He looked into the eyes of the
creature. It stood, alert, afraid to make the first move. Not even a blink.
Just a cold, glossy stare; a faint hint of cold breath escaping its nostrils.
Jim grimaced, eyeing the doe
through the sight of his Browning A-Bolt Medallion. “Come on, you lousy bitch...” he muttered, his hunting partner
Brett within earshot but daring himself not to reply. He knew Jim was waiting
for a broadside shot into the heart of the beast to take it down quickly; dead
in its tracks.
Suddenly, the snap of a twig.
The doe twitched, unsure of its next course of action. Then the source of the
clatter appeared: a young fawn, perhaps a yearling, moving closer to its mother
from out of some nearby brush.
“Look at that,” Brett whispered.
Even in hushed tones, his southern Mississippi drawl was distinguishable. He
turned to his hunting partner, expecting him to stand down. Instead, Jim let
out a low moan as he tried to adjust his vision. “Jim,” Brett said, “Jim, don’t
take the shot.”
Jim’s response was a soft grunt
and a quick sideways glance. He adjusted his position once more. Brett opened
his mouth to speak once again, but was interrupted when the foot Jim was
resting up against a stump slipped. Perhaps knowing her hunter's concentration was lost
for that split second, the doe released the tension in its muscles and turned.
Brett wasn’t ready for the shot.
Neither was the doe.
It collapsed where it stood, but
didn’t give up the ghost right away. The yearling had already scattered,
disappearing as mysteriously as it had come, leaving its mother to writhe in
the frosted leaves of the forest floor. Jim set his gun down beside himself,
wearing a crooked smile. Brett sat up from his laying position and scooted up
against a nearby tree. He knew better than to say anything, but couldn’t hide
the morose look upon his weathered face.
He watched his friend, a man
he’d gone hunting with more and more frequently over the last few years of his
retirement, as he approached the still-breathing victim of his latest hunt.
He’d seen Jim kill countless animals with expert precision—no different than
how he handled the football during his playing days. Lord knows he’d seen
plenty of bloodshed over the past four years; however, this felt different.
This wasn’t the same, happy Jim, excited for the thrill of the hunt though
always humane and fair in his process.
From his sightline, Brett
couldn’t see Jim drive his hunting knife down into the doe’s jugular, but he
knew that’s exactly what the former Buffalo great was doing. The same hands that
had thrown with such finesse as the franchise’s most prolific passer were now
being used to kill another of God’s creatures in cold blood. All Brett could do
was sigh and turn his head away. Think about something else. His wife, Deanna.
His daughters. His granddaughter, who was now five years old, believe it or
not.
But all that made him do was to
think of Jim again. The terrible loss he suffered nearly 10 years ago, in 2005,
when his son Hunter died far too young from a nerve disease. Why did God bless me with such a beautiful
family, Brett thought. Why, when he’d
taken so much from Jim?
The loss of his son had inspired
Jim to start a charity for other sufferers of the same disease, and to raise
awareness for the ailment. For the longest time, it had been Jim’s life work. Even
at the beginning of their hunting trips after Brett’s retirement from pro
football, that was all Jim could talk about. Hunter’s Hope, it was called. Hope
for those stricken with the disease; that they may see a brighter future. Hope
for those yet to be born, that there may one day be a cure.
Over the past year, however, it
seemed as if that hope was beginning to fade. Jim didn’t say as much, but Brett
could see it. Jim’s eyes betrayed it. The way he’d looked past Brett each time
they’d try to have a conversation. How his responses had gone from long-winded
tales to short, curt responses. Sometimes yes, mostly no, usually a shrug. It
was almost as if a new disease had entered Jim—or, perhaps a poison. A venom.
Jim stood. His hands dripped
warm, dark red blood, burning into the frost below. He turned to face Brett but
didn’t look at his friend. Instead, he bent, wiped his hands in a patch of snow
and retrieved his rifle. “We’ll have to get the ATV,” he spoke coldly.
“I can help if—”
“No—” Jim cut him off. Then,
softer, “No. She’s too heavy. She’s—she’s got something inside her.” He looked
off into the distance, removing his cap to run a blood-stained hand through his
thinning hair.
“Jesus, Mary—” Brett replied. He
stood to match Jim’s height, trying to meet his friend’s eyes. “Did you know? I
mean, how can that even be possible?”
Jim stood silent for a long
while, his eyes almost vibrating in their sockets. He chewed on his lower lip,
breathing slowly. When he finally moved to speak, it was so sudden it caused
Brett to jerk back. “I figured,” he responded, annoyed. “But it’s not normal.
Must have bred late.”
It didn’t make much sense to
Brett, what he knew of hunting at any rate. Shooting a pregnant doe had to be extremely rare. They’d have to have bred out of season. Even by that token,
Brett knew there was a reason he was always so uneasy hunting does. He’d heard
Jim say some of the same things. Though now, with the cold, matter-of-fact way
he was speaking, it was almost as if he knew—by how fat the deer seemed despite
it being the dead of winter when food was scarce. Even if not, it apparently
still had a dependent, perhaps ill-developed yearling still following its
mother. Yet Jim had taken the shot.
It wasn’t for lack of food,
either. His cabin’s freezer was stocked with meat. Venison, wild turkey, a few
other birds. He couldn’t see into his friend’s eyes as he prepared to take the
shot. But he knew there was a taste for blood in them. A desire to extinguish
life. And now he’d succeeded in not only taking one life, but two—possibly
three. Though now he appeared as though he couldn’t be further from feeling any
pride in it.
Brett came out of his daydream
to realize Jim was already up the trail a ways. “Hold up, Jim, I’m coming.” He
expected his friend to stop to let Brett’s old, battered legs catch up to
him. But he didn’t. Not even a moment of recognition. The man he knew was
fading. And now, Brett thought, I’m going to have to pull out every one of
my tricks to save him.
