Traditions Part 3

By Brandon Adams and John Seginak

 

Bam Bam

Two doors slammed shut down along the old two-track road, and the two men looked at each other in silence. They both eased over and looked down the ridge toward the road. They could see Harold Smith and Bo Thompson talking by the truck.

“Junior, you got better ears than I have. Can ya make out what they sayin?”

“They know it’s our truck, but they speculatin’ that we must be hunting for roots.”

The two revenuers looked around the truck. Luckily, nothing was there that could lead them to think someone was making moonshine. All that was in there was an old empty cornmeal sack and a shovel, tools someone would use if they were trying to find ginseng.

As the two revenuers left, both of the men looked at each other.

“You know this means trouble Buttermilk,” Junior said

“It sure does. We gotta to do something to get ’em off our trail,” said Buttermilk.

After a bit of silence as they pondered, Buttermilk said, “I have an idea. I reckon we could set up a decoy still out of some old left over material. At least enough to make it look like someone is trying to get one started. You know Ol’ Harold and Bo like to get their names in the paper.”

“Yes-sir. We could give them enough hints that it gets them a start—leaving some crumbs along the way to keep them going, but make it take a while to find the decoy site,” Junior said.

“I sure do hate wast’n time making a decoy still when we need to be making money here, Junior, but got to do what we got to do I reckon.”

After giving Harold and his partner Bo plenty of time to get out of the area, the two friends headed toward the old Dodge.

“You know, I figure we should maybe start to walk’n in here, leave the truck behind. You can tell we ain’t experts at this,” Junior said.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Where do ya think we need to lead ’em on their goose chase?”

“I say we build it down at the base of the lower falls on the creek,” Buttermilk said.

“That sounds ’bout right,” Junior said. “They both are lazy. If’n they find the still they will not want to walk all the way up to whar ours is. We could even tell ’em we saw it when we were in here hunting ‘seng. That would help explain the truck being here.”

“We have some copper tubing, and all the old tin we got from the old barn that fell in the storm this spring in that bad wind we had.”

“We can take some old jars, and sacks along with a little corn. Maybe even leave a little shine in the still,” Junior said.

“We will need to make sure to hide all sign of us goin’ in at the real still site really good.”

“You know we can even send in a tip ’bout a still running, off over in Gilmer County. Between lead’n em to the fake still, and the tip in Gilmer County, that outta keep em busy for long enough for us to make enough money to last a while, and give Mr. Bates his share.”

“We still have a problem Buttermilk.”

“What is it Junior?”

“Well, how are we going to deal old Barefoot Arthur Woody? You know if he hears nar a word about someone after a deer in these parts, he will be all over these hills.”

“Well, maybe he might hear about someone after those deer at his place. I reckon we know ’nough folks that like to gossip… we could get a rumor going that someone is going to try and get em some nice tender deer meat from those deer he has brought in from out of state.”

“Boy would that set him into a frenzy. He will not leave those mountains he calls home for nothin then.”

The two men set off back for the house to set their plans into motion.

October 2020

“Who in the world is shooting this time of the night? Dang it! That’s two more shots!” Mr. Taylor exclaimed at 2 in the morning. “That has to be someone spotlighting one of my fields!”

“Now John, what are you doing?” asked Mrs. Taylor?

“I am about to find out what is going on out there,” John said.

“Don’t do anything foolish, you hear me!” Mrs. Taylor yelled at her husband as he went down the steps.

John stepped out on the front porch, and the motion light automatically cut on. “Stupid motion light…” he muttered at the light. He could hear a loud pickup truck take off just down the road. The truck sounded like it had thrush mufflers. It made a very distinct sound.

John Taylor went back in the house, picking up the phone to call the local DNR Ranger Brad Sosebee. Brad was unfortunately used to phone calls in the middle of the night, especially from the local farmers, due to people spotlighting their fields.

“Hello,” Brad said sleepily into the phone.

“Brad, it is John Taylor,” the voice on the other end said. “I have someone who shot into my fields. When I came out, the porch motion light came on, and the scum took off.”

“Could you make out any details?” Brad asked.

“Nope, but I can tell you the truck had some unique mufflers on it, and you could see that it had lights up on the roll bar. How about you meet me here at the house first thing in the morning. I am certain the deer will be in the field?” Mr. Taylor said.

“OK, I will meet you at 7,” Brad said.

Seven o’clock on the dot, Brad Sosebee pulled up into the drive in his truck.

“Right on time. That is what I like about you Brad,” Mr. Taylor said. “Now let’s see if we can find the deer.”

Both of the men rode in Brad’s truck between the creek and the soybeans. The deer had already hammered the corn up the feeder creek, and now they were feeding heavily on the soybeans. Luckily for John he would be harvesting his soybeans soon, and the deer might not eat them all. With the limited browse in the mountains due to the lack of logging, the deer have been feeding heavily in the farmer’s fields for a number of years.

“There it is,” said Mr. Taylor. “I can see the white belly up there in the bend of the creek.”

“Yeah, I see it now, too,” Brad replied.

As the two pulled up to the deer, it became obvious it was a young 4-pointer.

“I cannot believe it!” Mr. Taylor said as his face grew red. “I try to manage this farm and the habitat to have mature deer, and some no account dirt bag goes and shoots a young buck.”

“Mr. Taylor, how many shots did you hear,” Brad asked?

“At least four. Why?”

“Well I hate to tell you, but over there is another buck. It looks like another young buck,” Brad said.

“Don’t tell me it is that young basket rack 8-pointer. He had so much potential. I feel for certain he is the off spring of that big buck I have seen in the corn I told you about,” said Mr. Taylor.

“Can you help me get the deer into the truck? I will take them in to see if we can recover any evidence,” Brad said.

“Yeah,” Mr. Taylor said. “Let me get the tractor. My days of lifting deer into the back of trucks is over. That is what the bucket is for.”

A few minutes later Mr. Taylor pulled up in his tractor.

“Now Brad, if the meat is still good, I want it to go to a needy family, not in some dumpster.”

Mr. Taylor made sure Brad knew his wishes.

“Yes-sir. I am not sure if it will be good, but if it is I know of several families who will be very grateful.”

“Do you have any idea who in the world it could be Brad?” Mr. Taylor asked.

“Based on what you reported, and the age class of the deer that was shot, yes-sir I have a pretty good idea. This was done by someone not interested in the meat. You know there had to be several does in the field. It was just to kill bucks.”

“Brad, you have permission to do whatever you need to do to catch this person,” Mr. Taylor said emphatically.

“I will park my truck behind your barn and sit up in the woods overlooking the field for a few nights. If I have to, we will bring in the robo-deer.”

Ranger Sosebee drove off, and Mr. Taylor just stood there shaking his head, thinking to himself… Why did someone have such little respect for the animals to hunt them at night and leave them there to waste?

Mr. Taylor took out his phone.

“Chris, this is Mr. Taylor. I want to let you now that Ranger Sosebee will be patrolling my place. I had someone shoot two young bucks in my field last night.”

“OK, Mr. Taylor. Is there anything that Todd and I can do?”

“Just keep y’all’s ears open in case you hear anything, and let me know if you do. That is why I let y’all run your dogs on my place. I know you boys respect the animals and respect my wishes,” Mr. Taylor said.

Something like that coming from Mr. Taylor meant the world to Chris, and he knew it would to Todd also. Both have been taught to always respect the animals and the landowner’s wishes. Their reputation has gotten them access to land that others cannot hunt.

•  •  •

Little did anyone know, but earlier that night the large buck was actually in the soybeans. As the truck slowed, the buck threw his head up in alert. As soon as the spotlight hit the field, he was already heading back into the timber along the creek for cover.

As the cool waters of the trout stream hit his hooves, the shots rang out. The buck climbed quickly out of the creek, moving into the cover of the standing corn that was left because there was not enough corn left by the animals to pay for the fuel to harvest it.

Greasy Harris had no idea what had been in the field that night, at the size of the remarkable buck he just missed seeing.

While it was still dark, the buck left the standing corn and moved up the creek toward the waterfall, heading toward his bedding area near the old moonshine still.

Little did the boys and Mr. Taylor realize how lucky they were that night—the buck almost met its demise.

•  •  •

The boys now knew they had a problem. They realized for certain now that Greasy Harris, the most noted poacher in the area, had overheard them that day at Bates General Store.

It was now late October, and the monthly Night Hunt for the Fightingtown Creek Coon Hunters Association was on for Oct. 26. Everyone had gathered at Bates General Store to draw for their cast that night. Everyone was swapping stories in the parking lot as Greasy stumbled up the sidewalk.

“Hey, look at the boys and their little doggies. What is a matter, can’t you kill a raccoon without a dog helping you?” Greasy yelled at the group. Even from 30 feet away you could smell the liquor on his breath.

“Hay, I am talking to y’all. I know you hear me, can’t ya!”

The Master of Hounds started to go over the rules for the hunt, and everyone ignored Greasy.

“Rules? What you need rules for. I will kill what I want, when I want and as much as I want. I don’t care about no rules someone makes that tries to tell me what to do,” Greasy shouted out. “Hey, are you two the boys who hunt on Old Man Taylor’s? Yeah you are. I am on to you two,” Greasy said.

Just then the Master of Hounds confronted Greasy.

“I know who you are, and we all know your reputation for having no respect for the landowners—or the animals.”

While this was going on, one of the members called Sheriff John Cochran.

“You cannot call yourself a hunter. You sir are nothing but a violator. I guarantee you couldn’t legally hunt anything…” He dressed Greasy down in front of the group.

Greasy now had his honor questioned by someone he didn’t even know. Greasy stepped up to the stranger, and hit him with a hard left hook. Just as the Master of Hounds was about to swing back in kind, a sheriff’s deputy pulled, and within a minute Greasy was in cuffs.

Chris and Todd looked on as Greasy left in the back of the deputy’s car, knowing they would have a few weeks without having to worry about Greasy. They might finally be able to get in the woods to hunt the old buck…

•  •  •

Chris and Todd had used the HuntStand app on their phones to look at topo maps of the gap. With a weather app they studied the wind patterns.

Now, it was time to hunt.

They drove up on the road on the ridge above the farm, parking at the gate that closed off the old logging road that led to the gap. The hunters got their lock-on stands and climbing sticks. One hunter would hunt the gap in case the buck went the other direction from the farm, and the other hunter would hunt overlooking the area near the old still site. The first cold front had moved in with the first weekend of November, and it finally felt like deer season.

When they neared the gap, Chris said, “I want to hunt the gap if it’s OK with you.”

“Why?” asked Todd, kind of puzzled.

“Man my knees are killing me this week.”

“Oh, you are a wimp,” Todd laughed.

“They wouldn’t hurt so much if I did not have to block and chase your wild pitches all those years. Plus you only had to pitch every three or four days. I was behind the plate every single day,” Chris said with a little edge in his voice.

“Chill out man. I’m just giving you a hard time. You know I couldn’t do what you do,” Todd said with a grin on his face.

“I know man, but people just give me a hard time, and they have no clue what I went through each season.”

Todd helped Chris set up in the gap. He then went down below the upper waterfall, where they had found all of the old buck sign and the old still. Todd stayed up on the side of the mountain to be able to look into the laurel thicket without being silhouetted by any deer below that might show up below him. And his thoughts were not of just any deer… this plan was all about the big buck.

As the sun started to set, Chris saw something out of the corner of his eye.

Movement.

He slowly turned his head to the left. He saw what was moving.

Chris silently picked up his bow off the holder, drawing it back in one motion. Once the pin settled on his target, he hit the release. An arrow was sent toward the gap.

 

Read Part 4 of Traditions