Dawson wasn’t one of those never-shut-up types of hunters. The ones who really don’t give a damn if they shoot anything. For them, securing a hunting license, slipping on camo clothes, and toting around a fancy gun were really just excuses to hang out with the guys and drink beer.
I kept my binoculars trained on the area around the water, while he kept scanning the ridges and hidden dips in the vast landscape. There wasn’t a speck of snow on the ground, allowing the antelope to hide in plain sight. The dead grasses with hues ranging from the faded gold of dried corn stalks to the darkness of coffee grounds provided perfect camouflage. The one advantage we had? This time of year the males were slaves to their baser instincts and deep in rut. The bucks were constantly sniffing for females, which meant they were always on the move, looking for more action. And if they couldn’t fuck, then they’d lock horns with other horny males of their species, trying to keep them from fucking.
Dawson tapped my arm and pointed.
I refocused, making minute adjustments for the change in distance and my eyes. About twenty antelope were hunkered down, on the edge of a ridge. But they were a good fifteen hundred yards away.
Over the next ten minutes, we watched the group, comprised of does, probably hiding from the amorous attentions of the bucks. But rest assured, our targets were very close by.
Target. How quickly I slipped back into sniper lingo when I wore camo and held a gun in my hand.
We moved our position closer to the watering hole. Ducking low. Moving slowly. Creeping quietly. My guess was the bucks would wander from their hidey-holes to the water and quench their thirst before seeking out the herd of females. The harem was farther downwind than we were, so chances were good we’d have first crack.
After we settled into our new position, I nudged Mason and whispered, “We didn’t talk about who gets first shot.”
“I’m sure you think you do, Sergeant Major, since you outrank me.”
“Yep.”
“Not a fuckin’ chance,” he hissed. “I should get the first kill since I applied for the hunting licenses.”
“Yeah? You wouldn’t be hunting if not for the fact I own this chunk of land, Sheriff.”
“How do you suggest we decide this problem, now that you’re a crime-solving specialist in the FBI?”
A pause.
We said, “Rock, paper, scissors,” at the same time.
Dawson grinned at me, and I grinned back.
Hands out, fists on palms, we locked gazes, whispered, “One, two, three,” and looked at our hands.
He’d chosen rock.
I’d picked paper.
I won.
I leaned over and pecked his puckish mouth. “Don’t pout. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and I’ll miss.”
He snorted. “Not likely. And that’s the first time I’ve ever had a huntin’ buddy kiss me. It’s kinda weird.”
We returned to our watchful stance.
As much as I loved the pulling-the-trigger part of hunting, I also loved this quiet time. I might’ve felt differently if I was stretched out on frigid snow-covered ground, trying to hide my white puffs of breath as the cold seeped into my bones. But I was content, lying on my belly in the tall grass, scanning the area with my binoculars, grateful my hood blocked the wind from my face.
I never thought I’d miss spending my days and nights in the great outdoors. While lying in the sand or on a rooftop, or standing in the back of an assault vehicle, I had dreamed of a soft mattress. Of crisp sheets that carried a freshly laundered clean scent. Of cool, puffy pillows beneath my weary head. Of one night of uninterrupted slumber. Of early-morning tendrils of light teasing through the window blinds as a gentle wake-up call. Not mortar rounds. Not machine-gun fire.
After all the years I’d spent in the army, my days and nights fighting heat, cold, bugs-intestinal and the creepy-crawly types-insurgents, insomnia, cramped quarters, and no quarters, and the weeks without a shower, I swore I’d never willingly subject myself to such primitive situations ever again. No camping, no hiking, no wilderness treks for me. My new idea of roughing it would be no complimentary breakfast at my vacation hotel.
So why was I stretched out in the dirt, weeds poking me in the face, surrounded by the warning scent of male animal urine?
Because my man had done something special for me, reminding me that I’d missed this. Reminding me this reconnection with nature and where I was raised also defined me.
I hadn’t been to this part of the ranch for years. I suspected the watering hole had dried up during the almost decade-long drought. For a few decades, the Gunderson family had hayed a small section at the bottom, leaving the bales as emergency feed if any of the cattle got stranded during a blizzard. This area didn’t produce enough feed in comparison to other areas with easier access, so it’d been allowed to go fallow.
Fallow was good for wildlife. With access to water, and a stand of scrub oak and pine trees to run and hide in, this was an ideal place for them to gather.
Time passed in a pleasant void. I wasn’t getting antsy as much as worried our entry into the animals’ domain hadn’t been stealthy enough. Were the bucks hunkered down watching us?
I considered asking Mason how long he wanted to wait these animals out, because he had to leave for Denver today, when three big bucks picked their way to the edge of the water.
Hello, boys.
They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. When they were spread out, I whispered, “Mine is the far right.”
“I’ll take the left side.”
Chances were high this would be our only shot today, so we had to make it count. “You sighted in?” I asked Dawson, keeping the antelope in my crosshairs.
“Yep.”
“Count of three.”
“One,” he said.
“Two,” I said.
“Three,” we said together.
Ba-bam. Ba-bam.
Near perfect symmetry.
My buck dropped.
Dawson’s animal struggled and acted confused. By the time it staggered a few steps then lay down, the third buck was long gone.
As soon as Dawson’s buck quit twitching, we grabbed our stuff and hightailed it down the hill.
We stopped first and looked at his buck. Nice clean kill, a few inches behind the front leg, which was a perfect heart/lungs shot. The buck had a decent set of horns. Then we walked to my kill.
Dawson said, “Jesus, Mercy. That’s fuckin’ nasty.”
My shot had been a head shot. The buck’s brain had exploded, horns hanging off what was left of the skull. I found Dawson staring at me strangely. “What?” I asked.
“Why would you shoot…?”
Because I was used to taking head shots.
Other snipers might talk about hitting center mass. But at ranges below two hundred yards, I always aimed for the head.
A habit that was hard to break, apparently. I also had no intention of having a mount made. Another habit I shunned-showing off a kill. Just knowing I’d hit my target satisfied me.
But maybe… I should’ve done it differently. Should I pretend I’d missed the spot I’d aimed for?
“If I’da known you weren’t interested in mounting it, I’d have gotten you a doe tag.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Good thing I brought a hacksaw. No need to drag the head back now,” Dawson said dryly.
“Yeah. Good thing. ’Cause all I brought was a knife.”
Mason stood and smirked at me.
“What?”
“Is that your way of asking me to gut your antelope, little lady?”
“Fuck off.” I unsheathed my knife. “And just for that smart-ass remark, I’ll race you. Let’s see who gets their kill cleaned up fastest.”
“God, I love you.”
I blew him a kiss before my hands were covered with blood.
As soon as he stood above his buck, I said, “Ready?”
“Yep.”
“Go.” I dropped to my knees. I rolled the buck on his back and carefully sliced through the hide and muscle, starting at the sternum and ending at the tail. Then on the second pass, I separated the tough membrane covering the body cavity. Using the tip of the knife, I cut around the anus and the genitals, mindful not to cut into the urinary tract or the poop chute. Then I sliced into the body cavity itself, turning the blade side up as I cut, so the knife didn’t go in too deep and nick the stomach. I scored the breastbone with the blade three times and pushed down, cracking it.