Smoke and Mirrors

2

Sitting in a deer stand fourteen feet in the air, Winter Massey looked at Faith Ann Porter, a tall, skinny, fair-skinned thirteen-year-old with large blue eyes and reddish blonde hair.

Two high-powered rifles leaned against the rail in front of them.

As the sun rose, the woods surrounding the field came slowly into focus. The field, planted with rye, clover, and alfalfa, formed a natural basin bordered by two ridges that ran east to west. At one edge of the field, a line of tall bamboo created a natural wall.

Faith Ann smiled excitedly at Winter, her cold-reddened face surrounded by a camouflage fleece hood. Far to the north, another hunter’s gunshot pealed like dull thunder. The shot was followed a few seconds later by another.

To his right, Winter spotted four deer moving cautiously down the slope among the trees. He placed a hand on Faith Ann’s narrow shoulder and silently pointed to the animals. Nodding solemnly, she slowly lifted her rifle and, using the still to steady the weapon, looked through the scope at the animals. Using his binoculars, Winter watched a large buck trotting after the does, head up, ears flickering, nose sampling the air, steam issuing from his nostrils. Winter’s heart quickened as he studied the antlers and counted the points.

“Is he a shooter?” she asked in a whisper.

“Eight-point,” Winter said. “Take your time and pick your shot when he’s between trees. Make sure of your sight picture, and-”

“I know. Squeeze, don’t jerk.”

Faith Ann put her cheek against the stock and her eye behind the scope. She flicked off the safety, keeping her finger out of the trigger guard as Winter had taught her.

The buck stopped fifty yards away, broadside to the stand. Faith Ann, doing as Winter had instructed her, used this opportunity to fix the crosshairs of her scope on the area just behind his shoulder, where the heart and the lungs were nestled.

Winter watched Faith Ann release her safety as a rustling sounded across the field. He turned to see a second buck breaking from the wall of bamboo. The huge deer’s coat was dark, almost black, and the golden antlers growing from his skull looked like tree limbs glued onto his head, held up by a swollen neck.

“Hold your shot,” Winter whispered. “Safety back on.”

“Don’t shoot?” she asked.

“Very slowly, look out in the field to your left.”

Faith Ann turned her head and exhaled when she saw the animal.

Like a stallion, the buck trotted straight into the middle of the field toward the nervous group of does standing at the edge.

Faith Ann moved with deliberate slowness, careful not to make any noise or movements the deer might spot. A rutting buck would be less wary than usual, but anything out of the ordinary would spook him.

Winter held his breath and placed a hand on his rifle. If Faith Ann missed or couldn’t bring herself to shoot-which happened even to seasoned hunters faced with such a trophy-he could make the shot for her. If she missed, he would have a second or two before the animal bolted, and he would fire before it took off.

Winter had never witnessed bucks in combat, but he knew that was exactly what was unfolding before them. Winter counted the points on the rack of the larger deer. Twelve points with such elegant symmetry was a rarity.

The eight-point marched into the green field, placing himself between the does and the mature interloper. Like gladiators, they circled each other slowly, heads low. The larger buck had perhaps three years and forty pounds on the eight-point, whose antlers were half as massive. The older deer’s muscles were better defined, his neck twice as thick, and his muzzle turning gray. It was like a hound facing off with a mastiff.

The more experienced animal charged and although the eight tried to sidestep at the last moment, the larger deer hit him in the shoulder with his broad chest, knocking him off balance and skidding him sideways into the soft ground. The eight-point spun, lowered his head, and struck the larger animal head-on, locking antlers. With muscles tensed, they twisted their horns like wrestlers for advantage. The harsh clicking of antlers went on for a long minute until the smaller buck lost his footing and tumbled to the ground, expelling his breath in a hiss.

The bigger buck backed up and lowered his head. As he tensed for the rush, the other deer quickly made it to his feet and shook his head.

Lurching, the eight rushed the twelve. The sound of their antlers colliding was like a gunshot. The twelve’s weight sent the eight reeling, and he whirled and lowered his head again, but the larger buck raked a blow down his length that opened the hide on his back leg like a razor. The smaller deer was breathing hard as his grizzled elder circled him carefully, seeking a vulnerable spot to ram.

Winter was watching the battle with such intensity that the unexpected clap of gun thunder raised him off the bench.