Fiction
The Hunter
On the first morning, the air was warm and still. Little droplets of water blanketed every botanical surface and these wet plants cushioned each drop of his boot.
He was quiet. The dampness helped. With last night’s rain, even though the stretches of autumn turned the forest ground into a patchwork of drying leaves and small, thin sticks, he was nearly silent.
Just a ghost among the trees.
He had been working this trail since the first light. Two hours ago he found the first sign. One track, not far from a bed sight, still petrified in the sandy soil. He followed, putting one boot in front of the other, the soles softened after years of use, the tread wearing down to almost unacceptable levels, but they were quiet.
They told him to get the soles replaced. He didn’t listen. He walked, in his silent boots, along the trail, knees bent, slightly hunched over, working in and out of the trees.
The sun was rising higher in the sky but he kept his coat on, an old barn coat, no camouflage, just brown, with hints of mud and dirt. He stalked the trail, keeping his bow in his left hand. Even the compound shooters envied his bow. It was six feet long and made of Osage orange, still shiny from the fresh coat of oil from the belly to thin limbs, a bright orange, with the waxed string. It had once…
