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It was fall. The old
man had made 81 years. Seventy years he had hunted the wily deer of the
Carolina lowlands. Seventy seasons since his father had given him the 12
gauge L.C. Smith double barrel shotgun that rested across his lap. Seventy good
seasons in the forests. Some years had been plentiful in the deer
harvest, some sort of lean…just like life...some years were good with lots of
achievement...some had their low valleys. But the seasons always came
around and each fall was good. Memories, the mind held the memories neatly
folded and filed in appropriate cubbyholes; each one released, triggered by the
smell of woodsmoke in the frosty air of fall, the busy hum of a spring bee, the
barking of a hound….
He heard the dog. The
wail of the hound's cry was carried by the wind across the savannah. "Still
aways off", the old man thought. He shifted his seat on the oak
stump,attempting to restore the circulation in the old legs that didn't move as
quickly now.
The hound cried
again. The old man lifted his head in anticipation and like the quarry
that he hunted, he turned his head into the wind, tilting it back, savoring the
air in his nostrils, scenting, listening for the deer.
He had been born Southern,
in the PeeDee region of South Carolina. Being Southern he placed great
value on honor, family, religion, good dogs and guns, Case knives, and just
every once in a while, a sip or two of 10 year Old Charter whiskey. His
grandfather had followed Robert Lee to Gettysburg and on to the surrender at
Appomattox, Virginia, then on home to help rebuild the South. Some things
never changed and the South of 1865 was still evident now. Honor...
The dog sounded again,
closer this time; and in the distance the old man could hear the chorus of the
pack following the lead hound. The chase was heating up; the pack of
hounds was in full cry now, the end of this hunt was nearing.
Softly, the old man opened
the breech of the shotgun and checked his shells and then closed the
gun. The first rays of the morning sun pierced the foliage overhead and
warmed his cheek. He eased his right hand into his jacket pocket, warming
his gnarled fingers. A gray squirrel scampered across the trail in front
of the old man and clawed its way up a towering pine and paused to bark at the
intruder that occupied his favorite nut chomping stump.
"Maggie liked
squirrels", he thought. "Pretty, Maggie was, from the first
time we met at a street dance in Conwayborough. Crossed over now, some
ten years ago. Fine woman, best of the best. We raised good kids,
too. Two daughters"
The cry of the hounds woke
him from his reverie. "Ol buck veered south a little. He'll turn
back once he hits the edge of White Oak Swamp." He could feel his
heart now, the juices of life beginning to flow, the anticipation of the
ambush, the kill. "Calm down", he thought, "You've done
this hundreds of times. Yeah, but the feeling is always the same, the same
excitement, the same anticipation."
"His daughter Sandy,
blonde, like Maggie, always got fidgety long bout this time when the dogs began
to get close. Liked to hunt, she did. Married, moved to
Denver. Doesn't hunt much anymore, too involved in her work. Don't
see her often, several years now, but she writes, every week."
A twig snapped
seventy-five, no, closer to a hundred yards away. The fresh wind brought
the sound of the hound pack to the old man. "Closer, they really
covered some ground in a hurry...."
Brown, almost a shadow, the
grand old buck stepped out of the thicket and into the open beneath the
oaks. Regal, his antlers majestic, he thrust his neck forward, his horns
back, and tested the air. The cry of the hounds caused him to look their
way. He stamped a forefoot, tossed his head, and looked toward the old
man.
"Aren't you something.
Fourteen points at least. You've been about a bit, too, haven't you, ol
boy."
"The boom of the old L.C. Smith reverberated through the
forest. Slowly, his shotgun held at ready, the old man approached. The
buck lay against a log, regal in repose. The hunter counted the points,
fourteen strong points, the buck's winter coat prime, a record trophy.
His legs weak from the surge of adrenalin, the hunter seated himself on the log
next to the old buck and leaned against a tree. Slowly, he laid the old
shotgun across his lap, reached for his hunting horn and blew three short
blasts, signaling the end of the hunt.
We found him that way. Asleep
we thought, leaning against that tree. I suspect that Maggie was pleased
to see him, hugged him close, just like she always did when he returned home
from the hunt. ©2008 Ted Gragg. All Rights Reserved Worldwide. |
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