Kemosabe

He loved the solitude of the mountains, and as he dismounted his horse he smiled as the usual vox populis and emotions washed over him His ex-wife sarcastically called it the social disease of the Mountain Man, which he thought was a perfect fit. To him, well, to family going book binding a half- 12 generations these mountains were home, and in a lot of sorts he knew his way around here better than his apartment complex.He led his horse to a tiny glade and tied the reins to a low branch where he could nibble on the mountain grass. For a brief moment he gazed at the steed and his hand-tooled saddle and was proud that foreverything he needed to live in the woods and mountains was right there in front of him. It gave him the comfort autonomous people reach, knowing how to use the best tools and equipment and keeping it all in groovy shape and neatly organized.He took his binoculars from a saddle hold and strapped it around his neck. From the scabbard came a well-used Ruger Nu mber 1 rifle, a single-shot chambered in 7mm Remington Magnum topped with an equally worn Unertl scope. He was equally proud of his marksmanship point after he lost the eye he rargonly if ever needed a second shot. Besides, if you missed the first shot stakes are your prey spooked and ran.He climbed a hundred yards or so to a stony ridgeline that gave him a perfect view of the valley below and the mountainside resistance his position. Any shot at an moose here could be up to 500 yards, well within the lethal range of his gun and optics. He reloaded his own ammo, learning the hard way never leave anything to chance or someone elses control. Soon he spied several jr. bucks and a stag too big for the youngsters to challengefor now.He loved the graphic order of nature, how it provided for those who took care of it, and in his mind he was already providedchering the bounty that would feed him well for months. He said a inactive prayer the stag would keep grazing and present him a solid state broadside shot. Suddenly he noticed the elk froze, ears perked and eyes alarm and yet as suddenly they bolted out of sight. A brief moment later the sound that spooked his quarry rolled up the hill.Fuck bestial mother-fucking assholes he swore, already up and moving down to his horse as the distant growl of a big dozer washed the hills. He unloaded his rifle and leaned the rifle against a tree. He found the ammo pouch he was looking for, each s underworld tipped with an in particular hardened solid metal-piercing bullet.It took him a while to get a sound view of the bright yellow machine as it tore into trees. that great, asshole, he whispered to himself. Whack down another couple dozen trees and show yourself. He waited until the moment the machine throttled up, certain the engines noise would mask his gunfire. He knew that from experience. He also knew that the metallic complete of the bullet slamming through the engine cover and impacting on the engine, along with the sudden appearance of a shiny hole would get the operators attention.The heavy recoil of his shot rocked against his shoulder. He was halfway to his mount when he heard the motor die into silence. He shook his head in disgust and patted his horse. Well, Jumper, just another day in fucking paradise.On the way home he remembered the days when his oath and badge would have compelled him to search out and arrest the sneaky SOB vandal. It was both just a few years as well as a lifetime past. If anyone had the right to a hard-on for the logging interests, he did. He had tried to restore order in a bar wide of the mark of loggers and lost his eye in the vicious brawl that ensued. At to the lowest degree a half-dozen loggers set upon him, kicking and laughing as the other patrons watched, both uncaring or too frightened to come to his aid. Miraculously he was able to draw his back-up revolver and shoot three of them, scratch offing one, before they surrendered. Luck was with hi mit was a five shot revolver.Insult was added to injury when he was taken off the road and given a job as a dispatcher. His brother-in-law lawyer was able to secure a decent monetary cloture for his injuries and partial loss of sight. Then a new sheriff was elected, nothing but a pawn of the logging coalition, and he was, in the vernacular, adiosd. Pissed as he was. he knew he couldnt kill anyone, at least not without the heat of battle. But it wouldnt cut off him from ruining their day. Or months and years, he was happy to admit.As much as he liked the solitude, he wasnt anti-social, and had more than a few good friends he regularly met up with at old bar. He thought his pal Barney summed it up the kind of place Hemmingway would be comfortable barfing in. He loved Barney and his bull cop, and found him holding court with a bunch of coeds and beatniks. Barney held his vex and beamed at him. Yo The Great White Hunter returns Are we gonna have an elk bar-be-que tonight?He glanced at the cleavage of the young girl position his beer on the table. No such luck. Busted. Goddam noise from the logging scares em into fucking Canada.Well, Barney said, maybe you need to chase other game.Like hell I will.Take bulldozers for instance. The news says someone nailed a trophy mould in Gates Valley this morning.He raised his glass. No shit? Heres to emYep. Barney had a drunken grin. Damn humble theyre too heavy to quarter and take home. Itd give way a hellofa mount