The Hunter

The Hunter


         Cletus Brooks wore a red-and-black hunting cap all year round. He drank like a fish, laughed like a jackass, and farted homily just about anywhere he pleased. From under his mop of matted and greasy-looking hair, he told anyone who would listen what a great hunter he was.
         But Cletus Brooks was a liar. He hadn't hunted in years and told those good ol' boy stories just to get free drinks from everybody, which they bought just to shut him up. I bought him a drink because he laughed at me--said I was nothing more than a city boy trying to fake it out here in the wild, wild west. He said all that and spit half of it in my face, too. I wanted to hurt him right then and there--hurt him bad. Cletus Brooks was the most obnoxious man I had ever met. I hated him enough to kill him. And at that very moment, I wanted to jump across the table, drive a knee into his gut, and screw both hands around his scrawny neck. Nevertheless, somewhere deep in the middle of my mind, I gagged up the words, “Cletus, why don’t you and me go hunting?”
         “Hunting? Whaddya mean? Right now? It’ll be dark soon.”
         “So what? You’re the professional. You put me on a deer before sunset and I’ll buy you drinks all night. Hell, I’ll buy you drinks for a week.”
         “Sure,” he said, swallowing something dry in his throat.
         “Then let’s go. My rifle’s in the pickup.” I stood and made my way toward the front door of the bar. With a slack-paper face, Cletus joined me.
         It was Fall and the deer had come down into the foothills to graze. “I’ll take you to my favorite spot,” Cletus said as he pulled on the beer he carried from the bar. Some of it ran down his neck, washing a path through the dirt and grime. I watched his Adam’s apple jump as he swallowed, and thought about strangling him again.
         But no…my idea was better—a little hunting accident, and then no more Cletus. No more loud, braying fools farting all over town. I drove fast down a dirt road and laughed to myself as Cletus bounced around uncomfortably next to me. By the look on his face, I knew his bladder was bothering him.
         “This is it. Pull over here.” Cletus jumped out of the truck and ran for a tree to relieve himself.
         I loaded my rifle.
         Cletus came tiptoeing back from behind the tree. He looked like a damn fool. “Quiet,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “There’s a buck about a hundred yards at the bottom of that ravine. I’ll go around and flush him up toward you.”
         I grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Okay,” I said, giving him the thumbs up. I sat down on the crest of the hill, balanced my rifle on my knee, and watched him walk off between the trees, still doing that tiptoe dance.
         I waited a bit, watched him through my rifle scope—adjusted it—and flipped the safety off.
         It wasn’t long before a big ol’ buck came thundering up the ravine with Cletus shouting at it from behind like a crazy man.
         I took the shot.