Consensus

As the gray of pre-dawn crept through a cabin window, the three Noble brothers snapped ammunition clips into their deer rifles and attached canteens and hunting knives to their belts. They poured whisky into flasks and stashed beef jerky and chocolate bars in coat pockets. When all was in order they stepped into the fresh mountain air and moved along a partially overgrown pathway. Wind rustled leaves in shedding Aspens and fog lingered in low areas.

Clyde, the oldest at fifty, had a red knit cap pulled over his ears and a moth damaged wool coat buttoned to his chin. A backhoe operator, he lived on a rural half acre, collected anything that would rust, and had a wife who was a nickel or two short of having the right change. “Nippy,” he said, hunching his shoulders and stomping his feet.

“She’ll warm up here purty soon,” Will, the youngest, offered. In his mid forties and ruggedly handsome, he was layered in flannel shirts with a plaid cap tipped casually to the side. A part time carpenter with seven children spread across three failed marriages, he lived in a rented trailer, drove a pick-up with a bent frame, and extracted from life what a game of pool, weekend hunting or fishing trips, and endless one night stands had to offer.

“Forecast said snow,” Bert, the middle brother added, buttoning a stylish down vest and adjusting a wool scarf. An insurance agent, he made a good living selling policies to people who didn’t need them. Married to a controlling, ambitious woman, it was all he could do to get away once a year for the deer hunt.

Through the early morning hours they combed the knolls and valleys beneath imposing, treeless mountain peaks.

They’d been coming to this remote, barely accessible region since they were teen-agers. Not expecting to encounter others or even hear the sound of rifle fire, they were startled when they came around a sharp curve on a narrow trail and ran into a lone hunter headed in the opposite direction. The man was of medium height, slightly overweight, and wore a yellow parka and a fur lined cap. His rifle was sheathed in a handsome, hand-crafted leather case. Introducing himself as Bruce Mitchell, he said he’d driven up alone from the coast to try his hand at hunting deer. After briefly chatting, he moved on.

“How’d he get clear the hell up here?” Bert asked.

“Didn’t know no better,” Clyde said.

“I don’t like it,” Will added.

In the afternoon as clouds gathered, they walked along one side of a narrow ravine and Bert spotted a buck in an opening on the opposite hillside. The rack on the deer was perfectly symmetrical with more points than could be easily counted. He could envision the head mounted on the wall of his game room.

Dropping to his knee to steady the rifle, he anxiously fired before he had the shot properly lined up and raised dust behind the deer. The frightened buck bounded along the hill, disappearing into a stand of pines. “Damn,” Bert exclaimed and angrily ejected the spent cartridge.

“We’ll see ’im again,” Will said. “He’s in that stand somewhere.”

Making their way into the ravine, the brothers paused in some thick shrubs near the pines. Dusk settled in and restricted visibility. Hawks soared overhead doing with ease and grace what the brothers were attempting with ponderous effort. Sudden movement near one end of the trees attracted Will’s attention. “There he is,” he yelled and the men shifted position and began firing. The shots crashed through the evening stillness and echoed about the mountain walls.

When movement in the pines ceased, they lowered their rifles. “Must a got ’im,” Clyde said with a satisfied nod.

Jumping over shrubs and scurrying around rocks, they made their way up the narrow rise and into the pines. They searched the area but there was no sign of a dead buck. “I’ll be damned,” Will said, removing his hat and scratching his head. “We couldn’t a missed from that distance.”

They continued shuffling around the base of the trees until Bert stopped short and his face turned white as Aspen bark. “Jesus,” he said and absently took a step back, his rifle dropping to the ground as though he’d forgotten he was carrying it. Clyde and Will moved toward their stricken brother and followed his gaze into a small clearing. Lying motionless against the base of a tree trunk was the twisted body of the man they’d met earlier on the trail. His head was wedged grotesquely against the tree and one leg was draped awkwardly over a rock. The yellow parka was stained around several well defined bullet holes.

Clyde reached up and reverently removed his cap. Bert turned away, looking skyward as though searching for guidance. Will rested his rifle against a tree and approached the prone, apparently lifeless figure. Leaning down, he removed a glove and checked for a pulse. “He’s a goner,” he announced, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

“Knew that when I seen ’im,” Clyde retorted. “Comes up ta do a little huntin’ an’ we blast ’im ta kingdom come.”

“For Christ’s sake, Clyde, it was an accident,” Will snapped.

“You directed our attention ta the movement,” Bert added.

“Yeah, an’ I suppose I pulled the trigger on yer rifle,” Will shot back.

Accusations and recriminations passed back and forth like rapid jabs in a boxing match, focusing at first on the matter at hand but soon expanding into family history and personal lifestyles.

When the allegations and insults were exhausted, silence once again settled over the grim scene. Resentment and chafed feelings hung in the air like a penetrating haze. Will moved away from the dead man and sat on the ground with his back resting against a tree trunk. Clyde stirred dirt with the toe of his boot. Bert moved closer to the clearing and sat on a fallen log. No one was willing to reinitiate conversation. Clyde pulled a flask from his pocket, took a long draw, and offered the others a drink. They refused with gestures instead of words, reconsidered, and each took a healthy swig. “What’re we gonna do?” Bert asked, breaking the silence. “Nothin’,” Will responded as though the answer was self-evident. “Leave ’im here like we never found ’im. Stray bullets got ’im.”

“Naw, that’s no good,” Clyde countered, spitting on the ground and wiping a sleeve along his lips. “We gotta bury the poor bastard; can’t leave ’im fer coyotes and buzzards.”

“Bury ’im!” Will repeated with disbelief. “With what?”

“Believe there’s a shovel back at the cabin,” Clyde said.

“It’ll be dark in a few minutes,” Will responded. “We’ll be lucky to find the cabin and sure as hell couldn’t make our way back here.”

“Better notify the law,” Bert interjected. “Git a ranger up here.”

“So they can pin a manslaughter charge on us?” Will asked.

Dusk turned to night and a cloud cover blocked moonlight.

Without a word of explanation, Clyde laboriously hefted the dead man on to his shoulders while his brothers watched in confusion. He hobbled away, swerving from side to side under the weight.

“Guess we’re leavin’,” Will said with a gesture of helplessness as he and Bert followed.

Clyde struggled with the dead man and the darkness. He tripped over a tree root and Mitchell flew into a large boulder like a tossed rag doll. Passing too close to a low branching tree, Mitchell’s arm snagged in a crook and he was yanked backward as though jerked with a rope. Crossing a small stream, Clyde slipped and Mitchell landed face down in the mud.

After wandering around for the better part of two hours, the brothers stumbled on to the cabin by what could only be considered luck. Clyde placed the corpse in an enclosed firewood space beneath the porch. The dead man looked like he’d been mauled by a bear or dragged behind a runaway horse.

“It’d be over now if we’d jus’ left ’im,” Will whispered to Bert. “As it is, we got a stiff under the goddamn porch.”

After a dinner of canned beef stew and hard rolls during which there was no discussion and little eye contact, Will moved to a cot and removed his boots. “I’m goin’ huntin’ first thing tomorrow,” he announced and pulled a blanket over his head. Clyde soon turned in as did Bert after he surreptitiously tried to call the ranger station only to find his cell phone didn’t work in the remote mountains.

When Clyde awoke the following morning, he found both his brothers gone. “Guess Bert went huntin’ with Will,” he reasoned aloud. The weather was unusually tranquil and warm with a dense cloud cover, the calm before a snowstorm.

Clyde found a shovel and set out to find a place to bury Mitchell. Locating a spot about a hundred yards from the cabin, he began digging. Fortunately the ground was not yet frozen and the soil was mostly decomposed granite. He thought about how easy it would be if he had his backhoe - five minutes and he’d have the job done. As it was, it took over an hour of steady work. “Yeah, this is the thing ta do,” he assured himself as he walked back to fetch the corpse.

“They’ll write this Mitchell off as missin’ an’ that’ll be that.” When he reached the cabin snow was just beginning to lightly swirl down. Dropping to his knees, he pulled the small door to the firewood area open and reached in to grab the dead man. But Mitchell wasn’t where he’d been placed the night before. Clyde scratched the stubble on his cheek and stood up. When he turned around he came face to face with Will. “Damn it!” Clyde said with alarm. “Like ta scare a guy ta death.”

“Mitchell ain’t in there,” Will announced with a sly grin.

“I seen that,” Clyde said. “Where’s he at?”

“Hauled ’im back ta the woods.”

Clyde slowly drew the back of his hand across his mouth, digesting what he’d just heard. “Where’s Bert at?”

“Ain’t seen ’im all mornin’,” Will answered casually. “Believe I’ll do a little huntin’ now Mitchell’s taken care of. The snow’ll bring the deer down lower.” He strode off into the pines, a new leather rifle case slung over his shoulder.

The snowflakes increased in size and density. Clyde went inside the cabin, put a match to some wood in the fireplace, and poured a shot of whisky. At least the matter was finished now but he couldn’t chase the image of Mitchell’s body being ripped apart by coyotes.

Three hours and several whiskies later he opened the cabin door and gazed in astonishment at a new world of virgin white. Snow was piling up on the ground and lacing trees and bushes. Visibility was limited but he could see a figure with a deer across his shoulders staggering though the snow and underbrush toward the cabin. “Guess Will got one,” he mumbled. But as the figure moved closer it became clear it was Bert instead of Will and he was carrying something other than a deer. Clyde recognized Mitchell’s yellow parka bobbing up and down on his brother’s overburdened shoulders.

Bert hobbled to the porch and arduously shoved the body underneath. Wet, cold, and unable to straighten up, he pushed by Clyde without a word and made his way directly to the fireplace. Gazing into the flames, he began to speak in an oddly detached way. “Thought he’d put somethin’ over, but I slept with one eye open an’ seen ’im sneak out an’ haul Mitchell off. Followed ’im a mile or two and seen ’im leave the stiff propped up against a tree.” Bert paused, pulling off his gloves and warming his hands. “Had a helluva time packin’ the dead weight back in the snow. Got lost an’ jus’ happened ta see smoke from the chimney here.” He strained to pull his body out of the wet clothes. “Believe I threw ma back out,” he complained. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he lay down and with an exhausted moan closed his eyes.

The day’s events and the whisky left Clyde disoriented. He felt he should do something before Will returned or they’d be back in the same place as the night before. The storm was intimidating but he could probably haul the body to the grave. Filling in the dirt would be easy enough. He wasn’t sure what Bert had in mind and didn’t want to ask.

Clyde dragged Mitchell from the enclosure and draped the body over his shoulders. Slipping on the wet snow, he fell flat on his back with Mitchell landing on top of him. A cold, musty face rubbed against his cheek. Pushing the body off, he stood and back-pedaled away. Shivering with abhorrence, he vigorously rubbed his face trying to remove the feeling of death clinging to his skin.

He decided to drag the corpse and avoid a recurrence of what had just happened. Unable to see more than a few feet ahead, he meandered around until he came on the grave suddenly and almost stumbled in himself.

Just as he toppled Mitchell in and was collecting the first shovel full of dirt, he heard the growl of a high-powered truck engine. “Now what?” he asked himself, peering through dense, swirling snow. Like a behemoth from another world, Bert’s Dodge Ram crashed through the shrubs, skidded around trees, and stopped with headlights shining directly on Clyde. Bert stepped from the cab and slammed the door. Stooped over with a hand resting on his back, he hurried toward his brother. “Gimme the shovel,” he said.

“Ain’t done,” Clyde responded.

“Gimme the shovel,” Bert reiterated and held his hand forward. Clyde complied and Bert tossed it into nearby shrubs. “We ain’t buryin’ no one,” he said. “I’m takin’ ’im down the mountain ta the ranger station an’ straighten this mess out.”

“We never agreed on that,” Clyde complained.

“We never agreed on nothin’,” Bert responded and climbed into the grave, moaning at the pain in his back. “Well, give me a hand here,” he said. “Can’t lift this stiff by maself.”

Clyde lowered himself into the hole and together they tugged and grappled until they had Mitchell back on the ground.

They maneuvered the body into the bed of the truck and closed the tailgate.

“They’ll sue us for negligent or some damn thing,” Clyde warned. “Take everythin’ we own.”

“Well, that ain’t much in yer case and nothin’ at all in Will’s,” Bert replied and hoisted himself into the cab. Twirling the steering wheel and popping the clutch, he turned around and drove off. Snow flew in all directions as the truck slipped, skidded, fishtailed, and bounced off trees. After about a hundred yards, the growling, churning vehicle bogged down on an incline. The tires whistled and spun but couldn’t gain traction. Above the whine of the engine, Bert heard a sharp crack that resembled the sound of a discharging rifle. A moment later there was another crisp bang and this time there was no question as to what it was. The truck settled on to the front wheel rims. “What in the Sam Hill?” Bert said and twisted in the seat. He could just make out the vague image of his younger brother at the back of the truck. The tailgate was down and Will had hoisted Mitchell on to his shoulders. Looking to the cab, he raised one hand with the middle finger extended and disappeared like a phantom into the snow blown woods.

“Son of a bitch,” Bert yelled, slamming his palms into the steering wheel. Forgetting to turn the engine off, he tumbled from the cab and followed his brother’s tracks through the deepening snow.