Chapter 8, The Mountain Goat
500 Words
Quentin looked through the scope, keeping his arms steady despite how bad they burned.
Through the glass of the optic was a gorgeous mountain goat, quietly standing in the breeze.
The wind rustled its fur and the blades of grass around it, its solid black eyes pondering as it stood still.
Part of Quentin wished he had a camera instead of a firearm, but after the purchasing of licenses and travel fare, it would be silly not to take the shot now.
Despite his admiration for the beauty of the animal, Quentin disengaged the safety, and felt the crisp, cold steel of the trigger on his finger.
Training the reticle behind its broad shoulder, he held his breath, and started to squeeze.
Something wasn’t right. He eased off the scope and looked with the naked eye, careful not to move too much despite his sore, aching limbs.
Far away the goat remained still, and Quentin watched for a moment before returning to his looking glass.
Through the magnification he ran the reticle over one of its horns, taking in the details until he saw what had stood out.
There was something hanging off one of the horns. A tag?
He backed off again, resting his sweaty forehead against the stock as his thoughts raced. Surely it wasn’t part of some kind of reserve, was it? It didn’t make sense.
He bought the tags from the DNR office specifically. He was allowed to hunt on this land. He was sure there was nothing to worry about. Even with his assurance, the thought persisted.
He looked again.
It swayed gently in the wind, almost blending in with the dark exterior of the horn it was attached to.
Quentin was transfixed on it, despite his body’s demand for a stretch. But there was something about that tag. It wasn’t right, he just couldn’t put a finger on it.
He stared for what felt like minutes, before it dawned on him. It wasn’t a tag; it was a charm. But of what, he wasn’t certain.
Quentin backed off the scope again and wiped the sweat from his eyes.
The wind blew harder in the valley, tossing the grass around him and chilling his neck.
He swallowed and settled back on the scope, his cheek pressing against the stock again.
The sight picture showed nothing but the grass in the wind.
The goat was gone.
Quentin panned slightly, feeling foolish for missing such a perfect opportunity.
He hoped to catch it trotting away, and he shifted his elbows to adjust directions. Quentin’s elbow struck something solid, and goosebumps crawled over him like a wave.
Hesitantly, he looked to see a hoof, its dark outer wall splitting and seeping under the bright white fur.
His eyes trailed up, and the shadow of squirming, separating flesh cast over him.
Without even a scream, the gun fell to its side.
The sounds of struggle were brief. When the wet ripping subsided, the grass danced peacefully in the wind.
- Writer
