The Last Hunt

         Sheriff Al Jordan was cruising down hwy.57 early this cold, dreary, December morning. Up one hill, and then another, at a law abiding fifty-five m.p.h. He was in no hurry, as there was seldom anything to hurry about in his quiet territory in east Tennessee. The trees, mostly live oaks, were losing the rest of their fall foliage, their bare limbs sprawling upward to a gray overcast sky. What was once a beautiful landscape ablaze in the colors of autumn was now in the throes of early winter? Soon it would be in the grips of freezing temperatures and blanketing snow.

         He thought of the ice storm two winters before when everything was coated in a layer of ice. The roads were virtually impassible and glazed with inches of it. Tree limbs remained motionless, even against thirty-mph. wind gusts, and could be heard cracking in the woods like rifle shots. Power lines snapped like the line on his fishing rod while reeling in big mouth bass. Stepping out of one’s house was like stepping into another world, seemingly a world of crystal and glass. Anything but that, he thought to himself as he drove, his heater humming, stereo playing soothing blues.

         “Sheriff, you out there?” a female voice in his patrol car radio crackled and brought him back to the moment. He turned down his stereo and reached for his radio in one fluid, well-practiced motion.

         “Yeah, Sarah, I'm here.” he spoke into the mic.

         “Good morning Sheriff. How's "Lizabeth?” she asked. Although she knew the Sheriff frowned on informal chatter over the police frequency, it was a common practice. Sarah Billings had been with the Sheriff ever since his days as a rookie. She came to the force some twenty years ago, looking for work, perhaps office duties, as there was little else the small town of Rainer had to offer. She has been there since. First, just answering the phone, filing this and that, and then later attended the courses, classes, and training until finally donning the uniform. Seldom, if ever, would she answer a police call. Only minor ones like the time Ray Barnes called to complain that if "Jim Hearne didn't keep his damn cattle out of his crops, he was going to shoot them and would be eating steaks every day the rest of the year."

         “She's fine Sarah.” he replied.

         “Glad to hear it. She seemed a bit under the weather last Sunday at church.” she commented.

         “Yeah Sarah, but she's feeling better.” he replied with a slight sigh while keying the mic. “What' cha' need?” he asked.

         “Oh yeah,” she said as though it didn't really matter. “Bill Chilton called from over at Jake's place and said he needed to see 'ya. Something about some kind of accident or something.”

         “Okay Sarah, I’m on my way.” and with that he dialed his squelch completely up, slowed his car to just a few miles per hour and made a U-turn in the middle of the two-lane hwy. Fifteen minutes later he crest another hill where on his left was a large building, half log cabin, and half plank siding. A sign fixed atop the roof read in plain, bold letters “Jakes Quik Stop”

         The building comprised a small grocery store to the right, smaller diner to the left, and a covered deck expanding across its front, complete with hand hewed, polished cedar rails. With the help of gallons of Thompson's Weather Seal the porch had withstood the test of time, unlike “Tin-Man”, who diligently stood guard at the bottom of the steps that led up to the deck, rusting away through the seasons.

         “Tin Man” Jake called him, but he was anything but tin. Actually, he was a conglomeration of nuts, bolts, and pieces of junk welded together as Jakes rendition of the “Tin Man” from the “Wizard of Oz”. It was a left over from the days when Jake operated the garage at the back of the building, and unlike tin, probably weighed 300 lbs. He'd been there so long that the locals hardly noticed him, except for the occasional hat thrown on his head by someone who'd stopped by for morning coffee and the local gossip. He always got noticed by the occasional passer-by stopping for gas, or trucker stopping for a quick bite to eat. The garage long since closed, Jake always said he'd hold a raffle for a free dinner and tank of gas for whoever could guess his closest weight.

         As he parked at the front of the building he couldn't help to notice the big, rusting, metal sign that read “Lion”, from the days of Lion gasoline, that still remained nailed to the border fence. As well, he noticed the four men gathered around the pump island in the middle of the small parking lot, and the parked Jeep Wagoneer with Indiana plates.He turned off his car and opened his door to the cold morning. The Sheriff, a big man in his mid fifties, nearly 6'1”, 250 pounds, was feeling it as he swung his large frame with its bulging middle around, donned his large Stetson hat, and lifted himself from the car into the cold December air.

         There, standing around the pump island was none other than Charlie Adams, a small man in his fifties as well, wearing his usual attire of worn coveralls, a flannel shirt, a red checkered CPO jacket, and the faded, denim ball cap with the logo that the Sheriff knew read “Wayne's Feed”.

         There was Bill Chilton, the brother of Jake Chilton, a heavy man in his late forties with his always, neatly combed, jet-black hair, wearing an apron of the type all grocery people wore. Bill and his wife, from Kentucky, had come to Tennessee about two and a half years ago after Jake suffered a stroke and was no longer able to keep up the store by himself.

         And there were the two strangers. One was tall and thin; standing just in front of the pump island and the other was shorter, average build, and standing upon it. Both of them were young men, probably in their twenties the Sheriff thought, and noticed both of them were wearing what looked like newly purchased camouflaged clothing. “Weekend warriors.” the Sheriff thought as he approached the group, Bill hurriedly met him half way.

         “'Morning Bill.” the Sheriff said, “How's Jake?”

         “Fine Sheriff, he's doing pretty good. Getting ‘round good, but we don’t want him to overdo it. Just keeps the books up mostly now.” Bill replied.

         “Glad to hear it. What's up?”

         “Well, Sheriff, these two came in early, about 7:00 this mornin', acting … well a little nervous, and they were makin' me nervous,'ya know?”

         “Uh, huh.” the Sheriff said, and continued to walk toward the pump island with Bill at his side.

         “Well, one finally said there'd been some sort of accident.” Bill explained as they both stopped, standing upon the gravel parking lot in the cold morning.

         “Uh...huh.” the Sheriff said.

         “Well, I got to tell 'ya Al ...I was scared! I didn't know what I'd find. I thought there was a body or something. That's when I told Betsy to call you.” At that point, Charlie Adams, who overheard the conversation started yelling, “Axe-ci-dent! That weren't no axe-ci-dent. That was Jack Daniels pulling that trigger!” he exclaimed. The Sheriff lifted the brim of his hat while peering over the rim of his glasses and gave Charlie a stare that could cut diamonds. Charlie shrugged his shoulders, nodded his head left and right, and muttered “Damn.” to himself.

         “So we walked out here, to the truck.” Bill continued, “I didn't know it would be just a damn goat back there in his Jeep. I mean, it was all covered up and everything.”

The Sheriff turned his attention to the two young men standing around the pump island. They seemed nervous, one more than the other. One kept “half-pacing”, taking a step forward, then back, and then doing it again. The other just stood; looking side-to-side occasionally raking his recently bought hunting boots across the gravel. Again, he and Bill started toward the group when the familiar sound of the front door to Jake's Quik Stop creaked open.

         “'Morning Sheriff.” a female's voice called out. He turned to see Betsy Chilton, Bill’s wife, a heavy set, voluptuous woman with brunette hair, wearing the familiar flowery apron with lace frills that she had sewed herself. “How are 'ya this morning"?” she said, while offering a steaming cup of coffee with an outstretched hand.

         “Well, just fine mam.” he replied as he turned away from the group of men, reached down to straighten the cuff of his pants that he suddenly became aware was caught on the top of his polished black patrol boots, and walked toward her.

         “Well Sheriff, I got some nice, fresh apple pie baking that'll be ready in about an hour if you care for some later.” she said as the smell of which wisped out the open door.

         “Yes "mam.” he replied as he received the coffee. She simply nodded, turned, and re-entered the store allowing the screen door to slam behind her. The Sheriff took a sip, sniffed the enticing aroma, and turned back to the business at hand. He crunched across the gravel to the rear of the jeep, and peered inside the back window.

         “Well ...what you boys got to say?” he asked.

         “Sheriff, I swear it was an accident....” one began to explain when Charlie again blurted, “Accident! Accident... That was Jack Dan...” and before he could finish, the Sheriff gave him another ice cold stare that said shut up! Charlie did. The Sheriff propped his foot on the rear bumper for a closer look.

         “Sheriff, I swear it was an accident!” one of the strangers began to explain. Charlie started to interrupt again, “Sherif...” and that was as far as he got before the Sheriff gave him another ‘if looks could kill’ stare.

         “I didn’t mean it.” the stranger continued, “Well, it looked like a deer running through those woods.” he said.

In fact, they do, the Sheriff knew. They were Angola goats; the type that has the brown coats with white undersides, and running through the woods with antlers could be mistaken as small deer.

         “Where you boys from?” he asked, as though he didn't know.

         “Uh... from India...” the young man began to explain.The Sheriff interrupted,          “What brings ya'll down here?”

         “Well Sir.” the other started, “we just came from Texas.”

         “Texas?” the sheriff asked.

         “Yes sir, we uh...well went there for that “Muey Grande'” contest.” one explained.

         “And?” the sheriff asked.

         “Well, we got a good one!” the other beamed, and the Sheriff gave him a stone cold stare.

         “We were on our way home and thought we would camp here, and maybe take in a last hunt. I mean, we got our permits and everything.” the other said. The Sheriff remained quiet and peered into the back window of the Jeep. He thought of asking for ID and the permits, then thought against it. After all, if they'd volunteered the information they more than likely had it.

         Instead he asked, “What you boys shoot him with?” The goat, now uncovered, lay on its' side across the back of the Jeep, its' left front leg twisted underneath it at a weird and peculiar angle.

         “A Winchester .300.” one proudly answered and the Sheriff gave him the stare.

         “Well. Around here, we tend to use a little less than rocket launchers.” he commented. He removed his foot from the bumper and turned to face the men.

         “Well Sheriff, what 'cha gonna' do 'bout this?” Charlie blurted.

         “Charlie...” he said in a deep voice, “I’m 'gonna take care of it.” Charlie shrugged his shoulders, turned his back, and began to pace again while mumbling under his breath. The two strangers looked at each other and frowned. Bill crossed his arms and just observed. The Sheriff sipped his steaming coffee.

         “Well, I’ll tell 'ya what.” he said after long moments of silence, “Why don’t you boys come with me, and we'll sort this out.” The two strangers shook their heads as one mumbled, “Damn! I knew we shouldn't have reported it!” The Sheriff ignored the remark and with outstretched arm, motioned them to his car.

         “Ya'll boys get in.,” he said as he opened the rear door. The two reluctantly slid in, both of them shaking their head side to side as the Sheriff closed the door. He looked up to see Charlie stomping off toward his beat up Chevy truck as Bill turned and calmly headed toward the store. The Sheriff maneuvered his large frame into the car, started the engine and proceeded to the highway.

         Long minutes later, hours to the strangers, he said, “Hope ya'll like good music.” He reached over to his CD player, and Van Morrison's album, “Poetics Champions Compose” started to play. Even though the deeply melodic music contrasted with the matters at hand, it somehow found its way into the passing country side with its rolling hills. The two strangers sat in the back seat peering out the windows.

         “Yeah, I know...” the Sheriff began, “I'm not supposed to have this in my patrol car, but no one seems to care much. After all, I spend a lot of time in this here car. I got this one just last year; had to twist a few arms to get it too, with the budget and all. Took it over to Cooters' garage where he installed this here player, and beefed up the suspension.” he said.

         “Ya'll relax. We'll be there in a little bit.” he said, and then continued to brag about what 'ol Cooter had done to his new car with its beef up suspension and hopped up engine. The two strangers looked at each other in disbelief as the Sheriff rambled on. Approximately twenty minutes later they approached what looked like a large metal utility building in the middle of nowhere, tucked into a couple of acres of tall pines, atop a hill on the highway; the Sheriff’s substation.

         “We're here.” he said as he pulled onto the gravel lot and parked his car. The two strangers looked about at the plain, metal building and its wooded surroundings. The Sheriff opened his door and awkwardly maneuvered himself out of it in the reverse manner which he’d maneuvered himself in it.

         “Y'all come with me.” He said opening the rear door. The two strangers got out and followed the Sheriff. Inside, they stood in a sort of “lobby” (if one could call it that), which opened to their right, about the size of a small dining room with nothing more than several hard-back plastic chairs backed against a wall. There was an “L” shaped counter that faced the chairs and guarded the hall. Sarah sat behind the counter, in a rolling chair, at a desk with the radio behind her.

         “Ya'll sit over there.” the Sheriff said motioning at the chairs to the right. They turned and promptly took their place before the counter where Sarah quickly put down the “Women's Today” magazine she was reading, and pretended to busy herself with the paperwork upon her desk. The Sheriff continued down the short hall that led to the back of the building and his small office. Entering, he took off his Stetson, hung it upon the rack just to the right of his door, walked around his desk, and stretched comfortably within his high back leather chair. It was ten minutes later that the strangers in the “lobby” heard Sarah's intercom come to life...

         “Sarah. Get Sam on the radio and tell him to get over to Jake's and pick up a Jeep. Keys are in it. Tell 'em to drive it here. Bill can fill him in.”

         “Yes Sheriff.” she replied as she keyed the box sitting on the desk and did as she was told. The two strangers overheard, looked at each other, and in unison shook their heads.

         Forty-five minutes later they heard the crunching of gravel and the familiar sound of the Jeep engine pulling into the parking lot. A minute later, a tall, lanky young man, dressed immaculately in neatly pressed uniform, spit-shined black shoes, key ring the size of an anchor on one hip, and a service issue .38 revolver on the other, pranced through the front door and hurried down the short hall. Both strangers followed his passing with great interest.

         The next thirty minutes passed like hours. The strangers, fidgeting in their chairs, watched Sarah as she supposedly busied herself with files. Finally, they heard a door unlatch somewhere down the hall, and the jingle of keys getting louder and nearer. Sam appeared, “Ya'll two come with me.” he said motioning to the short hallway. The two slowly rose and started down the hall seemingly giving Sam a wide as berth as possible in the narrow passageway.

         “Right here.” Sam said after a few strides. They stood beside an office door with a plaque that simply said “SHERIFF”. Sam reached around, opened the door and motioned them inside. Once in, Sam exited, quietly closing the door behind him. The Sheriff sat behind a large, drab Government Issue metal desk.

         “Ya'll take a seat.” he said, motioning to the two plain metal folding chairs facing the desk. The two strangers approached and took their respective seats.

         “Well”, the Sheriff began, “I'm sure you boys didn't mean any harm in what...”

         “I swear it was a accident Sheriff, but...” the Sheriff raised his hand cutting him off in mid-sentence.

         “But I gotta' ask…what made you boys bring it in? Why didn't you just leave it out there and scoot?” he asked.

         “Well Sheriff,” one said, “we just thought it was the right thing to do. We thought it could've been someone's pet maybe.”

         “Uh huh.” the Sheriff said, “You’re right. Don't know why Charlie keeps those damn animals, but you did the right thing.” The two strangers sighed a bit of relief.          “Now, I've known Charlie all my life, and he's gonna want me to press charges.” and the slight relief disappeared.

         “You see, we've had some problems in the past with city folk comin' out here shootin' up the countryside with their fancy rifles, and tearing up the property with those high dollar four wheelers and stuff. So you can understand why some of us out here don't cotton much to strangers, and 'ol Charlie’s one of 'em.” The two sighed in unison. The Sheriff remained quiet for a long minute, letting it sink in.

         “Well, the way I see it, I can probably get 'ya on a couple of things, like for one, you both were under the influence at the time.” The two strangers looked up as if shocked by the accusation.

         “Yeah, I know, but I ain't no fool. If ya'll weren't drinkin' out there last night, and maybe this morning, then I'm a monkeys' uncle.” and the two sighed again as if admitting to the allegation.

         “Which means you were driving under the influence, and there's this thing about drinking and using a firearm which with the destruction of private property, mainly the goat, I could press criminal negligence.” the Sheriff said, and things were looking pretty grim to the two young men.

         “Like I said,” the Sheriff continued, “I don't really think ya'll meant any harm, and I'd hate to be the one to bring ya'll all that grief, but 'ol Charlie ain't gonna let it lay.” and the two sighed again.

         “Now, like I said I've known Charlie all my life and I think I can smooth this out with him.” and the two strangers looked up at the prospect of hope. The three quietly stared at each other.

         “Ya'll got any money?” the Sheriff asked. The two looked at each other, then to the Sheriff, then each other again. For long moments the three remained quiet. Finally one of the young men began to reach in his pocket while the other fumbled for his wallet. They each watched the other as they counted their cash then meekly placed two hundred dollars near the edge of the desk.

         “Well, I don't know.” the Sheriff said. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin as if thinking it over.

         “Ahh, hell.” he shrugged. “Like I said, I've known Charlie all my life. I think I can get him to see this through.” and the two young men sighed a great relief.

                   “Now”, the Sheriff began, “I told Sam to take the goat out back to the shed. You know, for evidence. So, I think you boys oughta' get in your truck and scoot, the keys are in it. Not to be inhospitable or anything, but if I were ya'll, I wouldn't be hangin' round any, or comin' back through for a while.”

         “Yes sir!” They quickly stood and hurried out the door, down the hall, and out the building. The Sheriff just sat for a couple of minutes then reached into a file cabinet and withdrew a bottle of Christian Brother's brandy. He filled a shot glass and slammed it down in one gulp. He heard the jingle of Sam's' keys grow louder as Sam approached and entered the office.

         “Get in the car Sam. We'll go pick up yours.” he said as he capped the bottle and placed it back in the cabinet. Sam turned and hurried out. The Sheriff stood, reached across the desk, picked up the small stack of bills and placed them in his pocket as he walked down the hall. As he entered the lobby he turned to Sarah still setting behind the counter and said, “I'm goin' back out to Jake's and to get a bite to eat.”

         “What happened Sheriff? Charlie sell another goat?”

         “Hummmph.” the Sheriff grumbled, “Get Rev. Griffiths on the horn and tell him we'll have another bar-b-cue this weekend.”

         “One more and he ought to' have a pretty good Christmas this year.” she said to herself adding, “Maybe Bill will finally have that raffle Jake's always talkin' 'bout.” she added as the door closed behind him.