"Mike, which one?" asked orange wool hat wearer.
"Quit, Henry," whispered Mike pointing, "That tree."
Henry walked away. Mike climbed up the tree. Placing himself in the tree stand, rested his rifle in his arms. Earlier during the search for Abigail, Mike found deer tracks. Bringing Henry, his cabin mate, tree stands were sit up yesterday.
Mist drifted between the trees. Sunlight filtered through the mist. Gray was slowly starting to be replaced by the morning light.
His ears detected rustling. His thumb pushed the safety off. Resting the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, the barrel was pointing towards the ground. The buck revealed itself. Putting the cross hairs between his eye and the image of the buck, his finger touched the trigger.
Before the bullet could be sent, the buck got tackled. Quickly fumbling to get his binoculars to his eyes. Watching with disbelief, a shirtless man was wrestling with the buck.
"It's him," realized Mike. It was the guy who slapped that girl from yesterday.
This guy's left knee pressed against the buck's neck. Twisting the neck clockwise, the knife in his right hand went across the neck and blood sprayed out. He keep twisting the head as blood gushed and hooves kicked wildly. From fatigue or lack of blood, maybe both, the buck finally stopped kicking.
Hours passed since the buck was dragged off before Mike finally climbed down from the tree stand. Mike wasn't a drinking man however it turned into ripe time to start.