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.”