Aiken knew that he had to stop to sleep. He told himself it was because he would never find his quarry if he stopped for any length of time. But he knew the true reason was he was scared that his own hunter would catch up to him. But he had to stop and get some sleep before he fell out of the saddle.
He found a tall rock that he could shelter next to. Getting off of the horse, he quickly built a fire to rest next to. He hurriedly removed the saddle from the horses back and then hobbled it, he just had enough energy to do those three things before sleep washed over him.
**********
Clouds whipped through the sky, a storm was moving in and he would be lucky if he saw anything big enough to take home to his family. Not that he needed to shoot a deer to put food on the table, no, he just wanted to shoot his brother's new rifle.
It was a Winchester '73, the barrel and receiver were case-hardened instead of the simple blued steel that was all too common and the walnut stock felt silky smooth in his grip. His brother saved any spare dollar that he could convince his new bride to part with, it took him nearly a year but he finally had the gun sent through the post. His brother hadn't told his new wife, but he also ordered her a new gingham dress and she soon forgot about the expense of the rifle. It didn't matter, though, that day it was Aiken's rifle and he was burning to shoot something.
Stalking through the scrub oak, he pretended that he was a scout in General Grant's army during the Civil War. Every branch that cracked or leaf that rustled was a rebel guerrilla that needed to be stopped before they could report to General Lee. He continued to climb further through the hills of the Idaho Territory and the sun finally broke through the clouds.
Aiken found himself in a calm that was surrounded by storm clouds, he knew that if there was a chance to see a deer before they found a place to bed down to weather out the storm was right then. He had to stop though, the sun felt good upon his face. As the light fell upon his face every muscle tightened as the blood rushed to his cheeks to soak in the warmth. The gentle burn that began to spread across his brow and down into his cheeks held his attention and for a brief moment he forgot about Johnny Reb or the new rifle in his hand, it was just him and creation.
The wind picked up again. The stormclouds raced through the sky. Leaves rustled at first and then began to beat upon each other, a race to be the first off of each branch. The smell of rain filled his nostrils, it wasn’t going to be long before the storm was right above him. If he was going to see a deer hopefully it would be soon.
There was a crash in the trees above him. Branches whipping and twigs on the ground cracking. Aiken looked up and saw the light tan color he was hoping to see. It was big, perhaps an elk. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, it felt smooth and practiced. The stock fit into his shoulder as if the two had been molded together. He sighted down the barrel, a natural extension of his arm as his hands held onto the forearm and straight grip of the rifle. He focused down the sights, everything except the sights and the elk in front of him were out of focus. The cold steel of the trigger resisted the squeeze of his finger.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bolt of lightning that was all too close for comfort, the thunder that roared through the trees knocked him back and he pulled the trigger. “Bang!”
He steadied himself, narrowly escaping the fall. If he had fallen though he wouldn’t have seen the riderless horse run through the trees, the saddle on its back a sure sign that he had a rider at one point. The horse was beautiful, Aiken noticed the red dun coloration as he ran off. As it ran off, he noticed that in the distance the red coloration was strikingly similar to that of an elk. Aiken’s heart fell to the bottom of his gut as he watched the horse run.
Each step was heavy, deliberate, as he walked towards the place that the horse had been when the shot was fired. He pushed through the tree limbs, fighting every urge in his body to turn around and leave.
There he was, shot in the chest. Aiken knew him, it was Johnathon Berg who owned the farm next to his parents. Aiken’s heart fell further. Johnathon Berg! He had a wife and three children, one a few years younger than Aiken, another about six or seven, and the youngest was just learning to walk. Johnathon Berg! He had helped Aiken’s father build a new well when the old one collapsed. Johnathon Berg!
No one was going to believe that it was an accident, he told himself. I killed him, he kept repeating over and over in his head. They’ll hang me for this, he fought back the tears of his own impending death. He decided then and there that the only option was to run. How deliberately fooled a young mind is. He was afraid, truly afraid. The only afraid a person that faces death knows. And he made the decision to run.
He levered the action of the rifle. The spent casing tumbled through the air. Every single turn it made Aiken watched. The wind felt cold upon his face as the storm picked up. That same wind blew the acrid smell of the casing into his face. He inhaled, immediately hooked to that pungent aroma that followed death. As the wind blew the shadows of the trees changed shapes, elongating and shrinking. Everything slowed down as he watched the brass casing tumble through the air.
And then it found its landing. It fell upon the chest of Johnathon Berg, standing straight up, a cruel magic trick that robbed Aiken of any shred of innocence. He turned his back to the grim sight and ran. Afraid, he ran. Ashamed, he ran. Guilty, he ran.
**********
Aiken woke, the fire had died and the embers barely gave off any glow. It didn’t matter though, the sun was just peaking over the horizon. Aiken removed the hobble from the horses legs and put the saddle on its back. He then got started again. He followed the path of his prey, but there was something that made him nervous of what may have been behind.
He found a tall rock that he could shelter next to. Getting off of the horse, he quickly built a fire to rest next to. He hurriedly removed the saddle from the horses back and then hobbled it, he just had enough energy to do those three things before sleep washed over him.
**********
Clouds whipped through the sky, a storm was moving in and he would be lucky if he saw anything big enough to take home to his family. Not that he needed to shoot a deer to put food on the table, no, he just wanted to shoot his brother's new rifle.
It was a Winchester '73, the barrel and receiver were case-hardened instead of the simple blued steel that was all too common and the walnut stock felt silky smooth in his grip. His brother saved any spare dollar that he could convince his new bride to part with, it took him nearly a year but he finally had the gun sent through the post. His brother hadn't told his new wife, but he also ordered her a new gingham dress and she soon forgot about the expense of the rifle. It didn't matter, though, that day it was Aiken's rifle and he was burning to shoot something.
Stalking through the scrub oak, he pretended that he was a scout in General Grant's army during the Civil War. Every branch that cracked or leaf that rustled was a rebel guerrilla that needed to be stopped before they could report to General Lee. He continued to climb further through the hills of the Idaho Territory and the sun finally broke through the clouds.
Aiken found himself in a calm that was surrounded by storm clouds, he knew that if there was a chance to see a deer before they found a place to bed down to weather out the storm was right then. He had to stop though, the sun felt good upon his face. As the light fell upon his face every muscle tightened as the blood rushed to his cheeks to soak in the warmth. The gentle burn that began to spread across his brow and down into his cheeks held his attention and for a brief moment he forgot about Johnny Reb or the new rifle in his hand, it was just him and creation.
The wind picked up again. The stormclouds raced through the sky. Leaves rustled at first and then began to beat upon each other, a race to be the first off of each branch. The smell of rain filled his nostrils, it wasn’t going to be long before the storm was right above him. If he was going to see a deer hopefully it would be soon.
There was a crash in the trees above him. Branches whipping and twigs on the ground cracking. Aiken looked up and saw the light tan color he was hoping to see. It was big, perhaps an elk. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, it felt smooth and practiced. The stock fit into his shoulder as if the two had been molded together. He sighted down the barrel, a natural extension of his arm as his hands held onto the forearm and straight grip of the rifle. He focused down the sights, everything except the sights and the elk in front of him were out of focus. The cold steel of the trigger resisted the squeeze of his finger.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bolt of lightning that was all too close for comfort, the thunder that roared through the trees knocked him back and he pulled the trigger. “Bang!”
He steadied himself, narrowly escaping the fall. If he had fallen though he wouldn’t have seen the riderless horse run through the trees, the saddle on its back a sure sign that he had a rider at one point. The horse was beautiful, Aiken noticed the red dun coloration as he ran off. As it ran off, he noticed that in the distance the red coloration was strikingly similar to that of an elk. Aiken’s heart fell to the bottom of his gut as he watched the horse run.
Each step was heavy, deliberate, as he walked towards the place that the horse had been when the shot was fired. He pushed through the tree limbs, fighting every urge in his body to turn around and leave.
There he was, shot in the chest. Aiken knew him, it was Johnathon Berg who owned the farm next to his parents. Aiken’s heart fell further. Johnathon Berg! He had a wife and three children, one a few years younger than Aiken, another about six or seven, and the youngest was just learning to walk. Johnathon Berg! He had helped Aiken’s father build a new well when the old one collapsed. Johnathon Berg!
No one was going to believe that it was an accident, he told himself. I killed him, he kept repeating over and over in his head. They’ll hang me for this, he fought back the tears of his own impending death. He decided then and there that the only option was to run. How deliberately fooled a young mind is. He was afraid, truly afraid. The only afraid a person that faces death knows. And he made the decision to run.
He levered the action of the rifle. The spent casing tumbled through the air. Every single turn it made Aiken watched. The wind felt cold upon his face as the storm picked up. That same wind blew the acrid smell of the casing into his face. He inhaled, immediately hooked to that pungent aroma that followed death. As the wind blew the shadows of the trees changed shapes, elongating and shrinking. Everything slowed down as he watched the brass casing tumble through the air.
And then it found its landing. It fell upon the chest of Johnathon Berg, standing straight up, a cruel magic trick that robbed Aiken of any shred of innocence. He turned his back to the grim sight and ran. Afraid, he ran. Ashamed, he ran. Guilty, he ran.
**********
Aiken woke, the fire had died and the embers barely gave off any glow. It didn’t matter though, the sun was just peaking over the horizon. Aiken removed the hobble from the horses legs and put the saddle on its back. He then got started again. He followed the path of his prey, but there was something that made him nervous of what may have been behind.
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