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Night Hunting
The problem with the place was the silence.
Back in Georgia, there’d be nothing but noise. One couldn’t walk two feet without some lovelorn cardinal or mockingbird letting out a song.
But out in these rolling Montana hills, there wasn’t a single sound. No birds, no bugs, nothing. Not even the wind made noise when it blew, nor the waving long grass that dotted the meadow and the hillsides around it.
Jake shifted his weight, letting the rifle butt push firmly against his shoulder. It was a reliable thirty-aught-six Springfield, a one-shot wonder that’d stumble a grizzly. The kickback wasn't too bad, but he still felt sore from last week’s job.
He’d shot a lot of things in his life. The first one was his father. The fellow had smacked him around, so Jake gave the old man a twenty-two caliber comeback. Didn’t kill him, but a part of Jake wished he had. Then he could tell any uppity drunk in a back alley Bozeman dive that he’d killed a man. He could say it without any hesitation, any giveaway that it was a lie. He’d be a badass, the Great White Hunter in a country filled with too many of them already.
But he hadn’t killed a man, so here he was, in the bed of a rickety lemon with a rifle in his hands and a vermin to kill.
Jake scanned the clearing and the hills. Only two deer and a jackrabbit filled the land. The deer looked his direction once, then went back to grazing. The jackrabbit darted every which way, looking for something for several minutes before bounding up the leftmost hill.
Jake rubbed his eyes. He hoped it would come soon.
Just before five A.M., Jake saw it.
Over the ridge to his right, a thin figure snuck its way to the clearing. Even in the green fuzz of his night scope, Jake could see the ragged tail and dark spots on an otherwise clear white coat.
Jake tightened his grip on the Springfield.
The vermin made its way down the hill and through the clearing, letting out small pants throughout its journey.
Still. It needed to stand still.
For a minute, it kept its pace steady across the clearing. The padded feet made little pat-pat-pats across the firm soil.
The sights lined up perfectly.
The vermin stopped.
The finger on the trigger tensed.
The vermin looked at Jake.
Jake looked back, his eye squinting through the night scope.
Then the vermin howled. Not a howl like how they usually did, that cutesy awoooo that gets all the other ones going and amuses the tourists watching from afar. No, it was long, painful howl. Errrrgh, halfway between a growl and a yelp of pain.
For a split-second, Jake didn’t want to kill the vermin.
No. Not the vermin. The wolf.
The wolf that killed ranchers’ cattle, fought its own kin and snapped at everything else along the way.
The wolf that glided through the mountains and plains, snow falling off its back, bothering nobody who was smart enough to stay away from its domain.
The wolf. This terrible, beautiful thing.
In that moment, Jake felt a love he’d never had toward anyone.
But it was only for a moment.
Just as the howling peaked, a bullet ripped through the wolf’s side.
A sigh escaped Jake’s lips. He hopped out of the truck bed and walked toward the corpse. Seven hundred yards was a long ways, and he wanted to be gone before daybreak.
Back in Georgia, there’d be nothing but noise. One couldn’t walk two feet without some lovelorn cardinal or mockingbird letting out a song.
But out in these rolling Montana hills, there wasn’t a single sound. No birds, no bugs, nothing. Not even the wind made noise when it blew, nor the waving long grass that dotted the meadow and the hillsides around it.
Jake shifted his weight, letting the rifle butt push firmly against his shoulder. It was a reliable thirty-aught-six Springfield, a one-shot wonder that’d stumble a grizzly. The kickback wasn't too bad, but he still felt sore from last week’s job.
He’d shot a lot of things in his life. The first one was his father. The fellow had smacked him around, so Jake gave the old man a twenty-two caliber comeback. Didn’t kill him, but a part of Jake wished he had. Then he could tell any uppity drunk in a back alley Bozeman dive that he’d killed a man. He could say it without any hesitation, any giveaway that it was a lie. He’d be a badass, the Great White Hunter in a country filled with too many of them already.
But he hadn’t killed a man, so here he was, in the bed of a rickety lemon with a rifle in his hands and a vermin to kill.
Jake scanned the clearing and the hills. Only two deer and a jackrabbit filled the land. The deer looked his direction once, then went back to grazing. The jackrabbit darted every which way, looking for something for several minutes before bounding up the leftmost hill.
Jake rubbed his eyes. He hoped it would come soon.
Just before five A.M., Jake saw it.
Over the ridge to his right, a thin figure snuck its way to the clearing. Even in the green fuzz of his night scope, Jake could see the ragged tail and dark spots on an otherwise clear white coat.
Jake tightened his grip on the Springfield.
The vermin made its way down the hill and through the clearing, letting out small pants throughout its journey.
Still. It needed to stand still.
For a minute, it kept its pace steady across the clearing. The padded feet made little pat-pat-pats across the firm soil.
The sights lined up perfectly.
The vermin stopped.
The finger on the trigger tensed.
The vermin looked at Jake.
Jake looked back, his eye squinting through the night scope.
Then the vermin howled. Not a howl like how they usually did, that cutesy awoooo that gets all the other ones going and amuses the tourists watching from afar. No, it was long, painful howl. Errrrgh, halfway between a growl and a yelp of pain.
For a split-second, Jake didn’t want to kill the vermin.
No. Not the vermin. The wolf.
The wolf that killed ranchers’ cattle, fought its own kin and snapped at everything else along the way.
The wolf that glided through the mountains and plains, snow falling off its back, bothering nobody who was smart enough to stay away from its domain.
The wolf. This terrible, beautiful thing.
In that moment, Jake felt a love he’d never had toward anyone.
But it was only for a moment.
Just as the howling peaked, a bullet ripped through the wolf’s side.
A sigh escaped Jake’s lips. He hopped out of the truck bed and walked toward the corpse. Seven hundred yards was a long ways, and he wanted to be gone before daybreak.
Pics
The passage about the father feels like a diversion. It doesn’t really add anything to the main plot. It’s almost as if you inserted it to gain space.
I wish you had devoted that space to give us some backgroud elements about the wolf and the hunter: if they’d met before, for how long he’d been hunting it, etc. As it stands, a guy expects a wolf which – miraculously by the way – materliazes at the right spot at the right time, and kills him. Even though we get a glimpse of the hunter’s inner feelings for a brief moment, that’s not enough to characterise the guy or make the piece a story.
I wish you had devoted that space to give us some backgroud elements about the wolf and the hunter: if they’d met before, for how long he’d been hunting it, etc. As it stands, a guy expects a wolf which – miraculously by the way – materliazes at the right spot at the right time, and kills him. Even though we get a glimpse of the hunter’s inner feelings for a brief moment, that’s not enough to characterise the guy or make the piece a story.
Night Hunting: A Retrospective
I think the biggest issue with this piece is that it does too much set-up for a relatively simple action. The entire first half builds up why Jake finds himself here hunting this wolf, then it just kind of happens. I suppose it might've worked better if I'd just did it all in one scene, or if there were other characters for Jake to work off of (the original draft had a Native American come across Jake and spout weird nonsense). It's not a complex story, so it doesn't need such a rich backstory.
In conclusion, I like the story concept, but will probably have to find a different way to execute it.
>>Hap
In the first draft, it was specified that Jake had parked his truck just off the road, and walked because the terrain was too bumpy and rough to drive safely over. Don't know why I deleted that, but that's the explanation in my mind.
>>Monokeras
The father passage was back when the story involved Jake coming across a drunk Native American, and I kept it in because I simply liked how it was written. As for the wolf and Jake meeting, the first draft clarified that Jake had been watching this area for days and found plenty of wolf tracks, and that he was hunting the wolf because it was attacking ranchers' cattle (hence the line about the wolf "killing cattle"). I deleted those passages because I thought it gave the piece a more dreamlike feeling and I hated all the exposition about his purpose, but I guess clarification was needed to some degree.
The one thing I take issue with is you saying that Jake wasn't characterized. I thought that his reminisces about his father and wanting to sound tough to his fellow bar patrons gave him motivation, and his brief tinge of guilt does show that there was something behind his cold exterior. I don't think he needed much more characterization than that, but different strokes, I suppose.