Part II Hunting Season
He got his first deer the year he turned nine. They'd up hiked the wooded ridge behind Aunt Helen's place right after sun-up that November Saturday. After an hour, the only deer they'd spotted was a young doe. Raylan watched her high step delicately through the brush, not even raising his rifle. Arlo had no patience for hunting in the early morning cold. He leaned his gun against a tree, shoving his hands in his pockets and grumbling about heading back.
Raylan ignored his father, standing still and scanning the woods slowly until he spied a flash of brown amid the gray-barked trees. He waited until the buck came into the clearing before he aimed and fired. The shot rang out in the quiet woods. Despite the painful smack of the rifle into his shoulder, Raylan kept his eye on the animal just like his Aunt Helen had said to. It ran for a bit, then stumbled. He saw it fall. He ran as fast as he could, but the gun was heavy and the slick, frost-covered leaves and tree roots slowed him down. Arlo reached the dying buck first.
"It's a four-pointer," he hooted. "Not bad, Kiddo." He ruffled Raylan's hair with a broad hand, beaming at him and Raylan turned his face up to it, a shy smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
The crackle of leaves underfoot interrupted the moment. "That boy's a crack shot, Givens. Damn site better'n you." Old Deke Simpkins, Arlo's crew boss at the mine, barked out a laugh as he trudged up the ridge past them, coal-ruined lungs wheezing with every step.
Arlo stiffened, the light fading from his face, and the rare moment of paternal pride passed. Raylan felt his father's anger and his cheeks grew hot, pleasure replaced by embarassment. He stared down at the animal, watched its ribs heave with the futile effort to breathe, smelled the blood as it soaked the ground, and threw up his breakfast of Mama's sausage and biscuits all over his new boots.
-o-o-o-o-
Brewer was asleep, or pretending to be, before Raylan turned the Crown Vic onto I-35. Forty or so miles down the road the low fuel light came on. It was a rookie mistake and he silently cursed himself as he cut across the lanes, took the nearest exit, and searched for a gas station. The nearest one was old, with ancient pumps that didn't take credit cards. He pumped his gas, double checked that Brewer was still sleeping and headed inside to pay.
The pony-tailed blonde behind the counter chewed her gum and smiled at him as the door jingled closed.
He grinned back and slipped down the side aisle, grabbing two Slim Jims and a bottled water from the cooler. Halfway back to the front he considered the prisoner and grabbed another water and a couple of candy bars. He laid everything out on the counter and reached for his wallet.
"Where you headed?" The girl had big brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Dressed in cut-offs and a v-neck NASCAR t-shirt that showed off her tan, she tossed her head as she rang up his purchases, leaning forward to give him a peak of milky white cleavage where her tan stopped.
With some effort he forced his eyes back to her face. "Shreveport."
She nodded. "I been there once or twice. Louisiana's nice."
"If you like swamps and gators."
"I like Zydeco." She did a little dance step behind the counter, swinging her hips, and he laughed. "Where you from?" She asked, keeping up the conversation as she rummaged under the counter for a sack. "That's a Texas hat, but not a Texas accent."
"Kentucky."
"Now that's someplace I've never been."
She looked wistful and he shook his head. "You aren't missin' anything."
"I am if there's more like you back there." She leaned forward again, swinging the bag in one hand.
The sound of an engine revving startled him out of his flirtation. He looked out the window just in time to see the Crown Vic spit gravel and shoot out onto the road, heading away from the highway.
"Shit!" He pulled out his gun but there was no shot. All he could do was stare in disbelief as the car and his prisoner disappeared in a cloud of dust and gravel.
