Great story I found

It had been a long day of walking. As I rounded the switchback on the fire road, I saw an odd shape on the ground far below me in the bottom of the hollow, next to the creek. I put the binoculars to my face. The shape was rounded and brown with a patch of orange. I remembered the single shot that I had heard earlier in the morning as I walked the ridge two hollows over. The binoculars fell against their strap and bounced on my chest as I began a hasty descent down the old gravel road. I watched the shape. Each time I’d lose sight of it behind a tree or at a switchback in the road I’d hope to see that it had moved. It didn’t. As I got deeper into the hollow the shape appeared larger and my pace quickened. I came to a place that the creek was just a few hundred yards below the road. The road continued along this last ridge. I stepped off the road and onto the steep hillside. The ground was loose. Soil and gravel. I side hilled grabbing at the laurel branches to stop my fall several times. Several other times my balance failed and I slid along on my right hindquarter and shoulder. At the bottom of the hill I stopped and collected myself. I found the shape again. It had not moved. I ran toward it.

As I approached the shape I confirmed what I had suspected. The round brown shape with a panel of orange was a body. Laying on the ground up on one side. Wearing brown insulated overalls and an orange cotton vest. A red flannel cap with the ears let down atop the head. A lever action rifle was near the feet, which were clad with green rubber boots. The shape was a body. It was cold enough that the dusting of snow from last night remained. In places, near the body, that snow was stained with reddish brown blood. The shape that was now a body still didn’t move.

I felt my already ragged breathing quicken. I felt my heart beat not only in my chest, but in my neck, up through my jaw, and I heard it in my ears. It was about three miles or so up and over two steep ridges to my truck, but I knew if I followed the creek to the south I’d come out to a road within a mile, and it was flat. I’d find a house, or wave down a car, and call the state police. I turned to start out along the creek, but my feet were stuck in place. I couldn’t leave it. I knelt beside the body, the face turned down toward the ground, not visible. I placed my hand on its shoulder. I expected it to feel stiff and frozen like a gut shot deer left out overnight to die, but the muscles and bones beneath the heavy brown canvas were supple and pliable. I could hear my own breath, my inhales and exhales punctuated by my pulse which was audible. I pulled the body back toward me. Gently. Slowly. I wanted to see who it was, to know what had happened. I was terrified to see anything at all.

First I saw the hands. Pulled underneath against the chest. A knife in the left hand. Both hands were covered in blood, as were both sleeves of the overalls. I heard myself gasp. I felt my hands shaking inside the rag wool gloves. The body rolled toward me and I felt its weight against my leg. It was heavier than I expected. The face turned toward the sky and became visible. Blue eyes transfixed to the heavens. A dried yellow matter had collected in the corners of the mouth. The lips were parted and revealed a row of yellow teeth inside.

Then, a puff of steam from the mouth, pushed out in front of a groan. The eyes followed mine then blinked. I wanted to jump up. To run. To scream. But I was frozen. The bloody knife began to move rhythmically as the hand that clenched it tremored. Another groan. The eyes still followed mine, and the head turned, and the groan turned into a word, “Son”. The body had become a man.

“Son”. His eyes blinked. His neck craned as he tried to sit. “Son”. I reached my hand behind his back and helped him sit. He dropped the bloody knife in the snow and plunged his shaking hands into the pockets of the overalls. “Son”.

“What is it? Your son? Is he okay? Is he hurt? Mister, where’s your son? How can I-“

“Son of a B****!”, he interrupted. “That Son of a b**** deer fell in the danged creek and died”. He motioned to his right. The small creek lay at the bottom of a six foot embankment. At the bottom, with its front half in the water was a buck. It’s belly cut open and the guts half pulled out.

“Son of a b**** ran twenty five yards and died in the creek. I figured he’d be lighter to pull up over that creek bank if I dressed ‘em out”.

“You okay? I thought you were, were, y’know, dead”. My voice sounded like it came from a different body, somewhere across the hollow.

“I’m not dead yet”, he laughed, or maybe he smirked. “Give me a hand getting’ this son of a b**** out the creek, will ya?”

“I saw you from up on the ridge. You didn’t move. What-“

“Told ya. I thought he’d be lighter to pull up that bank with the guts out, so I jumped in there with ‘em and got to dressin’ ‘em out, except I forget my bag, an’ I wanna to put the heart an’ liver in the bag so they don’t get dirty. Well, I was slippin’ an’ slidin’ and had to crawl my way up that bank. At the top, I took a rest. Took forever to catch my breath. An’ there you were. So, how ‘bout it. Give me a hand pullin’ that son of a b***" up the bank”.

He was struggling to stand and for a moment, I just watched. His face was weathered; wrinkled with deep lines and creases, and his skin had sun spots and a copper hue even in mid December. He had short whiskers atop his upper lip and around his jaw, and longer wisps of hair creeping out from below the hat’s ears. They were white and looked as if they’d be as course as steel wool. His eyes were deep set, and blue like a cloudless sky, except the white of the eye was stained with yellow. His eyes were cloudy.

I finally realized my manners and offered him a hand to pull himself up. He felt stronger than I thought, as he pulled himself up against my hand. Once on his feet, I saw how short he was. No more than 5 inches past five foot. Most old men I’ve known were either skinny or fat, but this old man was neither. His shoulders were wide and his chest was thick and round, and his waist was wide even though no belly pushed out around his middle. His hands were near as big as dinner plates, and scarred, no doubt from years of hard work judging by the bulging knuckles and layer of dirt under the nails despite being trimmed short.

“Well”, he started, “Since ya already saved me from being dead, how ‘bout ya help me get that son of a out the creek?” He motioned to the buck laying in the creek with its guts half pulled out.

I picked up the knife that he had dropped in the snow. Under the layer of blood, I saw that it was very much like the hunting knife my father had given me. Modest in length, with a smooth bone handle, slim tang, and stout, sturdy blade who’s point turned upward before terminating. The blade bore the scars of being sharpened and reshaped many times, and the bone handle was worn smooth as glass. A good sturdy knife I thought, too stout for skinning I suspected. I started to step down onto the steep embankment leading to the creek, but thought better of it when I saw where the snow was gone and the mud lay bare and slick. I sat on my butt at the edge and slid until my feet touched down in the creek with the smallest of splashes.

The old man sat back down in the snow, “Finish dressing him out there. Get me the heart and liver first. Best part. Eat ‘em first. Slice ‘em thin. Fry ‘em in butter with onion”.

He motioned toward the buck and handed me the canvas satchel he had been trying to retrieve. The musty, gamey, scent of wet deer and guts enveloped me. It was strong but not unpleasant. With the knife in hand, I stood there in the creek, the slowly moving water trickling around the ankles of my boots, studying the buck. He was a very large bodied deer. Well over two hundred pounds I speculated. His winter coat was thick and grey with occasional wisps of white. His neck was near as thick as his shoulders, which was as big around as the top of one of my legs. The antlers were as thick as my forearm, and spread out wide far past his ears. White fur encircled his snout. Blood soaked his open mouth. His tongue stuck out. I saw the small patch of blood soaked fur behind the right shoulder; double lung shot I thought. If he ran for twenty five yards he was dead for the last twenty.

“Cut the heart and liver out first will ya”.

I set the bone handled knife down on the deer’s haunches while I removed my gloves. My hands were moist with sweat underneath and were stung by the cold air. I unzipped the front of my coat and tucked the gloves inside. I picked up the knife and placed it safely up on the bank. Grabbing hold of the rear legs I spread the open to better access the guts. I knelt down with my knee atop one leg, to keep it open. Once in position and ready to work I realized that I had left the knife on the bank. After standing to get the knife, I again moved myself and the buck into position.

“My Grand-Pap give me that knife. Still holds an edge good”. He had picked up the level action rifle and was wiping the snow off of it with his now gloved hands. “He give me this rifle too. Think I was fourteen, maybe fifteen. “Bout a year before he died”.

I had pulled the rest of the insides out. I cut the heart away from the arteries and veins holding on to it and placed it inside the satchel.

“I guess its ‘bout time I passed ‘em on to one of my grandkids. That’s how it works I guess.”

I placed the liver inside the satchel with the heart and closed the top flap and threaded the two leather straps though their buckles and cinched them tight. I handed the bag up to the old man.

“Six grandkids I got from two children. One son and one daughter. Had another boy but we lost him. Lost at sea. Was a Marine. Nineteen years old.” He set the rifle gently back in the snow and scooted to the edge of the bank and dangled his feet over. “He was the middle one. Gave his Mother and me fits. Always into something. Gave me my first grey hairs. We was happy when he say he was goin’ off to the Marines. Figured it would straighten him out. He did look sharp in them dress blues”.

I had finished cutting the rest of the tissue that holds all the guts in, and pulled them all out into a pile in the creek. Some coyote would eat good tonight I thought.

“This here will be my last buck I figure. He’s a good one too. Funny, when I first started huntin’ with my Gran-Pap I couldn’t wait to get out by myself, but for years he always made me stay right with him. Then one day he just give me that knife and that rifle and turn me loose. An’ off I went. I hunted every day of every season. I just wanted to hear that gun go off an’ see somethin’ fall. It was that way for years. Out in the woods every day I could, killin’ anything that moved. And back then we needed the food on the table too”. He took off his gloves and lay them in his lap, unzipped his coat and reached inside and produced a pouch of tobacco. He held it out, offering some to me, which I declined, before dipping a meaty paw into the foil envelope and grabbing a fist sized wad of tobacco that he then stuffed in his left cheek.

“When I was first married I needed to hunt just to be able to eat. Once the kids came along I used to take them out with me. Teachin’ ‘em how to shoot, how to stalk, how to gut a deer. And for awhile it was great. In fact I don’t think I shot nothin’ for ten years. Was always just as happy to watch them kids get ‘em. And they grow up and either want to go out on their own, or they doin’ other things. Then you’re back out there by yourself again”.

I wiped the bloody knife off on my pant leg, not wanting to plunge the ancient blade into the snow and soil to clean it. I grabbed the buck’s antlers and lifted the head, feeling the weight. I began to pull the buck out of the creek and to the foot of the embankment, trying to devise a plan to pull it from the creek bed.

“I guess there were a few years I never even got out in the woods. But when we lost our boy, his mother didn’t handle it too good, an’ I couldn’t handle seeing her that way. Guess that’s when I really got back to the woods. And when the grandkids came along, well I thought it would be like my kids bein’ young all over again. But they don’t live too close. They do come every year, all of ‘em, Monday after Thanksgiving. We spend the whole day in the woods”, his words were kind of muffled by the wad of chewing tobacco stuffed in his mouth.

“When I was first retired, well there was a whole group of us. Retired guys; old farmers, two teachers, a state trooper, a mill hunky, even an old doctor. We’d hunt these woods, head up north and put on big drives for bear. We’d take trips to Arkansas for ducks, and in the summers we’d go up to Canada for lake trout. I was up in Canada when my wife died. Took ‘em three days to get word to me. No phones up there”.

I had the buck turned so that his head was pointing up the embankment. With one hand grasping the antlers I began to scale the steep bank. My feet slipped in the snow and slick mud.

“Then those guys started gettin’ too old or too sick to make them long trips anymore. After awhile we quit huntin’ and fishin’. We’d still meet for coffee. Then it was at funerals. One by one they died off. Till I’m the only one left. But, it comes for us all I guess. Time I mean. Comes for us all”.

I strained against the weight of the buck. I pulled the antler with my right hand, my left hand holding the old man’s knife, not wanting to lose it. My feet slipped. For every two inches I moved forward, I slid one inch back. The mud and snow packed into the soles of my boots, making the bottoms smooth with no edges to bite into the earth for traction. Inch by inch I moved up the bank. Winded, my breath fast, ragged, deep. Every muscle burned. I knew if I tried to rest and relaxed my tension for even a moment the buck would slide back into the creek. I was not willing to give up any ground. I would turn my feet and get a foothold, best I could, and heave my body up the bank. Then I’d pull the buck up to me. I’d pull with all my might, grunting, and the deer would lurch upward, sometimes crashing into the backs of my legs, threatening to unsettle the little balance I had and send me toppling back into the creek.

I was far enough up the bank that I was able to throw my left arm over top, still clenching the blood covered bone handled knife, and try to anchor myself a bit. Gaining some leverage I was able to pull the deer further with each heave. I got one knee up on the bank, then two. I turned and faced down the embankment. The entire front half of the buck was now over the top of the bank. I stood to pull it the rest of the way up. One final heave and I’ll have this son of a buck up on the bank. I took a deep breath and strained to brace my body against the weight of the deer. It started to move, then stopped. It was almost to the top. I leaned all of my weight forward, away from the buck, straining against its weight. Every muscle burning, every breath burning in my lungs. I felt the grip of my right hand on the antlers began to give as they slid out of my fingers. I tried to stand straight up, but I fell as the antlers slipped from my grip and the buck hit the ground and tumbled back toward the creek. I felt my head hit the ground. A flash of light. Darkness.

I felt a hand on my left shoulder. Softly at first, almost unperceptable, then firmer. The hand pulled me back, toward its owner. I heard its breath; fast, ragged. It me rolled toward my back. I tried to speak, but I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. No words came. I blinked my eyes, but my head hurt. I only saw shadows. I blinked again. Above me I was able to focus on a set of pale blue eyes looking down at me. They seemed familiar. A boy, or a young man perhaps. Did I know him? I drew a breath and tried again to speak. Only a groan.

I felt my hands shaking. I could feel the weight of the bone handled knife in my left hand, still sticky with blood. I was glad I hadn’t dropped it. I followed the pale blue eyes with mine. Desperate to speak, but only able to groan. The eyes looked back at me, plaintively. I felt like those eyes knew me. A deep breath. This time I could feel the air coming from deep inside my chest, up and over my tongue, a word began to form, “Son”.

The back of my head ached badly. I grimaced with pain and blinked to clear the tears from my eyes. Again a word came, “Son”.

My strength was coming back. I reached my head forward and struggled to sit. The young man reached a hand behind my back and helped me up. Suddenly I began to feel the cold air biting into my hands which were wet and sticky with blood. I dropped the bone handled knife into the snow between my legs and stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. “Son”, I said.

The young man held onto my jacket and searched my eyes with his. He was so familiar. He looked in my eyes as if he knew me. He spoke, “Dad, what happened? I heard the shot go off and thought you’d got one. I came to help you drag it but I saw you laying on the ground. I thought you were..y’know…dead”.

“Son of a B****”, I said. “That son of a deer fell in the god danged creek”.

Tried my best to clean it up. Sorry if I missed one.