Free Fire - C. J. Box [140]
On the other side of the ridge will be the elk. I will likely smell them before I see them. Elk have a particular odor—earthy, like potting soil laced with musk, especially in the morning when the sun warms and dries out their damp hides.
Quietly, deliberately, I put my glove back on and work the bolt on my rifle. I catch a glimpse of the bright, clean brass of the cartridge as it seats in the chamber. I ease the safety on, so when I am ready it will take no more than a thumb flick to be prepared to fire.
As I climb the hill, the morning lightens. The trees disperse and more morning light filters through them to the pine-needle-coveredforest floor. I keep the rifle muzzle out in front of me but pointed slightly down. I can see where my prey had stepped, and follow the track. My heart beats faster, and my breath is shallow. I feel a thin sheen of sweat prick through the pores of my skin and slick my entire body like a light coating of machine oil. My senses peak, pushed forward asserting themselves, as if ready to reach out to get a hold on whatever they can grasp and report back.
I slow as I approach the top of the ridge. A slight morning breeze—icy, bracing, clean as snow—flows over the ridge and mists my eyes for a moment. I find my sunglasses and put them on. I can’t risk pulling up over the top of the hill and having tears in my eyes so I can’t see clearly through the scope.
I drop to my knees and elbows and baby crawl the rest of the way. Elk have a special ability to note movement of any kind on the horizon, and if they saw me pop over the crest, it would likely spook them. I make sure to have the crown of a pine from the slope I just climbed up behind me, so my silhouette is not framed against the blue white sky. As I crawl, I smell the damp soil and the slight rotten odor of decomposing leaves and pine needles.
There are three parklike meadows below me on the saddle slope and the elk are there. The closest bunch, three cows, two calves, and a spike, are no more than one hundred and fifty yards away. The sun lights their red brown hides and tan rumps. They are close enough that I can see the highlights of their black eyes as they graze and hear the click of their ungulate hooves against stones as they move. To their right, in another park, is a group of eight including the five-by-five. He looks up and his antlers catch the sun and for a moment I hold my breath for fear I’ve been detected. But the big bull lowers his head and continuesto chew, stalks of grass bouncing up and down out of the sides of his mouth like cigarettes.
I let my breath out.
The big seven-point is at the edge of the third park, at least three hundred yards away. He is half in the sun and half in shadow from the pine trees that border the meadow. His rack of antlers is so big and wide I wonder, as I always do, how it is possible for him to even raise his head, much less run through tight, dark timber. The big bull seems aware of the rest of the herd without actually looking at them. When a calf moves too closely to him, he woofs without even stopping his meal and the little one wheels and runs back as if stung by a bee.
The breeze is in my face, so I doubt the elk can smell me. The stalk has been perfect. I revel in the hunt itself, knowing this feeling of silent and pagan celebration is as ancient as man himself but simply not known to anyone who doesn’t hunt. Is there any kind of feeling similar in the world of cities and streets? In movies or the Internet or video games? I don’t think so, because this is real.
Before pulling the stock of the rifle to my cheek and fitting my eye to the scope, I inch forward and look down the slope just below me which has been previously out of my field of vision. The sensation is like that of sliding back the cover