blisters by the time the day was over, but they would be happy blisters if he took a buck.
By the time he was ready, Artie had finished the dishes and had retrieved the two guns he’d brought along. Artie sat on a stool and unzipped the cases, leaning first one gun, then the other, against the wall. This was the first CJ had seen of them out of their cases, and he released a low whistle.
“Those are beauties,” he said.
That seemed to amuse Artie. He gave CJ a wink and then picked one of the guns up, offering it to his hunting companion.
It looked like a Remington hybrid—something custom, and it was obvious that it had been used more than a time or two. CJ turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it, the balance. As he studied it, his eyes caught something on the butt, and he turned it so he could take a closer look. And when it finally occurred to him what he was seeing, he looked up and grinned at Artie.
“You had it finished out,” he said.
Artie’s smile nearly matched his own. “It’s my favorite gun.” He reached for it and CJ gave it up. Artie gave him the other rifle, a Winchester, and probably a better gun than the one Artie would use.
When they set out, Thor seemed subdued, but CJ could almost feel the coiled energy in his well-muscled body. CJ had asked Artie if he should leave the dog at the cabin, but Artie said to bring him along, that the deer wouldn’t smell him, and that he was confident Thor would stay quiet and alert. Although CJ had his doubts, they were hunting on Artie’s dime—or at least around his cabin.
The hike was two miles up a hill that rose so gradually that CJ almost didn’t feel it doing so. It was only when he glanced backward, charting their progress through the trees, that he saw how much they’d ascended.
Artie’s knee seemed to hold up under the strain of the hike. The image CJ had earlier of him in the cabin that morning—the image of a younger man—proved stronger out here, as if taking on the hunter’s role granted him a measure of youthful energy.
It took a good half hour for them to reach the spot Artie had in mind. CJ knew they’d found it when they emerged from the tree line and looked down on an expanse of land no more than twenty feet below them. Artie was right; it was a perfect spot. He saw the natural path right away, a shallow gorge buffered on each side by tall grass.
The bluff, as Artie called it, was more a hill that ended somewhat abruptly, and as CJ looked down he saw it wasn’t a vertical drop but a slope with an angle around fifty-five degrees. If a bear was chasing him, he’d attempt to navigate it, but he’d much prefer finding a way around without imminent danger as a motivator.
While CJ admired the view, spotting the river through the bare trees ahead, Artie walked over to a large tree close to the drop-off and hunkered down in a spot that looked to have been made for him. And it probably had been, hollowed out by his backside during countless hours of immobile observance. CJ looked for a place to do the same, and found a likely candidate in a tree about eight feet from Artie. Thor, once he’d sniffed around a bit, seemed to understand the general principle, and he too found a spot among the brown leaves, positioning himself so he could look down over the land that spread out below.
The two men and the dog stayed that way until the woods around them began to return to normal, as the birds and small animals that had stopped at their arrival forgot about them and renewed their private conversations.
It was twenty minutes later when Artie spoke, keeping his voice soft, unable to carry down the slope.
“Sometimes I sit here for five minutes before a doe or a buck comes walking out of the trees just to the right there, steps out into the path, and starts walking toward the river. Almost always calm as can be.” He shifted a bit against the tree, but not enough that CJ heard the movement. “And there are other days when I sit here until the sun’s almost gone and I know that there hasn’t been a deer within miles of