- Author
- 03/04/2015
- 1,476 Words
- 3,250 Views
- 16 Comments
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Not Done Yet - 10. Lightfoot
Lightfoot
James told Sam, “Bows are quieter, so sometimes, you can take a second shot before the rest of the herd gets spooked. Besides, Mr. Reeves likes to sleep late on the weekends.” James had finally talked him into trying a bow, after he’d gotten pretty good at shooting a target.
Mr. Reeves let them hunt on his land for free, but he didn’t like hearing a lot of gunfire, and he didn’t want to see them set up a deer blind. When Sam had brought it up, the old man said he figured the deer were at enough of a disadvantage, already. So the boys stalked their prey, and got good at it.
Half-crouched, twenty five feet apart, they crept along the game trail, arrows nocked. Suddenly, James stood and drew. The bowstring sang, and two deer fell. Sam watched, dumbfounded; he hadn’t even drawn his bow.
James had already crossed to the edge of the clearing and had his knife out by the time Sam got there, and was kneeling next to a young doe and a buck. Two arrows were lying next to the boy’s foot.
“How the hell did you DO that, James?! I thought I only heard one shot.” He turned to look at James, saw the tears and stopped. It was always the same. James always cried, and he always went back out. “Aw, man, I hate it when you do that. If it upsets you so much, why do you keep coming out here to go hunting?”
James looked up, half-smiled through the tears, and went back to work, careful of the hide. He knew the old man, Mr. Reeves, would love the hides, and he and Sam would be able to come back again next year. Mr. Reeves was too old to hunt, himself, but he could still tan the finest leather. He did it the Indian way, so even when the buckskin got wet, it wouldn’t stiffen like store-bought leather, but stayed butter-soft to the touch.
James told his friends he loved wearing the stuff, and he was wearing a pair of fringe pants the old man had given him, and knee-high moccasins, as he worked the knife quick and clean. They’d fit a little loose last year, but now, they were just right. His mom had asked him what he would do next year, when they didn’t fit any more, but he laughed and said, “If I could stop growing, I would, just to keep them forever, but Gary ought to get a couple of years of wear out of ‘em.” Gary was his younger cousin.
After dressing out and skinning the deer, James and Sam loaded up the 4 wheeler and went back to the ranch house, where Mr. Reeves admired the hides greatly, “Thanks, boys. You got two of the best hides I’ve seen in ages. Rain’s been good this last year, and the wildlife show it. Throw the meat in the truck, and I’ll give you a ride back to James’ place. I’ve got to go into town, anyhow.”
They threw the meat in the back of the truck then, and slung their packs in after, before jumping in the cab, themselves. As the old man started the truck and threw it into reverse, he mentioned James’ granddad. “I heard your granddad saying the other day that he’d lost some stock.” When James didn’t answer, the old man continued, ‘Varmints took two more of his goats last week. Cold weather always brings ‘em out.”
James just looked out the window and chewed on a fingernail. But the old man knew he’d heard. He heard everything anybody said, but he didn’t always feel obligated to answer. Sam was sitting in between the two, and started to fidget a little in the silence. The old man reached over, patted Sam on the knee, and said quietly, “Silence isn’t always a bad thing. Don’t feel like you gotta fill it.”
Sam smiled at the old man and nodded, though Mr. Reeves was watching the road now. The rest of the drive, nobody spoke, each busy with his own thoughts, until they passed the turnoff for James’ granddad’s place. James looked up the road and said quietly, half to himself, “I’ll give the old buzzard a call tomorrow.”
Five minutes later, they turned into the road that led to James’ house. His mom was on the porch, reading, wearing tailored jeans, a white shirt, a thick shawl, and a broad brimmed hat on her head, her rocker never staying still. Ms. Batisse waved as they came to a stop. Mr. Reeves smiled as he stopped the truck, and said, “That’s a sight worthy of Norman Rockwell, but Norman Rockwell never painted anything so honest in his life.” He nudged Sam. “Son, wake up Lightfoot, there,” jutting his chin at James, “Time to step down and butcher those deer. Don’t want the meat to spoil. Kinda defeat the point of goin’ huntin’, dontcha think?”
“I’m awake, Mr. Reeves. Thank you very much for the ride, and the chance to hunt your land. If I can ever do anything to pay you back, I won’t hesitate.” Everybody who knew him knew James had manners, like his mother. He hopped out, unloaded his gear, and trotted to the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. The deer carcasses were wrapped in big plastic bags, to protect them from bugs and whatever road grit might have gotten on them, otherwise.
The two boys each grabbed a bag and slung it over a shoulder, waved to Mr. Reeves and James’ mom, and walked behind the garage. No matter how careful they were, they knew better than to work in the yard proper. It wasn’t just to keep the mess away from James’ mom’s home, but to keep the work out of her sight. James’ mother could clean a fish so fast you’d swear it was magic, but she shied away from making “Bambi Burgers,” as she called them, and didn’t like seeing anything the shape of a living deer being butchered. It didn’t stop her from fixing the finest backstrap anyone in town had ever tasted, though.
They laid the bags on the old work table, and set about their business. James fetched the big butcher knife, while Sam laid out the first deer. A couple minutes later, they were jointing the haunches, and starting to wrap the meat for the freezer.
Working silently for a while, Sam got up the nerve to ask, “James, what’s between you and your granddad?”
“Whadda you mean?” James spoke with a drawl whenever he didn’t want to talk about something, and this seemed to be one of those times. He didn’t even slow down in his work.
Sam sighed, then forged ahead. “Mr. Reeves all but asked you to help your granddad. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of somebody having to ask you for help. Did you not know what was happening with his stock?”
The answer came out so slow, so soft, Sam strained forward to hear it. “I haven’t spoken to Granddad for a few months now, ever since Casey moved to town. I’d heard about the cat, figured Granddad would be able to handle it. Guess he’s slowed down some since he tore up his knee, though.”
“Wait, what’s Casey got to do with this?”
“Granddad hired a lawyer to get him off, but he blamed Casey, said he was a bad influence. Told me I could never see him again.” James paused before continuing, “I told him it was my life, and my right to choose my friends. He never thought much of Casey to begin with, because of his dad, so he told me and Mom my judgment was piss-poor, and I needed to re-evaluate my priorities. I haven’t spoken to him since that day.”
James picked up the wrapped meat from the first deer and headed for the house to drop it in the freezer. With it being just he and his mom there, it would last for quite a while. Sam opened up the second plastic bag and started to work, paying close attention to what he was doing. When James got back, the two of them worked together in silence.
When they finished, shadows were starting to lengthen. They cleaned up the area and washed themselves up as best they could. “You staying for supper, Sam? Mom’s got a pie in the oven.”
Sam was showing off his goofiest grin when he said, “I was hoping you’d ask. I’ve been smelling the pumpkin for a while now. Think there’s enough for you, too?” Before he even saw it coming, James had him on his back, pinned.
“I get the first piece, asshole.” That was the first time Sam ever heard James curse.
-
29
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Recommended Comments
Chapter Comments
-
Newsletter
Sign UpSign Up and get an occasional Newsletter. Fill out your profile with favorite genres and say yes to genre news to get the monthly update for your favorite genres.