a hushed voice. “I ain’t going to hold back this here prickly all day.”

Emerging from the thicket, the youngster saw they had entered a low, open area, marking the fringe of territory familiar to him. Running down the center of the clearing, a small stream wound its way through. The bareness of some sapling white poplars reminded him of the forthcoming winter. He flet the coldness blow past his outer garments and reach his raw flesh. He shivered. They walked along the water for three quarters of a mile. They were headed northwest. Headed for the bog. They moved slowly and moved in silence. The terrain began to make a change and a small ridge was running parallel to their path on the left. On the right, a steep bank pushed its way up into existence, carrying the forest trees high up into the air and away from them. Gramp led Ron away from the brook and up onto the small ridge, separating the stream from the bog. The elder huntsman led him to a spot where the scrub oak was low and thick.

“Boy,” Gramp said, barely whispering. “This here’s your stand.”

“Where are you going to be?” Ron asked.

“I’ll work my way back upstream. After Old Buck passes me by, I’ll jump in behind. He’ll know it too. Won’t pay you no heed, but be on your toes because he won’t be strolling along. Remember, give him about two feet of lead, shoulder high and both barrels boy, both barrels. You won’t get no second chance. No second chance.”

“Gramp I don’t think I…”

“Hush up! Just follow what ol’ Gramp Willard tells you. If you gut shoot him, follow the blood. Probably be up under the scrubs. If he heads out into the bog, don’t follow him. Just let him go boy, cause nothing can save him then.”

Ron watched the aged woodsman walk down the ridge and toward the campsite. He saw that Gramp didn’t travel along the stream as they had just done. He saw the seasoned deer hunter carry his ten gauge shotgun, a single shot, with both hands in the firing position. Gramp stopped several times and listened to the woods. Ron listened too. He heard nothing, and soon Gramp was out of sight.

***

“Two dollars,” said the barmaid after setting down the pitcher.

Ron handed her a five dollar bill.

“Out of five,” she said.

She set three crumpled bills on the table, turned and left, weaving her way around the tables. She was married.

After pouring himself a glass of beer, he looked at the pictures on the wall next to him. Ed had pictures on every wall. They were pictures of his patrons His customers. The photos were taken during the Saint Patrick’s Day bash, at which gallons and gallons of green beer flowed from Ed’s taps. Rons suspected Ed had the pictures taken during the bash because it was one of the few times that a large number of females were in his establishment.

Ron had attended the bash one year. It was amazing. He never thought this small bar could accommodate so many people. Bodies. Moving. Wrestling. Everyone crowding, pushing, laughing, drinking, swearing and enjoying. There were those who had had too much sparkling green beer and as a result were bent over vomiting on the red carpet. There were those whose faculties had been obliterated; they were lying on the floor. They were trampled on. They swam in vomit. It was fun.

It wasn’t until he’d finished his beer that he noticed, three tables away, a woman sitting alone. Apparently she was alone. What was she doing here? There was only one glass on the table. She must be alone. She looked at him. He looked into his beer glass. Was she looking at him? Ron wasn’t sure.

He thought he should approach her. Why not? He could offer to buy her some drinks. Sure! She was probably only after free booze. Maybe not. He could talk to her about art or theater. He knew about theater. Or film. He’d seen all the latest ones. Or writing. Maybe she wrote? Probably a secretary. Maybe not. Books. He could certainly talk about books. Everyone read didn’t they? He knew about books. What else? What else was there? What else did he know? He was flexible. He could…

“Hello in there!”

“Huh?” he said, looking up.

“Where have you been? She asked, laughing slightly. Oh, just thinking,” he said. It was her. She was sitting at his table.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”