Page 40 - WTP Vol. IX #8

Waldo (continued from preceding page) before we got going.
Pa walked back from the kitchen with a beer in hand, which told me the open bottle on the night- stand had indeed been from this morning. This afternoon was going to be hell regardless of how the day went, but if we came back without Waldo dead, things would be brutally worse for us. Pete saw the beer, and fear was evident in his eyes. Even if we got lucky and Pa was passed out when we returned, he wouldn’t be out long.
“Move it!” Pa yelled.
“Yes, sir!” we said in unison as we darted out the door like our asses were on fire.
We started towards the woods where the dogs had been headed, with my empty stomach still rumbling. We entered a massive stand of timber spanning sev- eral farms. Pete and I knew this land as well as our own backyard. We grew up playing, hunting, hiking, and sometimes just hiding in this dark wonderland
of oak and hickory. Some of these trees had been standing for four hundred plus years and had seen countless wonders that will forever remain secreted away. The smell of peat moss and rotting leaves filled the air. Meandering through the shadows, we worked our way toward the top of the ridge for a better view. Once there, we could hear barking down by the creek. Trying to outmaneuver them, we rapidly descended at an angle toward the stream bed.
Once off the ridge, a wide flat sat between us and the top of the creek bank. This time of year, the shallow stream was frozen solid. Barks and yelps echoed be- tween the riverbanks as the dogs ran up the center of the creek bed. There was a game trail leading down to the water just ahead of us, and it sounded like the pack was coming straight for that opening. If they came out on that trail, they would be easy targets.
Pete chambered a shell, and his eyes glistened bright- ly as he tried unsuccessfully to hold back tears. I went ahead and pumped a cartridge into my rifle’s cham- ber as Pete knelt into a shooting position. Tears con- tinued to stream down his face, and tiny snot bubbles were at the side of both nostrils. The noise was build- ing as the dogs raced towards the top of the bank. We both jerked with surprise as a whitetail buck cleared the bank and darted within a few yards of us, kicking up clouds of dried leaves. I knew Waldo and his pals were just seconds behind. I yelled at Pete, “Get ready. Here they come!”
By now, barks and howls were echoing like thunder 33
from a summer storm. Louder, louder, louder! The noise was deafening as the dogs raced over the top of the hill. I barely had time to see them emerge before Pete fired. Boom!
I jumped, and a sharp yelp echoed with the gunshot. I glanced down, and Pete’s chest was heaving vio- lently. He was crying and shaking his head. He had his eyes closed so tight his face was scrunched up in a twisted ball.
“O, God, I kilt him!” Pete wailed as he rocked, back and forth, on his knees.
“Calm down, Pete, ya need to breathe.”
Pete rubbed his eyes and sniffed hard, trying to gain composure.
Not having the words to soften it, I delivered it straight. “You killed the wrong dog.”
Pete whipped his eyes to the game trail as he stood up. Lying dead was an old stray mutt. I’d seen it scroung- ing through garbage and roaming out this way several times. Evidently, this dog was the pack’s leader in the deer chase and was probably the group’s antagonist.
I had seen Waldo and another dog race past after the alpha dog took the shot’s full load and dropped dead. Pete walked over to the carcass, laughed a weird little high-pitched giggle, and promptly threw up on the frozen dirt. He appeared to cycle from dread to pain, to relief, every few seconds. As the realization that his nightmare was not yet over registered with him, full-on dread was racing back like a freight train.
Waldo had a loose mouth when trailing, and his tenor was distinctive and carried far. If he were still chasing, we would know it. I assumed that Waldo and the other dogs had split up and lost the deer