Hail Storme

by W L Ripley

  I put the back of my wrist to my forehead. “It’s slipping away from me even as we talk. Everything’s cloudy. I see a man with an arrow wound. He looks like…wait, he’s gone.”

  “I could hold you as a material witness.”

  “I could get laryngitis.”

  He sighed. Rubbed his face with a hand. “All right. I’ll let you know what’s happening. But what you have had better be bottled-in-bond, grade-A info. And if you leak anything, I’ll drop-kick you around Paradise County.”

  I couldn’t turn down an offer like that. I described the rifleman. Gave the location of his wound. Asked how they could get away with planting that large a field of marijuana on public ground.

  “Happens all the time in Missouri,” he answered. He pronounced Missouri like it had an “uh” on the end. “They find a place way back and plant. Booby-trap the fields or, like they did here, they use guard dogs—Dobermans, Rottweilers, pit bulls. There was a place down in the bootheel where they posted a fucking jaguar. Guy had been given the cat by his Central American drug connection. One of our guys killed it with a shotgun. Pumped the entire load into the animal before it stopped coming. Animal rights people went crazy. Okay if a trooper gets torn to pieces, but don’t hurt the little animals. We’ve come across bear traps, pungi sticks, fishhooks at eye level; you can expect about anything. Getting dangerous. The conservation department has been warning hunters about public-use land. Big money involved. Domestic grass, even Missouri Mud, packs a big jolt. More potent than the imports. Midwest agriculture at its best.” He paused, as if remembering something, then said:

  “I didn’t recognize you back at the station. Not at first, anyway. Wyatt Storme. Fastest hands in the West. Used to be one of my favorite players. Where have you been all these years? Why’d you give it up?”

  SIX

  “So, Fatty Baxter may or may not have leaked your name to the press?” said Chick Easton, between bites of prime rib, rare. One of the best things about Missouri is the quality of the beef. It’s like getting seafood in San Francisco or New Orleans—you’re right next to the source, and it’s fresh. The restaurant was McNaughton’s, a steak-and-seafood restaurant with dark wood beams, thick mocha-colored carpet, and a large fireplace and hearth. It was connected to the Best Western motel where Chick was staying. Waiters in short tartan waistcoats and waitresses in tasseled knee socks and tartan kilts bustled about. Pretty nice for a Midwest cow town. “That doesn’t tell you much.”

  I said, “I’m heading out by the end of the week. Can you be ready by Friday?”

  “Thought you wanted to hunt another week or so.”

  “Something’s come up in Colorado.” I meant Sandy.

  “Like what?”

  “Unfinished business.”

  “Woman, ain’t it?” he said, then continued as if not requiring confirmation from me. “Might be ready. Got unfinished business here myself. I might have it done by Friday. If not, go on back. I’ll catch another ride. Don’t wait up for me.”

  “I’ll wait until you’re ready.” I had promised Matt Jenkins I’d bring Easton back. I would do so.

  He chuckled. Took a bite of steak. Chewed it, slowly. Swallowed. “Jenkins said you felt like you had to accomplish everything you set out to do. Climb every mountain. Swim every stream. Said you could trust your wife or girlfriend with you even if she looked like Christie Brinkley and was a nymphomaniac who’d been living in a convent.”

  A Scottish lassie brought him another drink, Cutty Sark, his third. I was on my third drink also. Coffee. Black.

  “You drink too much,” I said. He looked at me, squinting with one eye. He looked bemused, as usual. It was somewhat irritating. “An observation,” I said. “Not a criticism.”

  “What about you? Notice you don’t drink.”

  “Didn’t know I needed a reason not to.”

  He laughed. It was laughter with a hint of pain, but only a flash, like summer lightning. The laugh turned into the type that invited you to join in. Bite on the bullet and don’t let them think you are afraid. I could accept him on the basis of what I’d seen. But something was eating away at him. Not taking big bites, just nibbling, but it was there.

  “You want to go hunting in the morning?” I asked.

  “Sure. Where?”

  “I know a place.”

  “You sure you want to go back there?” he asked, reading between the lines.

  “Have to,” I said.

  “Figured it that way,” he said.

  Easton slept in the guest room of my cabin. I fixed pancakes and sausage for breakfast. Ground coffee. I gave him an extra pair of camo coveralls. They were new and had been given to me by a friend. I preferred my old ones. Chick had brought his bow because Jenkins told him I would be hunting. We checked our tackle. Fresh strings. Broadheads tight and sharp. Fletching undamaged. I cut a ten-foot length of nylon rope from a spool I kept, gave it to Chick. He would need it to drag out a deer if he took one. He rolled it into a ball around his hand and put it in his pocket. I poured coffee into a steel-lined thermos. I also took something I never take when bowhunting unless I’m in grizzly country—my Browning 9-millimeter semiauto pistol. Easton packed a .357 Colt Python.

  There are no bears in Missouri.

  It was Halloween dark when we arrived at the road I’d parked on the day I’d killed the dog. The moon was a sliver in the mattered sky, the air smelled of the loamy decay of autumn. All sound and movement was amplified, and there was a damp snap in the air, which lay cold against my exposed face. Before leaving the truck we agreed to meet at 10:30 a.m. to investigate the marijuana field. I used a small pocket flashlight to lead us through the woods.

  We were intruders as we moved through the woods, and the silence spread before us like a stain, dozens of unseen eyes watching, dozens of ears straining to hear. Easier to hear me than Chick Easton. I had never known anyone who could move as stealthily as he could. He was a whispering shadow behind me. Spooky. Ethereal. More than once I stopped to see I hadn’t lost him. Each time he was close by, within a few feet, sometimes mere inches away.

  Who was this man? And where had he acquired such unusual talents? He was an enigma to me. A puzzle with parts withheld.

  I led him to the base of a forked tree and pointed up to a natural seat in the lee of the fork. I don’t nail boards into trees. God got it right the first time. Chick nodded, handed me his bow, then scaled the tree, soundlessly, as if he were a lizard rather than a 190-pound man. When he was seated, I handed up his bow and left him there, silent and motionless in his perch like a huge bird of prey.

  I kept the wind in my face and worked my way to another tree I’d marked on an earlier scouting foray. At the base of the tree, I used nylon cord to tie a slipknot at one end of the bow. I tied the other end of the cord around my left wrist and climbed. Once situated, I pulled the bow up hand-over-hand into the tree with me. Waited.

  The sun peeked over the horizon as I nocked the arrow. It had black fletching. All my arrows had black fletching. Real feathers rather than plastic vanes. Many of my friends told me plastic vanes were more accurate and durable, citing test reports in sporting publications. I would nod at them and continue to use my black feathers. Always the last to learn.

  I thought about Sandy. Sandy Collingsworth. I loved her. Always had. Always would. She was the only media person I’d ever granted a personal interview. She had crystal-blue eyes and a face-lighting smile. She possessed dignity and intelligence. Honest. Never posed or preened. “You’ll never make it big in this business,” I had told her, “unless you get over this vicious streak of honesty.”

  “Maybe,” she’d said. “But I get to be me.”

  Good trade.

  I was hard in love with her. We shared thoughts. Hopes. She understood things without my having to say them. And she loved me. At one point we had agreed to marry. Then one day it changed. She changed her mind. “I love you,” she said. I didn’t understand. She would explain it, later, she
said. Just needed time. So I gave her time. And distance. And my trust. I believed in her. When the time came, she would tell me. I understood about time and didn’t ask much from it, just enough to warm my memories when needed. I waited. It was a dry trail. A lonely one. And now the time neared. The weekend looked far away but would come. Soon I would know. Soon I would see her. Fill my eyes with her. Fill my mind. And my heart.

  Soon.

  At 8:00 a.m. two does wandered by my stand. They were alert, testing the air, watching with their 180-degree vision, moving silently, wraithlike, then passing on.

  Within the half hour, the ten-point buck came by. The buck I’d been waiting for, the buck I’d passed up lesser animals for. The trophy I’d made the trip for. He was a beauty. Magnificent. He sniffed at the trail of the does. They say the rut doesn’t come until November, and then only after the first hard freeze. But I’d witnessed rutting behavior at earlier times. Like now. His neck was swollen with the blood of his libido. His rack was majestic and symmetrical. Slowly I raised the bow, putting the thirty-yard pin high on his shoulder, allowing for the height and angle of entry. I pulled the black-feathered shaft to anchor at the corner of my mouth, let out half a breath. He was mine. It would be clean, a classic shot, one that didn’t come along often. No obstructions, no twisting of my body to shoot. Almost two weeks of waiting was over.

  Then I slowly let down the arrow without releasing the string. Not today.

  In a low voice, just above a whisper, I spoke to the big deer, “Get out of here, big guy. Not your day to die. Go find your girlfriends.” I tipped my cap to him. A little corny maybe, but sincere.

  He snorted at the sound of my voice, tossed his head, then bounded on. At the top of a rise he stopped, raised his splendid head to its full height, the prince of the woods, and looked back in my direction—did he see me?—then walked away.

  I leaned back against a limb and smiled. Wyatt Storme, hopeless dipzoid romantic, talking to animals. A terminally goofy case, and not without precedent. When I was in-country, someone kept hitting the company goodies stash—beer, whiskey, candy bars, cigars, cigarettes. The person didn’t take much, so we didn’t think it was for black market purposes. The guy was slick, we couldn’t catch him at it, but whenever something was taken, he would leave something in its place—cheap jewelry, miniature Buddhas, some rice, something. The guy was trading with us. But this was Nam, where justice was quick, sure, and brutal, and quite often forever.

  One night it was my turn on guard duty. Most of the men in my unit were from metropolitan areas, unaccustomed to watching for movement in poor light, in shadows, or in the dark. More often than not, due to the nightmare of the war and the carnage we attended daily, we saw things that were not there, heard voices that were not there. I was waiting for him when he came into the tent where we kept our special stuff stashed. He was reaching for a box of Butterfinger candy bars when I clicked back the hammer of my contraband Colt .45 Government Model.

  His eyes were bright and wide, cognizant of his situation. Being a native, he had seen and heard much violence from both sides. Still, he stood quietly, his eyes locked on mine. I let the hammer down, slowly, on the cocked pistol. In his hand was an Archie comic book he’d brought to exchange. Where he’d gotten it I had no idea. Saying nothing, I picked out a six-pack of beer and carton of cigarettes, handing both items to him. That done, I pointed to the comic book in his hand, then to myself. He handed it to me, still unsure and frightened. I indicated the outside with a nod of my head, then held up my hand like Tonto to the Lone Ranger. He nodded, then left.

  The next day my comrades dogged me unmercifully. “Got more in one hit than he ever had, Storme,” they said. “Where were you, Storme? Asleep? Some guard. Big deer hunter. Country boy.” I smiled, ignored them, and read my comic book.

  I never saw him again. Never came back. But he left more than he’d ever taken. He made me feel human, which was a difficult feeling to come by in that inhumane time.

  And so it was with the buck. Penance for the dog.

  It was 10:29 by my watch when Chick materialized at the base of my tree. I had neither seen nor heard his approach. It startled me. I handed him my bow and shimmied down the trunk. He was smiling.

  “How’d you do that?” I asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Get here without me hearing you? Find this tree? You’ve never been here before.”

  “Knew you’d keep your face in the wind and the sun at your back, even though it was dark when you walked in. You’re a good hunter. A broken twig here, an overturned leaf there, and here I am.”

  “Doesn’t explain not being able to see or hear you.”

  “Came up behind you.”

  “It’s quiet. The breeze is light. I was listening for deer. I didn’t hear you.”

  “I’m Captain Midnight,” he said. “My feet don’t touch the ground.” His smile was white against his camo-smudged face. “You gonna show me the field, or what? May want to smoke some of it. For research purposes only, of course.”

  The curtain had come down. That was all I was going to get, for now. It dawned on me he had no reason to trust me, other than the testimony of Matt Jenkins. “This way,” I said.

  We walked through the woods, the broken orange sunlight slanting through the trees, altering landmarks from my afternoon discovery. I looked for landmarks that cast no shadows—blow-downs, rocks, hollows. The woods are a kaleidoscope of shifting shadows and hues, never looking quite the same twice.

  “Why’d you pass up the shot on the buck?” he asked as we walked through the woods.

  “How’d you know?” This was spooky.

  “Why didn’t you take the shot? You could hunt ten more years and not get another chance like that. His rack was perfect.”

  I looked at him. Stopped walking. I shrugged. “Wasn’t his day to die, I guess.” He looked at me, and for the first time his eyes lost their bemused cast. He nodded, satisfied, and I knew he understood.

  “Why I didn’t shoot, either,” he said. I could swear he was choking back something else, something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say. Now I knew who he was. As if I’d known him for twenty years instead of two days. Just a matter of meeting him. He knew what it was. Without me having to explain.

  We walked through the brilliantly colored forest, the dew dripping from golden leaves. Some leaves fluttered and danced in the breath of the woods. We crossed the ancient fence, second time for me, and passed on. The same fence bordering the field of a thousand blurry daydreams.

  But, now the marijuana was gone.

  It had been plowed under and the ground was pocked with charred pits of black where something had been burned. The woods stank of the burnt-rope smell. No guard dogs. No tall, spiked stalks of cannabis.

  Just a plowed field in the middle of the forest.

  We walked on the turned earth. There were a few sprigs of marijuana on the ground; they would soon curl at the edges and turn brown. I found a fresh cigarette butt. Marlboro Lights. I leaned over to pick it up when the rolling crack of a rifle creased the silence. Chick hit the ground, slapping my legs out from under me as he did.

  “Get down, dammit.”

  I hit the dirt, rolled, then ran in a low crouch to the edge of the field and ducked behind a blowdown as the second shot rang out. This was not my favorite place. Chick was up and running after the report echoed through the trees. “I got the flash,” he said from behind a low bank. “Up there.” He pointed to the rise on the west slope with his Colt. “About a hundred and fifty yards up that rise.”

  My heart raced and my breathing was irregular. I did not enjoy being shot at. Never adjusted to it. It was the same horrible slap of apprehension each time. The same racing, icy, stinging fear, grabbing at you and starting the involuntary responses—dry mouth, shallow breathing, determined survival mode. You are never so alive as when death is one hammer-snap away.

  Chick discarded his bow. I already had. “We take him?” he asked
. “Or do you want to get out of here?” His eyes were hot. Intense. The eyes of a warrior. Born to it.

  “He’s got a rifle and the better position.”

  “You go outside to the south. If we can get close we’ll have—There he goes!”

  I saw a flash of white up the hill. We broke from cover, then zigzagged along opposite sides of the field. Branches snapped at me as I crashed through the woods. My gun was holstered. At this distance it was worthless. Nearing the end of the field we slowed, and I unsheathed the Browning. We became more deliberate now, moving slowly and watching up the hill. My breath was harsh and dry in my throat. I was behind a tree, searching the tree line, when Chick hollered out.

  “Wyatt! Don’t move! Wherever you are, for God’s sake, don’t move!”

  SEVEN

  A crow cackled. An engine was gunned to life over the ridge. Too late now. They would be long gone before we got there.

  “What’s up?” I yelled across to Chick.

  “Booby traps. Stay where you are and I’ll work your way.”

  I holstered the Browning. Booby traps and killer dogs. It fit the pattern Trooper Browne talked about. But why had the sniper been here? He couldn’t have known we were coming. Unless he followed us. Or maybe he was expecting someone else. Who? Or maybe he was a she. Why guard an empty field? Did he follow us in? No headlights behind us when we drove in this morning.

  It took Chick several minutes to work his way back to me. “Let me show you something,” he said.

  Twenty-five feet away Chick pointed at a spot where a mat of leaves had been placed, concealing something. He picked up a heavy branch and stuck it in the center of the leaves. Steel jaws exploded from the leaves like a largemouth bass with a popping bug caught in its mouth. It snapped shut with a metallic clang, wrenching the branch from Chick’s hand. Splinters from the shattered wood pinwheeled away. I whistled low and thought about my shins. Bear trap. Like I said, there are no bears in Missouri.