Note:  This story is based on the legend of my father, Van L. Howell. He is rather infamous in my hometown. Special thanks is given to my sister, Joye, for her help in researching this story. Also special thanks to my friends, CyberWolf and Grizzly Adams, for their descriptions of how to skin a deer.

 

He creeps through the thick undergrowth, his bare feet carrying him forward silently.  He is aware of every branch and twig, and knows exactly how to move unnoticed.  His olive green pants and shirt blend into the brush.  Game wardens have passed within inches of him in the woods without ever having seen him hidden there.  He has made himself a part of this deer trail for the past hour.  The small path through the woods seems well traveled, and there are fresh hoof marks in the rich brown earth.  He stalks his prey, his brown eyes alert, concentrating on the unsuspecting deer.
 

The animal pauses for a moment, its antlers high and proud.  Brown ears flicker back and forth as it listens for any unnatural noises.  It is tensed and poised to flee if the need should arise. Finally satisfied that all is as it should be, it takes another tentative step forward.  The hunter raises his gun to his shoulder, watching through the scope until he has a good, clear shot.  He traces the deer's journey, keeping the barrel of the gun trained on the buck.  Finally, when the buck steps from the shelter of the trees, the hunter takes careful aim and slowly squeezes the trigger.  The blast sounds like cannon fire in the stillness of the forest.  Startled birds take flight, their wings beating the air as they flee, calling to each other in shrill cries.  Squirrels chatter excitedly in the trees overhead, taking care to scurry to dark, shadowy hiding places.
 

The deer jumps for an instant, runs a few steps, then falls.  The hunter pauses, as the deer did moments before, a satisfied smile on his face.  He loves the thrill of the hunt, and the satisfaction of the kill.  He relishes that single moment of clarity in which his power is known.  He moves toward the buck, still moving silently, though there is no need for his prowess now.  His movements are ingrained in him, a way of life.
 

He studies the fallen deer, its pink tongue lolling from the side of its mouth.  He remembers its beauty in life.  As the hunter studies the rack of antlers.  He counts them.  Eighteen.  This was an old, wise deer.  He notices the single, clean hole through the short brown hair on the hide.
 

He drags the fallen deer a few feet away to a small pine tree.  He ties a rope around the deer's back hooves.  Then he looks up at the young pine.  His bare feet grip the pine as he walks up it, forcing it to bend to the ground.  He has walked pines since he was a small boy.  He straddles the pine, holding it down, and quickly ties a rope to the top of the tree.  He steps off of the pine, letting it rise back into the air, taking the deer's body with it.  The heavy body swings in the air, suspended from the tree.
 

The hunter quickly field dresses the deer, starting with a slit in its throat.  He watches as the red blood trickles into the dirt, leaving a sticky, dark puddle.  The sun glints off the blade of his knife as he slides into the tender stomach of the deer.  He quickly removes some of the internal organs, leaving them beside the puddle for nature to dispose of.
 

The hunter quickly spreads out a worn canvas tarp on the ground.  Once the tarp is unfolded, he lifts it and binds it around the body still swinging in the air, securing it around the hooves.  He then bends the pine again until he can reach the rope.  He uses a large machete to chop the rope, and the wrapped body falls with a soft thud.  He arranges the tarp so the antlers protrude.  He scans the forest for the clearest path and then grasps the antlers firmly in his strong, tanned hands.  A soft breeze blows through the woods, and he hears the pine trees whispering to each other as he slowly makes his way back to his truck.  The canvas slides and bumps gently over the carpet of leaves and pine needles.
 

He finally reaches his battered truck and releases the winch lever, lowering a large hook down to the deer's body.  He secures it to the deer, then pushes a button, so that the deer is hoisted onto the truck.  He converted the bed of this truck especially for this purpose, and the chains are kept well oiled and well used.  Once the deer is securely hanging in the bed of the truck, he climbs into the cab of his truck.  The engine turns over easily, a soft roar in the stillness, and he puts the truck into gear smoothly, his bare feet working the clutch and gas.
 

As the beat-up truck bounces through the ruts in the road, the hunter thinks about his morning.  He knows that some people condemn him for killing.  But those people don't understand him.  He doesn't kill for sport, or to fill his wall with trophy heads.  His thrill comes from getting back to nature, back to the way things are supposed to be.  He hunts for survival.  He is driven by a primal urge to get what he came for, to find and bring back food as quickly as possible.  His satisfaction comes from knowing he's accomplished his mission, and that he has once again gotten something for his family to live on, to eat.
 

He finally reaches the paved road, and turns onto it slowly, the heavy body swaying slightly in the bed of the truck, but remaining secure.  He drives through the flatwoods for a few miles, until he sees the turn-off for Old Man Chauncey's house.  He slows again, downshifting for the last leg of his journey.  He pulls into the yard, not stopping until he reaches the ramshackle shed off to the side of the house.  Several hunting dogs run out to greet him, barking their welcome.  They know the hunter, and he reaches to pet some of them as he makes his way to the porch of the house.
 

The screen door screeches as Old Man Chauncey comes out to welcome the hunter.  His tattered overalls are faded and have patches on the knees.  He shoos some chickens from the porch as he carefully descends the rickety steps and walks to the hunter.  Though his body is stooped with age, his eyes twinkle and his grip is strong as he shakes the hunter's hand.
 

"Howdy, Van L.  Ain't seen you in a while.  How you been?"
 

"I'm doin' all right, Mr. Chauncey."  The hunter, Van L., hooks a thumb at his truck as he speaks.  "I shot a really nice buck this morning, but it seems I don't have room in my freezer for it.  I thought you might have room in yours.  I can't stand to just leave it to waste."
 

Old Man Chauncey thinks for a moment, straightening his shoulders as much as possible, to assert his dignity and pride.  His blue eyes flicker as he stares back at Van L.  "Well, seein' as how you done killed ‘im, it would be a shame to let the buzzards have it.  Looks to be a big ‘un."
 

Van L. smiles.  "Yessir, it would be a big shame."
 

Old Man Chauncey finally shuffles toward the truck for a closer look.  "Well, I reckon you can store him in my freezer if you want to."
 

Van L. smiles again and quickly sets to work, making small talk with the older man.  Together they work to skin the deer and prepare it for the freezer.  They finally get the meat cut and ready to be wrapped.  Van L. turns to the old man and says, "Well, Mr. Chauncey, looks like you got it now.  You mind if I leave you to finish the job?"
 

"Naw," the old man spits a long stream of tobacco juice into the dirt.  "I can handle this here buck.  You go on.  And when you get ready for your meat, just come on back and help yourself."
 

Though the words are unspoken, they both know that Van L. won't come back until it's time to bring another deer to refill the freezer.  To admit as much would wound the old man, and Van L. respects him too much to hurt him.  He firmly shakes Old Man Chauncey's hand again and heads back to his truck.
 

The dogs bark and chase after the truck, lightened of its load now.  The dust swirls around as the hunter heads back out, back into the woods.  He has already thought of the next family whose freezer he needs to fill.