I have been sitting in the bigroom, feeling the warm sunlight coming in through the windows. A copy of Jim Corbett's
'Man-Eaters of Kumaon" lay opened on my desk. As I glance outside I notice two hawks, soaring and gliding on the air currents. They wheel and turn with their heads arched downward. Watchful eyes darting back and forth, searching ever searching for the least movement in the fields and denuded forest below.
It has been a long cold season. Trees are bare and leafless. The normally thick and green underbrush is wilted and brown.
But the season is changing. Two nights ago a warming trend was apparent with the loud and persistant chirp of hundreds of peepers. The sound of them, hiding in the reeds of the pond, could be heard here in the house if you sat quietly.
My eyes roamed the hillside and forest outside my window, refusing to come back to the work at hand. As I glanced from the hawks back to the forest a flicker of movement catches my eye. Yes, something was moving out there in the underbrush. I sat motionless never taking my eyes off the patch of underbrush. Had it been later in the season, after the rains, I would have seen nothing but green growth. I began to doubt myself, had I really seen anything move, or was at just a flash of shadow from the hawks above. No, it could not have been the hawks for the sun was wrong to cast a shadow in that direction.
There! Again an almost gliding movement in the underbrush ten or twelve feet from the first spot. I realized I had stopped breathing. Deep breath. I knew, yes I knew, even before it stepped through the trees and I could see stripes moving in the slightest opening.
I watched without turning my head, only the movement of my eyes could allow detection of my awareness. Then like a magicians trick he appeared, unmoving in the clearing between the house and the leafless forest behind.
None would mistake those bold black stripes on that rich coat. He moved like oil, sliding effortlessly over water, a fluid sliding over the terrain. He paused to mark his territory. His spray a gaulet challenge thrown to all who cross the area acts as a cold splash on the back of my neck. For I have been at war wth his kind for years.
As he moves out of my sight, he steps into the sunlight. Muscles rippling under a coat of glossy fur.
Freed of his eyesite I bound up from my chair and stride through the dining room. In the corner sets a handsome black and silver case. I grab the case and place it on the table. Flicking open the four catches that hold the case, I lovingly remove the barrels. With a quick snap I attach the buttstock and reach for the forearm. With the slightest snick of closing she is together and in my hands. I pocket two rounds and hold two others in my right hand as I step to the side door. As the door slides open I drop the two rounds into the right and left tubes. With a soft plonk, plonk, snap, I am ready.
I step to the corner of the house staying in the shade. I move slowly letting my feet find their way while my eyes dart about looking for him. I step forard again, the double held ready at port arms and my right thumb pushing lightly foward on the safty.
I step again into the sunlight, I must, for this is the dirrection he has gone. Glancing to the side then my eyes dart back foward, straining to catch a glimpse of movement or stripes.
Where is he? Did he hear me exit the house? Couldn't have, I have been soundless in my movements. Could he have circled and be behind me? My mind is a whirl of questions and self doubt. Then he is there in front of me. The barrels swing down and the butt pad slides on to my shoulder. Both eyes open, the cross hairs become visable as I focus through the scope and my thumb slides off the safty. All done in one motion.
He is facing away from me. Crouched in the dry weeds he watches some small ground squirrels in an unfallowed field. The crosshairs settle on his back and the hunter becomes the hunted.
The pattern of his stripes stands out. My mind flashs back, it's not possible. The pattern of the stripes are the same. My eyes are telling me this as my mind denies the possibility. I had put a high velocity bullet through him and burried him a year ago and yet here he lies, crouched ahead of me. Is this his twin? Could it be another of his line or a doppleganger seeking to haunt me? Flashing through my mind at the speed of light my thoughts rage as my trigger finger tightens. I do not like this angle but I must take the shot before he senses danger.
The trigger breaks and the left barrel thunders with a 405 grain bullet. He is hit. The heavy bullet throws his body foward, slamming him to the ground. Too far back, he is crippled and partially disemboweled. Clawing to regain his feet I step foward and loose the right barrel into his neck. The shot nearly decapitates him with only shreds of skin holding him together.
I stand excellerated. The first kill of the season. They will be back. There are always more of them, no matter how many I put down, sooner or later another shows up.

I really hate when cats piss in my yard.



45-70 with 405 grain bullets
4x leupold with quick detach mounts

Thats a good story.
You must have spent some time on that one.

Great story!

Reminds me of the old days, on the Small Game Forum. Crats die and life goes on.

Keith

definitely gunporn!!!!...