SPIRIT CATCHER

SPIRIT CATCHER

David took off his thermal mittens and blew softly into his freezing hands. The tips of his fingers had a white, pasty look as if frostbite was trying to force its way in; he had lost all feeling in his ears and couldn’t tell for certain if they were still attached to his head. The weather was getting worse.

He jumped as the startling screech of a Crow blasted him out of his private reverie. The stupid bird had been tailing him half the morning either in hopes of scavenging a free meal or simply to laugh at the ungainly creature on two legs fighting a losing battle against the deep, bitter snow.

David bent over, picked up a frozen limb and threw it forcefully in the direction of the annoying bird. With an angry screech the Crow simply jumped to another limb and mockingly continued his ecstatic cawing.

He'd heard that the Native Americans considered the Crow to be a prankster and to be the bringer of death. But, what did a bunch of dumb Injuns know! The white man licked them didn't he?

Ignoring the incessant noise, David continued into the thick brush along a small valley deep into the wilderness restricted hunting grounds of the Apache reservation.

He was a poacher.

He did not consider himself a poacher. Instead, he was simply doing what came natural to him. God made the animals for man to hunt, and he was only doing what God commanded.

The fact that he hunted for fun and not for food did not bother him. He felt no guilt. The furs and other items he salvaged brought a good profit, and he was not one to punch a clock or stand on an assembly line.

The freedom of the great outdoors was where he belonged, just like the mountain men he idolized from the western novels he devoured in his spare time.

He was following a blood trail. The magnificent buck he had fired on hours earlier had bolted when his round went high into the neck instead of the killing zone behind the front leg.

For hours he had been following the crimson drops of blood sprinkled on the pure white snow. He knew the animal had to succumb to the loss of blood before long, and he wanted to get another killing shot at the evasive buck.

He wanted the buck to suffer first. It was his right to kill; he was the chosen of God’ he was the primal hunter; and no animal had the right to make him suffer through thick snowdrifts and freezing weather.

He angrily fought his way through ice coated brush, the crisp, sun-melted snow crunching beneath his heavy boots like air bubbles in plastic packing wrap.

Once again, the unexpected screech of the old Crow startled him, causing his feet to slip out from under him. He went sprawling and sliding down a steep incline into a muddy ice crusted stream- his precious rifle sticking like a spear into the soft moss covered bank.

He stood and jumped up and down in anger and rage, pulling his hat off and throwing it in the direction of the Crow. He decided at that moment that he would waste a round on the pesky bird for the soothing pleasure of watching it die in an exploding ball of feathers and blood.

Retrieving his rifle from the mud, he glanced up to locate the insufferable bird. Instead, he spotted the magnificent buck not thirty paces away, trying to hide behind a small stand of evergreens. All thoughts of the old Crow suddenly disappeared.

The buck was incredible, beyond doubt the noblest animal his eyes had ever seen. He was perfect in every possible way. He was also near death, rapidly succumbing to the loss of precious blood.

Seeing that the wounded animal could run no further, David pulled out his canteen and poured himself a liberal helping of the strong whiskey he craved. He would have a toast to the noble stag before he put a last round into its heart.

There was no hurry. The buck deserved to suffer. He had to prove that he and he alone had God’s permission to kill at leisure.

He glanced up as the pesky Crow flew high into the upper limbs of a tall, white pine. It would be next. He could not allow the stupid bird to mock him. Bullets cost money, but he had one with the bird’s name on it. The pleasure would be almost as great as killing the stag.

Finishing his canteen cup of harsh liquor, David gently picked up his rifle, checked the barrel for dirt then slowly chambered a round. He gently caressed the cold, dark wood of the stock as he laid it against his numb cheek, then with a sigh of utter contentment, slowly started to put pressure on the trigger.

For a second everything went fuzzy. His eyes could not focus and a sudden strange shiver run through his entire body. Then everything went totally dark!

He was lost in an abyss of black swirling mist. He felt totally detached from his body, from his surroundings, from his very being.

Suddenly, as if a switch had been turned on, he could see very clearly. He was in pain; the agony was almost unbearable. Tears dripped from his eyes, mucus from his nose and blood pumped down his chest in small rivulets to drop like scarlet rose petals onto the pristine snow.

What he saw then terrified him and cast his mind into a panic of despair and his soul fleeing for safety. Standing not thirty paces away, a man was pointing a high powered rifle at him, the trigger slowly being drawn back.

It was him! His mind had somehow been transferred into the body of the deer at the exact moment he pulled the trigger.

He listened to the echoing cry of the laughing Crow as blackness slowly took him in its eternal brace.