Some Luck

He was crossing the stream. There was green bush in front and behind of him, he felt like he had seen this area before but couldn’t place it. The water passed by his boots and wet his trousers. Three days, and no luck. He would return home empty handed. Maybe she has left; maybe she won’t be there when I get home.

That’s what she said when he left: “I won’t be here when you come back.” She had said that.

Each year the bush was emptier. The narrow hiking track back to camp was narrower than when he last came, he had to crush some shrubbery on his way through. Each year the bush was thinner.

He remembered when they had visited the Gordon Dam. She walked the length of it three times, back and forth. He didn’t move; the dam was far too large and empty; everything echoed.

“Let’s go home,” she had said when she got back from her third walk. He waited a little longer then went to the car.

He wasn’t too far from camp when he heard them. Three men, all yelling, then boasting. One voice was raspy, probably an old man. Another voice was higher pitched, a boy. The third voice was nasally and loud, maybe a middle-aged man. He turned the last corner of the track and saw all them and they saw him. They were as he had expected. They had established their own camp near his. They were drinking and playing cards and even the kid was smoking. They kept talking.

“I did and I didn’t, to answer your question,” Middle-aged said. “Me and the kid were at the head of the ridge, the kid had a hangover goddamn him. He’s green about the gills. He drank water the whole time, his and mine.”

The kid fidgeted with his cigarette but couldn’t find a way to hold it.

“We figured the hunters below would drive a deer our way,” Middle continued. “So, we waited behind a log when we heard shooting down below.”

He was pretty sure he’d heard the shooting too; it might have been him doing the shooting.

“That’s where those orchards are,” said Old.

“That’s right,” replied Middle. The voice didn’t fit the man; his son would use the word wimpy to describe it. “The bastards go in there at night and eat the apples. Well we’re just waiting here sitting on our hands when a big old buck comes wandering straight out of the underbrush.” He moved his hands a lot when he spoke. “Well the kid sees him same time I do and starts blasting. The buck wasn’t in any danger, not from him. He just looks up, just all stunned like because he doesn’t know which way to jump.”

At this Kid laughed then shook his head.

“So, I aim and get just one shot off. I ram it straight into his guts, then he drops his head and bounces off into the brush.”

“To find a place to die.” Kid said, “Dad said they do it to find a place to die.” He was talking to Old.

Old checked his hand and ignored him. “You tracked it?” It wasn’t really a question. The way they spoke of it with such ease, they had to be from Hamilton or Bothwell.

“We did. Though he wasn’t much help, got sick on the hunt.” Middle laughed. “Drinking all night and thinking he can hunt all day.”

Kid laughed as well.

“But sure, we trailed him, a good one too. Blood all on the ground and on the leaves, never seen so much blood from a buck. He just kept going.” Middle shook his head.

“They always find a hard place to die.” Old lit a cigarette and took a drag, then put it out.

“So, we track him a while longer then give up, with him vomiting and it getting dark and all. The kid complained so I cuffed him right there. He needed it.” At that the kid frowned and folded his hand.

“The devils will have him now. And the crows and the magpies.” Old picked up the whiskey bottle then put it down. He looked over the crowd and back at where he had staked his tent then back at the whiskey and shook his head. It didn’t seem to matter which way to him.

“Yeah, they’ll get him. Shame, he was a big bastard. Would have liked to have his head over the man cave. So there, I did and I didn’t get my buck.” It didn’t matter none. He could see that the old man had got himself a little spike. It was hanging near where they sat, gutted slick as a whistle.

“Mind if I play a hand?” All three looked at him, Middle shrugged. The kid looked to the two other men for a lead. Old laid his hand face down,

“Take over my hand.” The old man stood and stretched his skeletal frame before retreating into the bush. The man sat and lit a cigarette. Images of cigarette packets and cancer victims came to mind, he dismissed them and took a long drag. His father had smoked for sixty years, it was a stroke that got him.

Middle looked him up and down with a smirk. “Any luck?”

He checked his hand. A queen and king of hearts. The flop showed a ten of hearts and five of spades. “No luck.” He replied, but middle could already see that. The kid looked at his hand and tried to keep a poker face. He raised, a poor bluff.

“We’ve had some luck, got a big buck just up the ridge.” The third flop card was a Jack of hearts. “I mean big bastard too, old and tough.” Middle held his mouth open and looked at the sky like he was remembering. The kid imitated how the man was holding his cigarette. He raised, the other two checked.

“No you didn’t. It’s still lying out there.” The man wished the bush was emptier. A look of puzzlement passed over middle’s features. Kid put the fourth card on the flop, a king of spades.

“You can’t talk to me like that.” He threw his hand down and hardened his stare at the man.

“You ought to be out there looking for that deer. Not here playing cards.” He knew this didn’t make him better than them.

“I should bloody clip you ‘round the ears for that.” Middle dropped his cards and ground his teeth. The kid was really struggling with his cigarette.

The man folded his hand without seeing the last card of the flop. “I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you. But you should be bloody ashamed mate.” He packed the rest of his belongings into his car and drove. When he was on the Midlands highway he thought, maybe I’ll have better luck next year.