The Hunt

Marty sat on the passenger side of his father’s Dodge. The sun had set about 20 minutes prior, and time was running out. Marty scanned the fence line that ran alongside a forest of poplar and birch, about 300 yards out and over the second growth of an early-cut alfalfa field. The smell of late-season blooms was still faintly noticeable. It was nearing dusk, and too late to hunt.

Marty caught movement. Faint, about 200 yards out and not close enough to the trees where their shadows would limit his ability to identify his prey. He slowly put his binoculars down and picked up his rifle, an old .303 calibre British that had actually seen World War II. Marty remembered the day his Grandfather gave it to him, watching him cut the stock as it was too heavy for Marty to lift, aim and shoot free-handed. He was 12 at the time.

Marty raised his rifle through the open window of the pickup and peered through the scope, both eyes open, as he taught himself. One eye to aim, one to watch for movement beyond what he could see in the scope. He concentrated his aim on where he saw movement seconds before. A flicker! Just outside the view provided by the scope. Marty offered himself a quick congratulations for having learned that skill and for putting it to use. He trained the crosshairs on the target. He needed to identify his prey so that he was sure that it was a legal kill. As he was concentrating on his target, Marty slowly reached for the bolt, pulled it back, and pushed a round into the chamber, careful to minimize noise. With the bullet loaded, Marty locked it down with too much enthusiasm, and it let out a painful ‘click!’ With the rifle loaded, Marty’s finger resting on the trigger guard, he watched his prey shoot up its head. And its tail!

“Whitetail!” Marty whispered.

“Shoot!” His ol’ man whispered back.

It happened to be doe season. One week a year, valid whitetail tags became legal for hunting females as well as males. Which meant anything with a white tail was fair game!

Marty did not shoot. He waited. He aimed. And he aimed. And he aimed some more.

“Shoot tabernac!” His father swore.

The deer bolted forward, jumping high, running for its life. Marty’s aim followed. Then, his aim preceded the running animal. Just enough to… Exhale, slowly, listen to your heart, follow the beat. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. BANG!