Part 04

Ron thought he heard a noise. He looked upstream, hearing a snap and a splish. Then he heard a larger more human sound. Something was moving toward him and it was moving quickly. It jumped. It was Old Buck. Ron could barely see Gramp, who was running along the stream, following Buck’s trail. Ron knew this was his time; that he wouldn’t get a second chance. He shouldered his gun, pointing it upstream. He held his breath. Old Buck was sixty yards away. Ron started to lead him. He had two fingers on the two triggers. You don’t get a second chance. He exhaled quickly and drew in another breath. Old Buck jumped again. The deer easily cleared a fallen tree. Ron closed his eyes, holding them tight.

He pulled both triggers of his twelve gauge double barrel Knickerbocker.

After opening his eyes, he picked himself up. The blast had knocked him flat. He reloaded instantly. He ran down the ridge.

“Gut shot him,” yelled Gramp as he grabbed Ron’s arm and pointed to the blood on the ground. They followed the trail of blood up over the ridge. They stood at the edge of the bog. Old Buck was there. He had gotten twenty feet out into it and was caught up to his chest, bearing a large splattered patch of red. They watched as Buck fought the bog.

“Ain’t he something,” said the veteran deerslayer.

Ron watched the deer kick and flounder.

“Lad, give him one more.”

Ron saw Buck throw his head back.

“Be a man. He’s yours.”

“Gramp! Gramp… I…”

“Shoot him! It’s cruel not to!”

“Gramp…”

“Shoot!” Yelled Gramp.

“I can’t,” said the boy.

As Gramp shouldered his single shot, Ron turned away. Ron heard the noise from the blast echo off the far bank of the bog. When he turned back around he saw Old Buck slumped forward. Moitionless.

“Here,” Willard said after removing a coil of rope from his belt. “Tie this end on that oak over there.” The old hunter took off his jacket and started down into the bod Ron saw the old man was already up to his knees in the mire.

***

“Do you come in here often?” he asked.

“No. Do you?”

“Not much anymore,” he said.

“It’s an alright place, I suppose,” She said.

“Not bad,” he added.

Ron refilled his glass and held the pitcher suspended over the table’s center. She replied by sliding her glass toward him. After filling the glass he set down the empty pitcher.

“Beer is publican’t piss,” she said. “Give me a hearty Burgundy. Do you like wine?”

A member in good standing of the Dithryambic Players and Layers Association,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Sometimes I like a glass of Port after dinner but usually I prefer Chablis.”

“Another pitcher?” asked the waitress who had approached the table.

“Would you like to go somewhere else?” asked the woman.

Ron looked at her. He looked at the waitress. He thought. “I guess we won’t have anymore beer, thank you.” he said to the waitress who snatched up the pitcher.

“Ready?” asked the woman.

“Lead the way,” Ron said. He stood. His legs were a little unsteady but he didn’t stagger.

“Let’s take my car,” she said, walking across the parking lot.

“Okay,” he replied.

“It’s the green Vette over here,” she said.

“Did you have any place in mind?” Ron asked after entering the car.

“Not really? How about R.A.’s?”

“Sounds fine,” he said.

Ron thought he could buy her a few rounds at R.A.’s. Suggest they hop over to the Bum Steer or to where? Anywhere. Sure, talk about books. Anything. He was flexible. Everything was smooth. Right? It’s work. In the car. He’d ask her up to his place. He had it made. What could go wrong?

“Look,” she said, “let’s go over to my apartment. Ive got some wine and I’m tired of crowds. Okay?”

“You’re driving,” he said.