Merciless

After all the years I’d spent in the army, my days and nights fighting heat, cold, bugs-intestinal and the creepy-crawly types-insurgents, insomnia, cramped quarters, and no quarters, and the weeks without a shower, I swore I’d never willingly subject myself to such primitive situations ever again. No camping, no hiking, no wilderness treks for me. My new idea of roughing it would be no complimentary breakfast at my vacation hotel.

So why was I stretched out in the dirt, weeds poking me in the face, surrounded by the warning scent of male animal urine?

Because my man had done something special for me, reminding me that I’d missed this. Reminding me this reconnection with nature and where I was raised also defined me.

I hadn’t been to this part of the ranch for years. I suspected the watering hole had dried up during the almost decade-long drought. For a few decades, the Gunderson family had hayed a small section at the bottom, leaving the bales as emergency feed if any of the cattle got stranded during a blizzard. This area didn’t produce enough feed in comparison to other areas with easier access, so it’d been allowed to go fallow.

Fallow was good for wildlife. With access to water, and a stand of scrub oak and pine trees to run and hide in, this was an ideal place for them to gather.

Time passed in a pleasant void. I wasn’t getting antsy as much as worried our entry into the animals’ domain hadn’t been stealthy enough. Were the bucks hunkered down watching us?

I considered asking Mason how long he wanted to wait these animals out, because he had to leave for Denver today, when three big bucks picked their way to the edge of the water.

Hello, boys.

They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. When they were spread out, I whispered, “Mine is the far right.”

“I’ll take the left side.”

Chances were high this would be our only shot today, so we had to make it count. “You sighted in?” I asked Dawson, keeping the antelope in my crosshairs.

“Yep.”

“Count of three.”

“One,” he said.

“Two,” I said.

“Three,” we said together.

Ba-bam. Ba-bam.

Near perfect symmetry.

My buck dropped.

Dawson’s animal struggled and acted confused. By the time it staggered a few steps then lay down, the third buck was long gone.

As soon as Dawson’s buck quit twitching, we grabbed our stuff and hightailed it down the hill.

We stopped first and looked at his buck. Nice clean kill, a few inches behind the front leg, which was a perfect heart/lungs shot. The buck had a decent set of horns. Then we walked to my kill.

Dawson said, “Jesus, Mercy. That’s fuckin’ nasty.”

My shot had been a head shot. The buck’s brain had exploded, horns hanging off what was left of the skull. I found Dawson staring at me strangely. “What?” I asked.

“Why would you shoot…?”

Because I was used to taking head shots.

Other snipers might talk about hitting center mass. But at ranges below two hundred yards, I always aimed for the head.

A habit that was hard to break, apparently. I also had no intention of having a mount made. Another habit I shunned-showing off a kill. Just knowing I’d hit my target satisfied me.

But maybe… I should’ve done it differently. Should I pretend I’d missed the spot I’d aimed for?

“If I’da known you weren’t interested in mounting it, I’d have gotten you a doe tag.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Good thing I brought a hacksaw. No need to drag the head back now,” Dawson said dryly.

“Yeah. Good thing. ’Cause all I brought was a knife.”

Mason stood and smirked at me.

“What?”

“Is that your way of asking me to gut your antelope, little lady?”

“Fuck off.” I unsheathed my knife. “And just for that smart-ass remark, I’ll race you. Let’s see who gets their kill cleaned up fastest.”

“God, I love you.”

I blew him a kiss before my hands were covered with blood.

As soon as he stood above his buck, I said, “Ready?”

“Yep.”

“Go.” I dropped to my knees. I rolled the buck on his back and carefully sliced through the hide and muscle, starting at the sternum and ending at the tail. Then on the second pass, I separated the tough membrane covering the body cavity. Using the tip of the knife, I cut around the anus and the genitals, mindful not to cut into the urinary tract or the poop chute. Then I sliced into the body cavity itself, turning the blade side up as I cut, so the knife didn’t go in too deep and nick the stomach. I scored the breastbone with the blade three times and pushed down, cracking it.

I took a break and glanced over at Dawson, who already had his hand in the cavity and was pulling out the guts.

Son of a bitch.

He flipped his buck over to drain the last of the blood, resting on his haunches.

I half expected him to throw up his hands like a tie-down roper.

Mason ambled over, and I still hadn’t gotten to the gut-removal portion yet.

“Lagging behind, Sergeant Major.”

I grunted, then made the cut across the esophagus that allowed my hand to get inside that still-warm cavity and start yanking out innards.

Point for Dawson that he didn’t offer to help.