Eye of the Hunter
By: Craig Allen Heath
Tags: Exulansis, Guns, Short Story, Literally Literary, Fiction

Eye of the Hunter

Literally Literary and The Writing Cooperative prompt

Photo by Chris Slupski on Unsplash

“I’d have shot the bastard.”

Alan looked up from the remains of his coffee shop breakfast, the last corner of toast in his hand, halfway to his mouth. “Hmmm?”

Mark shoved his empty plate to the edge of the table, reading news from his cell phone. “Story here about an old guy, woke up to a burglar in his house. Old guy grabs his pistol and confronts the asshole, tells him to get out or get shot.”

“Yeah?”

“Burglar says no.”

“No, as in, I won’t leave?”

“Yeah. Imagine the balls? A guy’s got a gun pointed at you, has every right to shoot you, you stand there and say no.”

A memory not recalled in years surfaced in Alan’s mind. “What happened?” He popped the sliver of cold toast into his mouth.

“Old guy doesn’t shoot. Freezes, or, I dunno. Burglar takes the gun and shoots him. Old guy’s in the hospital.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Like I said, I’d have shot the bastard. Wouldn’t even give him a warning, just, bang!”

Alan finished chewing the toast, wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin on the plate. “When I was nine, my dad gave me a BB gun.”

Mark scowled at his friend. “Yeah? So?”

Alan stared into the distance. “One of those cheap, one-pump things. Couldn’t shoot more than 50 feet.”

Mark went back to reading. “That so?”

“You pour all the BBs into a big tube surrounding the barrel. Sounded like a maraca if you shook it. Tip it up and down, it was like one of those rain sticks, a loud shushing sound.”

Mark sipped his cold coffee and winced. “Old guy’s in a coma.”

“Dad put up some targets, showed me how to aim. My third shot hit the black. Fifth in the bullseye.”

Mark snickered. “Dead-eye Dick, huh?”

“Dad said I had the eye of the hunter.”

“Cool dad.”

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Mark swiped the phone screen to a new story. “So, what’s that got to do with…”

Alan stared through the coffee shop windows at the trees in the park across the road. “A week later, I’m out of targets and just shooting at trees and bushes in the back yard. I hear a bird and see a tiny little sparrow on a wire above me. I pump the gun, thinking he’s gonna fly away. I raise it, all the BBs go shushing down the barrel, and I’m sure he’s gonna take off. I aim and pull the trigger. The little thing drops right to the ground.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. I go over and look. There he is, not so much as a twitch, his little black eye staring at me alongside a little drop of blood on the side of his head. One shot. Dead.”

Mark chuckled. “If that’s a true story, then you really do have…”

“Suddenly, a cat jumps down off the brick wall and grabs the thing, jumps back over the wall and disappears.”

“Well, I guess at least…”

“When I was twelve, one of my uncles taught me to shoot a .22 rifle.” Still, Alan stared into the distance. “Like before, in a few minutes I’m grouping shots dead center.”

Mark smiled. “I’m startin’ to think this is bull…”

“He had a flock of sheep. I went with him to help drop off feed and such. One day, he slams the brakes on the pickup, points out my window and whispers, ‘Look!’ On the other side of a barbed-wire fence, there’s this jackrabbit. Just sitting, in profile, nose twitching and side-eyeing me but not running away. Uncle says grab the gun behind the seat. I open this big, squeaky truck door thinking it’s gonna run. I pull out the .22, dead sure that by the time I sight the thing, it’ll be off. I level a bead for the heart and squeeze. Rabbit drops like a sack.”

“Now I know you’re…”

“One shot. Right through the heart. Hardly any blood. Just that eye, unmoving, glossing over, staring back at me, and a tiny spot of red on the fur. Uncle says I got the eye of the hunter. We take the rabbit back and I watch him gut and skin it for his field dogs.”

“Eye of the hunter, huh? You’ve never said you shoot. I’ve never…”

“I don’t.”

Watching his friend stare unblinking past his shoulder, Mark frowned. “Well, it’s not like you were going around killing…”

“When I was fifteen, another uncle gave me a .410 shotgun, a little one-shot bird gun.”

“Oh, man, you are not…”

“My dad and I worked on it together. Re-blued the steel and refinished the stock. It was a nice little gun. Uncle took me out, threw a couple of old tin cans in the air and taught me how to lead the arc. I hit the third throw.”

“So, I suppose…”

“Took me out hunting. First time we flush birds, I drop this beautiful pheasant cock. I saw his eye on me as he took wing. Used the eye for my lead. Just enough of the shot hit his head for the kill. Hardly any blood. Just that eye again, staring back at me. Uncle said I had the eye of the hunter.”

“Alan, man, you’ve always been straight with me, so I’m assuming this is all true, but…”

“Took it back and uncle taught me to dress and prep it to roast. It was delicious.”

“I’m asking you, what’s this got to do with…”

“When I was nineteen, I qualified on the pistol range to get a job as an armed guard. Didn’t get the job, but I shot a 267 out of 300. Sharpshooter score first try. I lived in a tiny little apartment in a crowded tenement, block on block of dirty little places, lots of crime. One night, my neighbor calls, because he knows I got a gun, and says there’s a guy in the carport who’s trying to get in to kill his ex-wife. I tell him to call the cops, shove the .38 under my sweater and go out.”

Mark listened, eyes wide. “What? Why’d…”

“I find this guy hiding under one of the cars. I draw on him and order him to get up. He crawls out and stands, and now I know I’m stupid, because I should have never let him get to his feet. I shout, ‘Get down! Down on the ground, now!”

Mark held his breath.

“He looks me in the eye and says no.”

“No shit?”

“I’m beaded on his heart. Hammer back. Finger on the trigger. He says no, turns and starts to walk away, toward the apartment building.”

“And you…”

“I yell ‘Stop! Stop or I’ll shoot!’ But he just keeps walking.”

“Jesus.”

“I thought, what can I do? We’re in a driveway, he’s done nothing I know of, he’s not attacking me. He’s just walking away. So, I followed him.”

Mark leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Followed him?”

“To one of the apartment doors. He bangs on it, shouting, ‘Rosie! Open up! It’s me!’. But no one comes to the door.”

“The ex-wife.”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Anyway, cops show up and two of them jump him, take him down and handcuff him. One of them stands up, holds this huge hunting knife up to my face and says, ‘Didn’t you see this?’”

“What the…”

“Turns out he was wanted. He’d beaten his wife that morning and the cops were looking for him all day. She came out once they had him locked in the car. She was bruised and bloody, but alive.”

“God damn, dude. So, you really should have shot him!”

Alan met his friend’s eye for the first time. “Who would have eaten him?”

Mark held a breath, then exhaled loudly. “What?”

“I would have killed him. One shot, no second chance. But the others, they were eaten. A cat, some dogs, me and my uncle. We ate our kills. Who would have eaten that man?”

Mark frowned and shook his head slowly, left to right.

“I have the eye of the hunter.” Alan looked away again, at the trees outside, birds restlessly flitting through the branches. “Not the eye of a killer.”

“Maybe, man,” Mark said, still frowning at his friend. “But I’d have shot the bastard.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The server laid checks on the table, one for each man. Alan glanced at the slip of paper and reached for his wallet. “Every time I tell that story, that’s what people say.”

“Well? What else could they do?”

Alan laid bills on the table and stood. “Yeah. What else could they do?”