The Hunter

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A dark tale of murder and salvation.
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CAP811
CAP811
226 Followers

The hunter walked slowly down a trail that wound through the oak and hickory forest. He paused now and then, cradling his rifle, the barrel pointed down. In the distance could occasionally be heard the sound of rifle fire and shotguns. The autumn hunting season was at its peak.

The man was in his mid-thirties, with black hair and dark features, a two-day growth of beard on his face. As a young man he had been handsome enough to attract any girl around. But the years had hardened him; had given him a grim visage. Even strangers could now see at a glance that here was not a man to be trifled with.

He came to a wide, almost flat rock along the trail, some two feet in height. He sat down on the rock and leaned his rifle against it. From the breast pocket of his red and black checkered wool coat, the man drew out a pack of Chesterfields. Pushing his John Deere cap off his forehead, he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag, enjoying his cigarette and the tranquil forest around him.

The rifle that was trained on the man was partly hidden in a wild azalea thicket about a hundred yards away. The weapon, however, was too heavy for the young boy who held it. He tried to sight through the Leupold 3x9 scope, but his heart was pounding, his whole body trembling. The image of the man's head in the viewfinder danced about wildly.

A turmoil of thoughts raced through the boy's mind. Once chance, he said to himself, one chance! But it was hopeless. The Browning .27 caliber rifle was too heavy. He was too small and too scared. It was hopeless.

Do it, he thought frantically. The images in his mind began to take shape. Now he could see soft blonde curls; a gap-toothed smile. He began to hear a song in a little girl's voice:

Jesus loves me this I know,
For th' Bible tells me so,
Little ones to him belong,
They are weak but He is strong.

The song began to ease the boy's nerves. A cold fury welled up and spread through him. His arms became steady. The rifle now seemed to weigh almost nothing as he gazed at the man's face in the viewfinder. Centering the crosshairs on the man's forehead, he exhaled, then waited half a second. He pressed gently on the trigger.

Crack! The rifle's recoil slammed it into the boy's shoulder. I'll have a bruise there, he thought to himself. The loud report of the rifle echoed through the forest. Crack! Months and even years later, the boy would hear that sound with absolute clarity. It would follow him through life.

He looked down toward the man, at first with his naked eye and then through the viewfinder. The impact of the bullet had driven the man back against two hickory saplings that grew beside the rock.

The boy watched the figure for almost half a minute. Now slumped across the rock, the man shuddered once or twice as if he had caught a chill. Then he became as still as the rock itself. A pool of blood appeared beneath his head. Small rivulets began to flow aimlessly across the rough face of the rock, forming a bright red network over its patchwork gray and lichen-covered surface.

The boy strained to hear other hunters' voices or footsteps. But he heard only the gentle wind in a nearby white pine; only the peaceful solitude of the Appalachian forest. He glanced down to the ground, searching until he saw the bronze-colored spent shell of a .27 caliber rifle. Tucking the shell into his coat pocket, he hurried out of the thicket and up across a low ridge. The boy occasionally paused beside a tree trunk to see if the way ahead was clear.

Now he was breathing hard again. You'd kill a rattlesnake if you found one in the barn! he said to himself. You'd shoot a rabid dog if it came into the yard! Tears stung his eyes as he made his way through the forest.

After a few minutes the boy reached a small creek, about ten feet across. Without hesitating he walked into the creek's freezing water and began to wade up the shallow stream. Soon he came to a stretch where the edge of the creek was lined with flat rocks.

Supporting himself with one hand on a rock, the boy quickly removed the Wolverine work boots he was wearing, boots that were two sizes too large. Then, holding them in one hand, the rifle in the other, he stepped onto the rocks, one after another, until he was in the forest again.

The boy continued on until he could hear and see the Santeetlah River. Here it rushed past heavy gray boulders; there it murmured quietly where its water formed deep green pools.

At the edge of the forest, the boy pulled out a burlap sack that was half hidden beneath a rock. He removed his dirty wet socks; then, withdrew dry socks and a pair of rough work shoes from the sack. After he had put them on, the boy glanced up and down the river, and then walked to its edge.

He stuffed his wet socks down into the boots. Then he filled them with river stones. Lastly, he tied the boots at the top with their laces and placed them into the burlap sack. Once again glancing around furtively, he advanced from one gray rock to another until he was part way out in the river.

The boy stood for a second, and then casually dropped the sack into the swirling water beneath him. Within seconds it was gone from sight; gone, he hoped, forever.

Now the boy retreated into the forest again, working his way upstream along a deer trail. Soon he reached another pool, wider and deeper than the first. Above it was a lively cascade that poured a never-ending stream of water into the pool.

Once more he gazed up and down the river for a moment; then, quickly moved across the rocks until he was at the edge of the pool. His heart pounding, he drew both arms back and flung the rifle as far as he could out toward the churning green waters.

He watched it arc through the air, almost as if it were in slow motion. Then, with a loud splash, the rifle entered the water and disappeared from sight. The sound of the rifle hitting the water was another that the boy would remember for a lifetime.

The boy stuck his hands in his pockets, glancing around once more. Taking a deep breath, he spoke silently to the river. I've swum and fished in you all my life. You've been like a friend to me. Now you must hold my secrets; I'm depending on you. The river murmured its reply: my depths harbor many secrets.

The boy quickly disappeared into the forest and began to walk. After about half a mile he came to a gravel road and a stone bridge over the Santeetlah. He crossed it, soon leaving the road and walking over another ridge along a well-worn trail, finally emerging into the yard behind a house. On his left was a small woodshed. On the right was the garden, and beyond that a barn.

The tin roof of the wood frame house was rusted in places. The clapboard siding had been painted off-white and needed a fresh coat. A thin cloud of smoke could be seen rising above a brick chimney at one side of the house.

Near the woodshed was a stack of oak and hickory, sawn in lengths that would fit the kitchen stove and the iron stove in their living room. The boy picked up a piece of oak, about a foot in diameter, and placed it on a chopping block. He grasped a double-bitted axe that he had left next to the chopping block. He came down on the wood with all his might, shattering it into two parts.

After a few moments a woman emerged from the kitchen onto the back porch. She lit a cigarette and, leaning against a post, watched the boy chopping wood. Eva McCarter was wearing a flower-print shift under an apron that she wore all day.

In contrast to her son, who had the dark hair and square chin of his father, Eva was fair-skinned and freckled, her blonde hair in loose curls. Eva's father had once declared her the prettiest girl in Emory Cove, but that was a long time ago. Although she still had smooth skin and good features, there was now an air of resignation about her. The light in her blue eyes had faded.

"Where you been?" she finally asked.

The boy looked up and gazed at his mother, feeling numb, entirely devoid of emotion. "Heard a dog barkin' over near the road. First thought it might be the Cogdill's coon hound that wandered off last week."

"Was it?"

"Don't think so. Followed it a while, but I decided it barked more like a feist than a hound. Never did see it."

His mother took a deep breath. "Your Daddy'll be home in a couple of hours. Better have enough wood for tonight. You know he'll fly off the handle if you ain't got th' wood box filled."

The boy and his mother regarded each other in silence for a few seconds. Both understood the meaning of what was said. Hard slaps awaited one, perhaps both of them, if the stock of wood fell short of his father's expectations.

"We'll have plenty," the boy said in an even voice. "He won't say anything."

*******

The two men stood looking at the body lying on the wide rock, whose surface was now covered with a maroon layer of dried blood.

"Reckon it was a stray bullet?" Deputy Paul Bryson asked. "Lots o' hunters out today."

"Could be," Sheriff George Ramsey replied. "But if it was, Floyd McCarter was the unluckiest son of a bitch around. Look at that. Right above the eyes. Just about took the top of his head off."

"Never knew what hit him," murmured his deputy.

"Nope." After a moment the sheriff looked over to the man resting against a hickory tree trunk, and spoke again. "Now Lester, he was like this when you found him?"

"Yes sir," the burly young man replied. "Just layin' there peaceful like."

"You didn't mess with the body? Try to see if he was alive?"

"No sir. Anybody c'n see he was dead as a doornail."

"What's that you're carryin' there? Remington?"

"Yes sir. Just a little .22 rifle. You couldn't blow a man's head half off with this thing."

"I know it."

Sheriff Ramsey took off his hat and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He looked back to Deputy Earl Toineeta, the fourth member of the party. Toineeta had the typical dark skin and broad nose of a Cherokee Indian. He was full blood.

The man was clad in rough chino pants and a heavy denim jacket. A new fedora hat sat incongruously on his head.

"Earl," the sheriff spoke, "this ground's damp from that drizzle of rain we had last night. Can you make out anything from the tracks?"

Toineeta walked over to Lester, pulled up one leg, and examined the bottom of his boots. In a deep rumbling voice he said, "Well, the dead fella came down the trail, same as we did; stopped for a smoke at the rock."

Motioning to Lester, he went on. "This fella came the other way, stood near the rock and looked at the body, then walked on, in th' direction of the logging road where his car was."

"That's right," Lester interrupted. "Went straight down to Conley's store 'n called th' police from there."

Sheriff Ramsey drew his hand across his chin. "Earl, did anyone come near the body from off the trail?"

"Nope."

Ramsey glanced around the forest. Light from the dull overcast day shone on the scene through the bare limbs of oaks and hickories. The ground was carpeted with ochre-colored leaves that had fallen a month ago.

"I want you to do a circuit, Earl. Cover this whole bowl of forest where McCarter could be seen. See if you can find any footprints."

Toineeta began to walk slowly out into the forest, head down, as if he were deep in thought.

After about ten minutes three more men, one bearing a stretcher and a body bag, came down the trail. One of them, the medical examiner for Nantahala County, gave orders to the second as he took photographs of the body and the surroundings. Just as they were loading the body of Floyd McCarter onto the stretcher, they heard a cry from Toineeta.

"Yo!" he said, waving to the sheriff.

Sheriff Ramsey hurried up to Toineeta, who had leaned against a tree trunk and lit a cigarette. "What you got?"

Inhaling deeply from his Lucky Strike, the man replied. "Somebody stood or hunkered down just inside this azalea thicket here. Squirmed around a bit. Then walked back thatta way, same way as he come."

"Hm. Let's ...wait, any spent shells around?"

"Nope. There's a clean line of sight from where this fella was to where McCarter sat. But if the shot was fired from here, he must of picked up his shell."

"Well, let's see where he went."

The two men began to walk toward the ridge, Toineeta in the lead. Occasionally he stopped and backtracked, but always made progress. How the hell does he do it, Ramsey thought. It would be all I could do to track a wild boar through here.

Soon the men descended to the small creek. Toineeta pointed out a footprint plainly outlined in the soft ground near the creek. "If you need to make a plaster cast of the print, there's a good one."

"Okay."

Toineeta paused to study the footprint. After a moment he said, "This fella don't weigh much."

"Is that right."

"Uh huh. That's maybe a size ten boot, but the print ain't deep. He ain't a heavy man, probably 140 pounds tops."

"Well," the sheriff said, "that helps some, I guess."

After slowly examining the ground around them, Toineeta waded across the creek. Sheriff Ramsey lit a Pall Mall and smoked half of it as his deputy carefully studied the ground, in ever widening circles, on the other side of the creek.

Then he waded back across. After a moment of silence, the sheriff said, "Well?"

"Funny. He didn't come out on the other side. Must of waded up or down the creek for a ways before he came out. Gonna take awhile to pick up the trail again."

"Ah, damn," the sheriff swore quietly. This was no hunting accident, he thought. It was murder, pure and simple. He glanced at Toineeta, saying, "Okay, that's your job, Earl. Cover both sides o' th' creek until you pick up the trail. I don't care how long it takes."

"I'm gonna walk back to the cruiser and call in. It's.. let's see, two o'clock now. Th' McCarters don't live far from here. Reckon I might as well go give them the bad news. Keep on with your trackin'. Figure out where the son of a bitch went. I'll have Paul wait for you at the loggin' road. Okay?"

"Yep." Without another word, Toineeta began to work his way along the creek bank, his eyes again on the ground.

******* The McCarter house had a front porch that extended the width of the house. It offered a view of pastureland encircled by blue ridges. On clear winter days one could look west and see the Unicoi Mountains in neighboring Tennessee.

A little girl sat in a wooden swing on the porch. She was playing with a Raggedy Ann doll and humming softly to herself.

Bonnie McCarter, like her mother, was fair-skinned, blessed with an abundance of soft blonde curls. The only distraction from her little-girl charm was a wide gap in her front teeth. She had great expressive blue eyes which only added to the air of delicacy and innocence about her.

Now eleven years old, Bonnie was in the fourth grade. She had been held back a year in school when she was eight. She isn't retarded, the teachers explained; just a bit slow. She has difficulty reading and doing basic math. But she's such a sweet child.

Bonnie heard the sound and then watched as a 1948 Chevrolet, black and white, wound its way up their gravel driveway and pulled into the yard. On the car's white front door was inscribed Nantahala County Sheriff's Department.

Bonnie watched as a tall man in his late 50s got out. Sheriff George Ramsey walked to the porch steps, saying, "Howdy, young'un. Your mama around?"

At that moment Eva came out the front door, and the sheriff removed his hat. "You're Miz Floyd McCarter?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Miz McCarter, I'm afraid I've got some bad news. The worst kind."

The boy had quit chopping wood when he saw the police cruiser drive up to the house. His heart now beating fast, he walked down to the side of the porch and looked up to see Bonnie and his mother embracing, sobbing quietly.

The sight was like a dagger in his heart. I knew it would shock them, he thought. Knew there'd be tears. But how it hurts to see little Bonnie crying like that. At once tears came to his own eyes. He shed tears for his mother and sister and for them alone.

He glanced over to the sheriff, now aware that an inevitable part of the drama was being played out. He mounted the porch. His mother, seeing him, cried, "Oh lord, Jim Roy! Your father's dead! It was a huntin' accident!"

Mustering a stunned look, he crossed the porch and embraced his tearful mother. Soon Jim Roy was holding his little sister, tears streaming down both their cheeks.

Sheriff Ramsey watched the piteous scene; one that he had witnessed dozens of times as sheriff. Odd, he thought. Is it my imagination, or did that boy start crying even before they told him the news?

After a few moments, Jim Roy came part way down the steps and said, "How did it happen?"

"We guess maybe it was a stray bullet from another hunter," Sheriff Ramsey replied. "A fella found him shot in the head, over on the other side of the Santeetlah, down Windy Gap trail." He made no mention of the tracks in the forest and the fact that he considered it a case of premeditated murder. Don't yet need to tell these poor folks that, he said to himself.

"What do we do now?" Jim Roy asked.

"Miz McCarter, does your husband drive a '42 DeSoto, black coupe?"

"Yes, he does."

"We saw it parked at the old logging road at the trailhead. I'll radio my deputies and have one of them bring it home. Can you drive it?"

"No, I can't."

"Got a telephone here?"

"Do you see a line!" For two years she had begged Floyd to pay for a telephone and lines to the house.

"Hm. Don't Earnest Wilson live down the road here from you? Raises Herefords?"

"Yes, they're our neighbors."

"I'll ask Earnest or his boy to come pick you up and drive you into Millsboro. We got the body there at the county morgue, and you'll need to identify it. Do you have a funeral home?"

Eva McCarter brushed away another tear. "Yes, we got burial insurance with Oakley's there in Millsboro. They buried Floyd's mother last year."

"Well, have Earnest drive you over to them and make arrangements." He paused, once again drawn to Jim Roy's eyes but seeing only grief there. "I'd better be goin' now. Just wait for Earnest to come pick you up. About supper time I reckon."

Eva took a deep breath. "Thank you, Sheriff. We'll manage somehow."

*******

That night Sheriff Ramsey sat at the Grapevine Café in Millsboro, having the blue plate special: meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and creamed corn. Earl Toineeta sat across from him sipping a cup of coffee.

"So tell me what you found," the sheriff said.

Toineeta lit a cigarette, then spoke in his deep voice. "Followed the creek, both sides, for th' better part of a mile. But no tracks on the other side."

"How can that be?"

"Dunno. Found one place where something had come out of the creek. Wasn't a bear or a deer. But there weren't no tracks like we seen." He took a sip of coffee, then went on. "Couldn't find any tracks leading in from the far side of that creek either."

"Hm. Well, I'll need you to go back and take another look tomorrow."

"Don't think so."

The sheriff looked up from his meal. "How come?"

Toineeta took another draw from his Lucky Strike. "I can track a man across a linoleum floor if he don't know I'm after him. But it's different when the fella knows."

"I think this fella knew his tracks would give him away. And he done some things to be sure them tracks wouldn't lead us to him. The smarter the man, the tougher he is to follow. Your best bet is to make a plaster cast of that footprint by the creek, and see if you can match it."

"Okay. You and Paul go out there and do that tomorrow mornin'."

"Reckon this fella killed the hunter?"

"Absolutely. Waited for him up there in that laurel, and shot the poor bastard down in cold blood. And that's murder. So let's find the son of a bitch who did it."

CAP811
CAP811
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