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“What the hell was he doing, coming all the way up here alone anyway?”
Frank gripped the wheel. He slowed the pickup to a crawl to ease over a fallen stick, almost big enough to call a log. “He was huntin.’”
“At his age? No reason he should listen to a neighbor like me, but you shoulda tried to talk some sense into the old coot.”
“Think I didn’t try? But he’s a tough old bird. I gotta admire that in spite of myself. He keeps telling me he’s going to give up the farm, give up the woods, move into town into assisted living. Keeps saying this is his last year to hunt. I suppose he’s going to be right, one of these years.”
Sonny squinted, trying to see through the pines and the underbrush on the downhill side of the trail. He blinked and sat up straighter. “Stop the truck.”
“See something?”
“The sun shining off of something. Probably just an old beer bottle, but after looking for two days...”
“Yeah.” Frank brought the truck to a stop. He left it in gear and set the parking brake. He didn’t pull off to the side of the trail; there was no room for that.
They started downhill, carefully.
“Look here,” Sonny said. Two small pine trees had broken off. Other brush was broken too. The pine loam between the cobblestones was torn up here and there, the distance between them about the same as the width of a car. Sonny looked at Frank. Frank looked at Sonny. They headed downhill again, moving faster.
They could see it now, the “new” green Jeep the old man had been so proud of, smashed up and nose down in the gully at the bottom of the ravine. They ran, bouncing from stump to cobblestone to slide of gravel. Two ravens took to the air, ponderously, as the men ran downhill.
Sonny got to the Jeep’s door first. The door was twisted; didn’t look like he could open it. But he reached for the handle anyway. Then he stopped.
Frank slid on gravel, went down, stood up again, still approaching. “Is he...?”
Sonny put his hand back to stop Frank. “Don’t look.”
Frank didn’t look. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and nodded as if he’d been expecting this. “Yeah. I guess we’d better get somewhere the radio will work and call the Sheriff. Or maybe we could go home and use the phone from there? She’s probably listening to the radio, and I’d rather have her hear it from me first, in person.”
“I don’t think an extra hour or two will make any difference now.”
Frank rubbed at his eyes. “Why’d he have to keep coming up here by himself? You know how mad that makes me? Darned old fool.”
“Yeah.” Sonny nodded Inside the wreck of the Jeep he could see marks on the dashboard, the words FARM TO FRANK scratched deep into the plastic with the tip of the ignition key. “He was a tough old bird, though.”
The End
(Credits: I remember reading about a real-life incident like this long ago, but I can’t remember where or when.)
Frank gripped the wheel. He slowed the pickup to a crawl to ease over a fallen stick, almost big enough to call a log. “He was huntin.’”
“At his age? No reason he should listen to a neighbor like me, but you shoulda tried to talk some sense into the old coot.”
“Think I didn’t try? But he’s a tough old bird. I gotta admire that in spite of myself. He keeps telling me he’s going to give up the farm, give up the woods, move into town into assisted living. Keeps saying this is his last year to hunt. I suppose he’s going to be right, one of these years.”
Sonny squinted, trying to see through the pines and the underbrush on the downhill side of the trail. He blinked and sat up straighter. “Stop the truck.”
“See something?”
“The sun shining off of something. Probably just an old beer bottle, but after looking for two days...”
“Yeah.” Frank brought the truck to a stop. He left it in gear and set the parking brake. He didn’t pull off to the side of the trail; there was no room for that.
They started downhill, carefully.
“Look here,” Sonny said. Two small pine trees had broken off. Other brush was broken too. The pine loam between the cobblestones was torn up here and there, the distance between them about the same as the width of a car. Sonny looked at Frank. Frank looked at Sonny. They headed downhill again, moving faster.
They could see it now, the “new” green Jeep the old man had been so proud of, smashed up and nose down in the gully at the bottom of the ravine. They ran, bouncing from stump to cobblestone to slide of gravel. Two ravens took to the air, ponderously, as the men ran downhill.
Sonny got to the Jeep’s door first. The door was twisted; didn’t look like he could open it. But he reached for the handle anyway. Then he stopped.
Frank slid on gravel, went down, stood up again, still approaching. “Is he...?”
Sonny put his hand back to stop Frank. “Don’t look.”
Frank didn’t look. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and nodded as if he’d been expecting this. “Yeah. I guess we’d better get somewhere the radio will work and call the Sheriff. Or maybe we could go home and use the phone from there? She’s probably listening to the radio, and I’d rather have her hear it from me first, in person.”
“I don’t think an extra hour or two will make any difference now.”
Frank rubbed at his eyes. “Why’d he have to keep coming up here by himself? You know how mad that makes me? Darned old fool.”
“Yeah.” Sonny nodded Inside the wreck of the Jeep he could see marks on the dashboard, the words FARM TO FRANK scratched deep into the plastic with the tip of the ignition key. “He was a tough old bird, though.”
The End
(Credits: I remember reading about a real-life incident like this long ago, but I can’t remember where or when.)
