Hunting Dead Mans Hill

Hedge Johnson's boots crunched and slipped noisily through the snow covered stubble field. There was not an animal within five miles that had not heard him coming. But yet, he clutched the trusty 12 gauge shotgun to his chest ready in hopes that some wayward covey of quail, deaf pheasant or brain damaged chucker would suddenly spring up in front of his sights in willing submission to Hedge's hunting prowess.

Over on the next hillock, Hedge could see his hunting partner, Bert Ryman. Bert seemed to move in a stealthy way that Hedge had tried year after year to emulate. Even dressed in his bright orange coveralls and cap, Bert had the uncanny ability to fade into his surroundings in a way that surprised even the late, great hunter, Bart Farnsworth, from over in Dog Hollow.

"Now Bart Farnsworth, there was a hunter," thought Hedge with a kind of respectful reverence that only a seasoned sportsman could manage. Hedge had heard wild tales of Bart's exploits. It was even said Bart once tripped over a log while deer hunting up around Rim Rock Canyon. When he hit the ground, his trusty Winchester discharged and not only nailed a 10-point buck right square between the eyes, but also picked off two jackrabbits and a barn owl in the bargain.

The only thing even slightly similar that ever happened to Hedge was the morning he slipped on the ice getting into Bert's pickup truck to go goose hunting. When his gun discharged, Bert was shot in the right buttock with a load of double O Buckshot. "I suppose that's why Bert always hunts on the next hill far away from me. And why he limps a little from time to time," mused Hedge.

As he came to the end of the stubble field, Hedge turned towards Bert and trudged toward the waiting truck. As yet Hedge had not fired a single round. He had heard a number of shots coming from Bert's direction and was glad to see two lovely pheasants hanging from Bert's belt. "Damn good thing we didn't get skunked," yelled Hedge.

"Yep. Sure is," answered Bert.

"Ya know. I heard the pheasants are thicker'n fleas on a hound dog over at Parker's cornfield, Bert."

"Yeah. I heard that too," said Bert rubbing his chin in thoughtful interest. "Good long way over there though. Halfway across the county from here."

"Yep. Take us maybe an hour to get over there," remarked Hedge checking his watch.

"Sure be a shame to leave those fine eating birds out there for some old road-hunting, city folks," mused Bert.

"Now that would be a blame waste. Maybe even a crime against humanity," Hedge thought out loud.

The two men jumped in Bert's pickup and pulled out on the icy county road heading west. Bert gunned the big block engine knowing that their quarry could be massacred by city folk at any moment. Worse yet, they could hunt like Hedge and scare the birds into the next state.

The two drove for over an hour and finally started up Dead Man's Hill. Now, this hill was known throughout the county as an evil place. It was said thousands had lost their lives coming down that hill. If the stories were right, an equal number had died going up that hill too. It was said the hill claimed victims even in the middle of summer on dry pavement. Folks around Dunghill County avoided the Hill whenever possible. But this was the only way to the Parker Farm.

At the top of Dead Man's Hill the pickup turned into the Parker farm having survived another trip up that hill. Ned Parker was chopping wood in front of the woodshed with Billy, his oldest son. Some folks here abouts said Billy weren't quite right in the head. But Hedge knew different. Why, many a time, Hedge had carried on deep philosophical conversations with the boy while fishing down along the Trask River. The conversations sometimes lasted for hours, although the boy never really seemed to say anything. But Hedge knew this was just the boy's way of careful thinking and hanging on every pearl of wisdom that rolled off Hedge's tongue. Secretly, Hedge liked fishing with Billy. This kid was the only fisherman in the county worse than he was. Hedge always felt fishingly heroic when he dragged in his stringer with a four-inch catfish and an occasional lamprey. You could not eat either one, of course, but they were trophy fish just the same.

Hedge leaned out the window as the truck stopped in front of the woodshed. "Hey, Ned. How's the hunting in yer back corn field? Seen any city folk out and about?"

"Hiya, Hedge and Bert. Nope. Ain't seen nobody. Billy here was out hunting that field early this morning. Never seen a single bird over there," answered Ned.

"Aw shucks," said Bert. "We heard there was hunerds of um over there."

"Nope. The Vonda kids were over there hunting a couple days ago. You know how they are. Sounded like a damn war. I bet they shot off a thousand rounds that day. They musta killed everything in sight. Still can't find my old dog, Blue. They may a shot and ate him too," Ned said conversationally.

Hedge looked at Bert. Both shook their heads. "Well, I guess it's time to quit for the day anyway," Hedge said sadly.

Waving good bye to Ned, Bert backed the truck around and headed back out onto the icy county road. Before them loomed Dead Man's Hill. Bert stopped the truck in the middle of the road. "We could take the long way around, Hedge."

"That's forty miles out of our way. It'll be dark before we get back. Just go on ahead. We done the Hill lots of times, Bert."

Bert pondered their possible fates before shifting the truck into Drive. The pickup crept forward slowly. Even at this speed the truck seemed to side slip on the ice.

"Give her a little gas, Bert. It'll make it easier to handle," advised Hedge. Bert pressed down on the accelerator with a pressure of one quarter of an gram. The pickup shot forward. Bert stomped on the break. The pickup did not slow down at all, but began to fishtail wildly. Bert cranked the steering wheel like a man possessed. First, he cranked the wheel right, then left, then right again.

Calmly, Hedge looked out through the windshield. For some reason the truck seemed to be moving sideways. "Hey, did you see that new Harvester Combine, Al Worthington has sitt'n next to his barn? Just caught a glimpse of it as we went by. And why are you driving sideways, Bert?" Hedge looked at Bert. What he saw was a man possessed. His lips were pulled back in a manic grin. Sweat poured off his face and dripped onto his orange coveralls. His hands gripped the steering wheel with such force his knuckles were white. And still he swung the steering wheel right and left frantically.

Hedge looked back out the windshield again. It did seem rather odd. He found himself looking back up the Hill as the summit seemed to recede rapidly away from them. "Bert, you crazy guy," Hedge laughed. "Taking The Hill in reverse. Now that's takes guts, let me tell ya. That's what I like about you, man."

Suddenly the pickup seemed to shudder for a moment then the rear end raised up in the air for a moment with a great thump followed a split second later by the front end bouncing over something too.

"Hey, that thing lying in the road looks just like that heifer calf old Tom Samuels bought at the farm sale last week. Wonder what it's doing laying around out here?" There was no answer from Bert.

As the pickup came to the bottom of the hill, they flew past Dunghill County Sheriff's Deputy Dalton Howell who was sitting in his patrol car drinking coffee from a tall Stanley thermos. The pickup must have been doing 85 or 90 miles per hour in reverse at that point. Hedge waved as they passed.

Deputy Dalton stared at the pickup truck pointing north while heading south at something like twice the legal speed limit for about ten seconds. During that ten seconds his mind did cartwheels trying to figure out what in the world Bert and Hedge were doing shooting down Dead Man's Hill in the ice, why Hedge was grinning like an idiot and waving and how Bert ever got his pickup turned around to shoot the Hill backwards.

It was about that time the pickup hit a thin spot on the ice and swung sideways again, taking out the sign at the side of the road for "Milt's Home Cooked Diner" over in the town of Lovett. "Milt's going to be mighty irritated about this," the Deputy thought as he started the patrol car's engine to give chase. There wasn't really any hurry to catch Bert and Hedge. If nothing else he would see them tonight at the weekly meeting of the Cotton Mouth Lodge Hunting and Fishing Society, but he did feel a certain sense of urgency, as now the pickup seemed to be spinning around in circles as it sped out of control down the road. So, Deputy Dalton followed at a leisurely fifty miles per hour as he watched the pickup take out a road marker, a Berma Shave advertisement (no big loss there) and swerve several times at the last minute to miss the ditch on both sides of the road.

But then it occurred to Deputy Dalton that this could not go on forever. Just about a quarter mile ahead the road took a sharp right turn to miss Cleb Eaton's barn before it turned a sharp left and headed south again toward Fox Hollow. "It sure would be nice if they got that rig stopped by the time the reached the Eaton place," thought Deputy Dalton.

Inside the pickup Hedge saw the sign for the sharp right turn. Just behind the sign stood Cleb Eaton's barn. Now that barn had been built by Cleb's grandfather way back in 1905, long before the county built a paved road out here. How the barn ended up in the middle of the right of way, is a question long pondered by the citizens of Dunghill County. But there it was rushing towards them at something in excess of thirty five miles per hour. Hedge looked over at Bert. The steering wheel was locked all the way to the right. Bert was standing on the breaks with both feet as the pickup slid, unfettered, over the icy road. "We're gonna hit," screamed Hedge just as the county sharp turn sign flew over the cab of the pickup.

The truck continued on towards Cleb Eaton's barn. Chickens scattered in all directions to get out of the way. Deputy Dalton had turned on his red and blue flashing lights along with his siren. He turned on the lights and siren more because he liked them and never got to use it often enough in his opinion than any other reason.

But the truck was moving much slower now that it was off the pavement. In fact, when the front end of the pickup touched the massive front door of the barn the vehicle stopped completely for about six seconds. That was when Deputy Dalton forgot, in the wild moment of chase, to slow down and rammed the rear of the pickup, sending it through the front door and crashing into a pile of hay stored inside.

Old Cleb Eaton came sauntering out of the farmhouse muttering to himself. "Yep. Yep. Happens every year. Some damn fool has to try shooting the Hill and ends up in my barn."

Deputy Dalton Howell climbed out of his patrol car to survey his dented fender while Bert and Hedge climbed out the windows of the pickup amid hay, straw, broken barn boards and a chicken or two who had just come around to investigate the noise.

Deputy Dalton pulled his thick citation book from his hip pocket and began writing while he recited the numerous traffic infractions. "Let me see. Looks like speeding 85 in a 35 zone, destruction of private property, failure to control your vehicle, reckless endangerment and the murder of Tom Samuel's heifer calf... "that should do until we get you to court. I'm sure the Judge can come up with more violations."

Hedge shuffled his feet. "Um did you hear, Dalton? The pheasants are thick as fleas on a hound dog over on Eli Harmon's back forty."

"Really? When did you hear this?" asked Deputy Dalton rubbing his chin with interest.

"Guy told me down at the Hubba Hubba Café last night. I hear they were slaying birds right and left over there."

Deputy Dalton looked down at his citation book then tore off the page he'd been writing on, wadded it up and threw it away. "Hell. What we standing around her for? Let's go."

All four (Bert, Hedge, Deputy Dalton and Old Cleb Eaton) hopped in the pickup and took off towards the Harmon place. Each had thoughts of a vast spread of trophy pheasants laid out in front of them. But then, isn't that the way it always is?