Chris Offutt - Kentucky Straight - Stories

“If you’re hunting fresh liver,” Jim said, “save me the heart.”

Wayne gagged and turned away.

Clabe’s arm was tied to his chest and he’d woke up. Jim helped him sit, then looked at Wayne. “Skin that bear and we’ll use its hide to keep Clabe warm. He takes a fever, he’s done.”

“You,” Wayne said.

Jim shrugged and squatted over the bear, knife drawn. He skinned fast, ripping the hide in three or four places. He didn’t worry with the legs, but ripped out a big patch from neck to rump, and covered it with leaves to soak the blood. A caterwauling echoed up the rock and into the woods. It was a wailing moan, like a person hurt bad. As one scream died, another began. Night was coming fast.

“Dog me blind,” Jim said. “Panthers.”

Those boys were in a fix and the panther screams rang like a dinner bell. Evening star hung bright as metal. It was the old of the moon and there wasn’t much light to see by. Good time to plant crop, but not walk panther cliffs at night. In an hour it’d be full dark. Jim loaded his flintlock. He had enough powder for one long shot or a couple of short ones. Clabe breathed hard, wrapped in bear hide. His muzzle-loader lay beside him.

Jim started dragging the bear and Wayne helped him push it off the cliff into the gray dusk. Then they tossed the two dead dogs. The panther noise quieted. Wayne and Jim got Clabe on his feet and they went down the west side of the cliff. There wasn’t no easy to it. That side was steeper but it put the hill between them and the panthers. Jim led. He moved crossways along the slope, using scrub pines to hold his weight. They were on a skinny ledge above a cliff, the worst part of the hillside. After that, the land sloped out gentle. The last of the sun lit the rock.

Shale crumbled beneath Clabe’s foot, and the arm tied to his body ruined his balance. Wayne grabbed for him and a tuft of bear fur came away in his hand. Clabe fell halfway down the cliff, his gun clattering. He grabbed hold of a scraggly bush on a narrow outcrop. The bear hide flapped and a panther stepped from the woods, tail longer than its body. Clabe looked up.

“Lost my gun,” he yelled.

“You’re all right,” Jim called.

Wayne spoke quietly. “I’ll climb down to him.”

“Panther’ll beat you,” Jim said.

“Kill it then.”

Jim squatted awkwardly and propped the flintlock over a knee. He sighted on the panther. Its belly was pressed down, the head sunk low, and the end of its tail twitched. Wind blew the bear hide and the panther froze. Jim aimed at the flat top of its head. He fired and that panther thrashed backwards and didn’t move.

“What are you shooting at?” Clabe yelled.

“Hush up,” Jim said. “Talking’ll sap you.”

Jim braced the gun across his legs and fished out a scrap of wad and another lead ball. He tamped it in the barrel with a ramrod. Wayne stretched one leg down the cliff.

“Don’t try it,” Jim said. “You’ll fall, too. Only way to get him is from below. You’d have to climb up to him, and lower him down with a grapevine. Then both of us pack him on home.”

“I’ll do it,” Wayne said.

“Take too long.”

“I got time.”

“He don’t,” Jim said. “Yonder comes the mate.”

Another panther walked from the tree line, thin shoulders bunched around a stretched neck. It moved to the base of the cliff, watching the bear hide. Three half-grown cubs followed it close. Right there was a good time for a praying man to pray, and a man today would have set to it. Those boys then knew God better. He’d made panther same as he made us. People now want animals to have the same rights as a man, but back then it was the other way around.

“They ain’t had no meat all winter,” Jim said. “About like you and me.”

“Shoot it,” Wayne said. “Shoot them all.”

“I only got one shot worth of powder left.”

Wayne stared at his brother hunched against the rock, holding tight to the shrub. Clabe couldn’t see the panthers, didn’t know the one was coming along the slope. The bush shook and dust sifted down.

“Clabe,” yelled Wayne. “What’re you doing?”

“This bush has got the sweetest gooseberries I ever did taste. I’ll save you some.”

“Eat all you want.”

“Wayne,” said Jim. “It’ll be too dark to see in a minute.”

“Let him finish.”

Jim used the last of his powder to load the gun. It wasn’t up to him. He’d done what he came for and Wayne had helped him. Now he’d stick by Wayne. After a few minutes, the shrub stopped shaking. Fifty feet away, the panther climbed to higher ground and stopped, watching Clabe.

“Wayne,” said Jim. “It’s on you to say. I’m just married in, but he’s your brother. You got to tell me.”

The big cat was still climbing. When it got above Clabe, it would wait till dark and jump. The cubs were near behind. Their winter-thick hides were leaking hair, snagged by rock and brush.

“He sure did love to fish,” Wayne said. “Finest brother I ever had.”

Jim wiped sweat from his hands and bent his face over the rear sight. “Best not look,” he said.

“I got to.”

“Don’t.”

Wayne shut his eyes and turned his face to the cool rock. He squeezed the piece of bear hide tight. A breeze moved along the cliff and when it stopped blowing, the gunshot came. The sound bounced against the rock and echoed down the holler, then returned, and faded away. Wayne looked down. The big panther was in a crouch, staring up the cliff where sparks had flashed from the gun barrel. Clabe lay very still. He’d never move again.

“It’s done,” Jim said. “Come on.”

Well, they made it off that rock without more fuss. It was full black dark and they were lost, bad lost. Wayne set off leading. Hit a little creek, followed it to a fork, and climbed the hill. He walked that ridge to a holler, went down into it and four hours later they were out. Wayne brought them home and he’d never been in those woods before. He couldn’t say how he done it. People said the baby’s head told him where to go, whispered to him all night long.

The whole creek showed up for the double funeral. They never found enough of Clabe to bother with digging a hole. Rose’s grave was the littlest you ever did see.

That place got to be called Shawnee Rock and people stayed away. Wouldn’t hunt, fish, or log over in there. My grandpaw said there were two spirits to it. Said one was an old bear looking for its hide. Other was a fat man hunting his gun.

About forty years ago I set off walking out Flatgap Ridge. I aimed to go where the bear killed the baby, then sleep on Shawnee’s top. Back then I was plumb bold. Hit the ridge at midday and it was full of roses. I mean roses. You could haul off bushel baskets full and not see no less. Every one of them roses was cocked like a dog’s ear, looking at me. I left out of there and never did go back.

Today’s kindly cool with the sky mason-jar blue, gray at the edges like a lid. Winter’ll close down hard soon. Bear and panther were all killed off in Grandpaw’s day. In mine, we cleared out the bobcat and coyote. My sons were left with snakes to kill. The hills are safe now but folks still leave. At night there’s not so many stars as used to be. Some might say I’m old and getting squirrely but they ain’t nobody living close by to judge myself against. I’m going to bed.

Cody listened to the tape recorder humming in the silence. Night had spread across the land and into the house, and he could see the humped outline of Tar Cutler dead beneath the quilt. Cody ejected the cassette. He glanced again at Tar, expecting him to lean forward and grin at the prank. A mouse scurried along Tar’s stiffened arm.