For working watermen it was common for the family to have a small cultivated plot to have some corn and tomato's for sale on a roadside stand. Added income was always welcome. But on warm summer nights it was impossable to stay up all night to keep the deer and other animals out of the crops, hence the local deer slayer came into being. Usually it was a Rankin.
The Rankin clan, headed by one Matt Rankin, lived out at the end of dirt road at the southern end of Lacompte Marsh. It was a remote place, known to be Rankin territory and nobody went there unless they had very specific buisness with the Rankins. Even then, it was not a good course of action, and it was easier to get a hold of Matt Rankin at the Jenkins store where he hung out with the other loafers that made up the liers circle.
For all their semi-outlaw ways, the Rankins did well by themselves. Although with no visable employment, they seemed to have money for living decently by their marsh, and Lacompte marsh was their marsh to hear them tell it. It was not unusual late at night for Matt Rankins old truck to be seen pulling away from the back of upscale eating places that somehow kept venison, duck, and goose on the menue.
One summer in particular, grandmom was having more than usual damage from deer on her sweet white corn and tomato's, so grandad sent me to fetcch Matt Rankin from the front porch to talk buisness. For all his shiftless attitude, Matt Rankin was said to be one of the best deer poachers on the eastern shore. So off I went on my bicycle to tell Matt that there was some buisness to be discussed. He came quickly, sensing money, and gave me a lift back in his old pick-up truck with a bullet hole in the door from a slight accident involving Mr. Jenkins and a German Luger he was not real familiar with.
Mr Rankin and grandad talked at length out at the end of the dock where the Lady Anne was tied up, and at the end a deal was struck. Granddad came over to me and told me I was to accompany Matt on his deer slaying and observe carefully and give him a report in the morning. Meanwhile I was to go and get some sleep, as I was lible to be up all night. Now this seemed like a good adventure to be involved in, so I didn't really mind being let off work cleaning up the deck of the Lady Anne after a mornings crabbing.
Evening came and grandmom awakened me and Matt Rankin was waiting on the front porch, a tall lean figure in dark grey work clothes. He eyed me criticly.
"You sure you can stay still and quiet, boy?" he asked me.
"Yes sir, I won't move a muscle."
"I mean still as mollasis on a cold winter mornin, still as death itself?"
I swallowed. "Yes sir."
He gave grandad a nod and off we went to the far end of grandmoms corn patch. Matt walked around and after examining the spot carefully picked his killing ground. It was in a small thicket of honeysuckle at the far end of the patch. Night was comming on fast and he settled down in a sitting position with his old Stevens scoped .22 rifle across his lap. A long tube of metal was attached to the muzzle of his rifle, and he explained it was a little something he had made to quiet things down a bit. I sat down next to him where he pointed.
"You know why I picked this spot, pup?"
I guess I was going to be educated in the fine art of poaching. "No sir."
He pointed at the house.
"We have the lights of the house and the porch light your grandad is leaving on out there on the far side. They'll silluette anything that comes in from three sides, and the deer will be looking from light into dark. Not good for them, but good for us. When you're out to shoot someone, you want to have the light work for you, put them at a disadvantage. By backlighting them you can see the crosshairs of the scope better."
Someone, I thought? I briefly wondered about the mental state of the man next to me.
From then on it was no talking. The night grew heavy with the sound of crickets, and time seemed to slow to almost a stop. We sat there in the dark thick bushes and waited. It seemed like an eternity went by, then I sensed more than saw Matt stiffen. A large doe had stepped into the clearing of the corn patch. She snifed the air with head held high, and looked about with a wary mannor. Matt had very slowly raised his rifle halfway to his shoulder. The doe stamped her hoof on the ground, and we waited.
Finally she took a step into the clearing of the corn patch, and verrry slowly Matt raised his rifle the rest of the way to his shoulder. Still he waited. And waited. I began to think he was not going to shoot for some reason I could not fathom, then suddenly, as the doe was taking a nibble of the corn, he fired.
There was a dull wump sound, like when grandad shut his big bible, and the doe just buckled. Her leg joints seemed to unhinge as she fell on the spot. Amazed, I started to get up and go see but Matt grabbed my arm in a vice like grip.
"Stay down a minute, boy."
We watched the doe for a full minute, and then Matt uncoiled from his sitting position with a fluid grace, and walked over to the deer. In the faint yellow light from the porch I could see a small bullet hole halfway between her outer corner of the eye and the ear. Matt Rankin had put the .22 round right into her brain. She was dead when she hit the ground.
"Hold this boy." he handed me his rifle. "And don't drop it or I'll skin ya alive."
I held that rifle as carefully as it were the holy grail, and Matt grabbed the deer and heaved it up across his shoulders. The man was lean, but strong. I asked him if we're going to dress it, and he said not here and now. With just a little effort he walked back to the drive way where his old bullet hole truck was parked, and put the deer in the bed. Then it was back on stand.
Again the long wait, and eyelids got heavy. Again the slow raising of the rifle got my attention as another deer slowly stepped into the clearing. Another doe. Matt again waited till he had the shot he wanted. The cool night breeze off the Chesapeake was in our faces, but the deer was slow to come all the way in. A couple times she did the hoof stamp, and we waited. Then the moment came, and again the dull wump of the silenced .22 sounded.
Again the disjointed collapse of the animal as a .22 bullet entered the brain. That night I knew why Matt Rankin was respected the way he was. In the dark night with only the faint yellow porch light on the far side of the garden he put 2 bullets into 2 brains. Again we walked up on the dead deer. This time he set his rifle aside and knelt down by the doe, taking out the little leather handle Ka-bar finn knife that was popular there at that time.
"How come you're gonna dress this one and not the other?" I asked him.
"I didn't want the scent of death around when I wanted to shoot a second one. This is good for a nights work."
"I watched as Matt made a neat, almost surgical cut up the deers belly, and in just a few minutes had the guts out. Watching him work with that little leather handle knife was a study in precision. He set the liver and heart aside. I asked him what he was going to do with them. He looked up at me.
"You mean to tell me ya ain't ever had fresh deer liver fried up with some onions and gravy?"
I told him I never had, and he gave me a funny look, then went back to work. He had the whole thing out and he told me to take hold of the windpipe and drag the guts down the border around the corn patch.
"Give them deer the scent of death, they'll be away for a while, then I'll come back and shoot some more."
I did as I was told and dragged the guts around the garden border, and Matt carried the second deer to his truck. He came back with the first deer and we did the same, then dumped the guts off the end of the Lady Anne's pier. He knelt down and swished the Ka-bar knife around in the water and wiped it off on his pant leg, replacing in the sheath carefully.
"Good for the crabs" was all he said.
I don't know what kind of deal grandad had made with Matt Rankin, but there would be nights where we'd have a venison roast for dinner, or some nights venison steaks, still others grandmom would have a fine venison stew in the kettle. It was all good eating.
But Christmas was the surprise. One evening there was a knock on the door, and when grandmom opened it there was Lizzy Rankin with a package.
I'd cought a glimpse of Lizzy Rankin now and then in passing, but never up close. I'd heard alot about her, and my first up close look at Matt Rankins daughter was something not to forget. Tall like her father, with a long mane of tawny brown hair hanging loose and tousled looking, she was striking enough to increase the heart rate of a teenage old boy. But most of all were her eyes. Vivid green is the only term I can think of to describe those green, almost feline eyes, that didn't seem to blink when she stared at you.
This night she was delivering a gift from her mother to grandmom. Unwrapping the brown paper, grandmom found a deerskin vest. Butter soft light brown leather, with three silver concho and rawhide closures, it was a work of beauty. While they all admired grandmoms new deerskin vest, Lizzy was invited to have some of the warm cider on the sideboard. She kind of slinked across the room and I tried to act the gentleman and poured her a cup of the warm cider. Standing face to face with her, I had the passing thought that if a female couger ever took human form to stalk among people, it would look like Lizzy Rankin.
The rest of the family were on the other side of the room gathered about grandmom, and as I handed Lizzy the cup, she looked down at me and said quietly,
"I've seen you around. You're the city boy from Washington, ain't you?" then under her breath, "You're a cute little pup."
I still don't know what a cardiac arrest feels like, but that night I must have come close. At that time Lizzy Rankin was 20 years old, and already had a reputation as the wild marsh girl. I felt like somebody had tighened a big radiator clamp around my chest and screwed it down tight.
"I'll have to take you back in the marsh and show you some of my favorite fishing spots." she said.
Little did I know then, that for reasons of her own, Lizzy Rankin would in the 14th summer of my life, grab me by the scruff of my neck and yank me across the threshold between boyhood and adulthood.
But that's another story.
The Rankin clan, headed by one Matt Rankin, lived out at the end of dirt road at the southern end of Lacompte Marsh. It was a remote place, known to be Rankin territory and nobody went there unless they had very specific buisness with the Rankins. Even then, it was not a good course of action, and it was easier to get a hold of Matt Rankin at the Jenkins store where he hung out with the other loafers that made up the liers circle.
For all their semi-outlaw ways, the Rankins did well by themselves. Although with no visable employment, they seemed to have money for living decently by their marsh, and Lacompte marsh was their marsh to hear them tell it. It was not unusual late at night for Matt Rankins old truck to be seen pulling away from the back of upscale eating places that somehow kept venison, duck, and goose on the menue.
One summer in particular, grandmom was having more than usual damage from deer on her sweet white corn and tomato's, so grandad sent me to fetcch Matt Rankin from the front porch to talk buisness. For all his shiftless attitude, Matt Rankin was said to be one of the best deer poachers on the eastern shore. So off I went on my bicycle to tell Matt that there was some buisness to be discussed. He came quickly, sensing money, and gave me a lift back in his old pick-up truck with a bullet hole in the door from a slight accident involving Mr. Jenkins and a German Luger he was not real familiar with.
Mr Rankin and grandad talked at length out at the end of the dock where the Lady Anne was tied up, and at the end a deal was struck. Granddad came over to me and told me I was to accompany Matt on his deer slaying and observe carefully and give him a report in the morning. Meanwhile I was to go and get some sleep, as I was lible to be up all night. Now this seemed like a good adventure to be involved in, so I didn't really mind being let off work cleaning up the deck of the Lady Anne after a mornings crabbing.
Evening came and grandmom awakened me and Matt Rankin was waiting on the front porch, a tall lean figure in dark grey work clothes. He eyed me criticly.
"You sure you can stay still and quiet, boy?" he asked me.
"Yes sir, I won't move a muscle."
"I mean still as mollasis on a cold winter mornin, still as death itself?"
I swallowed. "Yes sir."
He gave grandad a nod and off we went to the far end of grandmoms corn patch. Matt walked around and after examining the spot carefully picked his killing ground. It was in a small thicket of honeysuckle at the far end of the patch. Night was comming on fast and he settled down in a sitting position with his old Stevens scoped .22 rifle across his lap. A long tube of metal was attached to the muzzle of his rifle, and he explained it was a little something he had made to quiet things down a bit. I sat down next to him where he pointed.
"You know why I picked this spot, pup?"
I guess I was going to be educated in the fine art of poaching. "No sir."
He pointed at the house.
"We have the lights of the house and the porch light your grandad is leaving on out there on the far side. They'll silluette anything that comes in from three sides, and the deer will be looking from light into dark. Not good for them, but good for us. When you're out to shoot someone, you want to have the light work for you, put them at a disadvantage. By backlighting them you can see the crosshairs of the scope better."
Someone, I thought? I briefly wondered about the mental state of the man next to me.
From then on it was no talking. The night grew heavy with the sound of crickets, and time seemed to slow to almost a stop. We sat there in the dark thick bushes and waited. It seemed like an eternity went by, then I sensed more than saw Matt stiffen. A large doe had stepped into the clearing of the corn patch. She snifed the air with head held high, and looked about with a wary mannor. Matt had very slowly raised his rifle halfway to his shoulder. The doe stamped her hoof on the ground, and we waited.
Finally she took a step into the clearing of the corn patch, and verrry slowly Matt raised his rifle the rest of the way to his shoulder. Still he waited. And waited. I began to think he was not going to shoot for some reason I could not fathom, then suddenly, as the doe was taking a nibble of the corn, he fired.
There was a dull wump sound, like when grandad shut his big bible, and the doe just buckled. Her leg joints seemed to unhinge as she fell on the spot. Amazed, I started to get up and go see but Matt grabbed my arm in a vice like grip.
"Stay down a minute, boy."
We watched the doe for a full minute, and then Matt uncoiled from his sitting position with a fluid grace, and walked over to the deer. In the faint yellow light from the porch I could see a small bullet hole halfway between her outer corner of the eye and the ear. Matt Rankin had put the .22 round right into her brain. She was dead when she hit the ground.
"Hold this boy." he handed me his rifle. "And don't drop it or I'll skin ya alive."
I held that rifle as carefully as it were the holy grail, and Matt grabbed the deer and heaved it up across his shoulders. The man was lean, but strong. I asked him if we're going to dress it, and he said not here and now. With just a little effort he walked back to the drive way where his old bullet hole truck was parked, and put the deer in the bed. Then it was back on stand.
Again the long wait, and eyelids got heavy. Again the slow raising of the rifle got my attention as another deer slowly stepped into the clearing. Another doe. Matt again waited till he had the shot he wanted. The cool night breeze off the Chesapeake was in our faces, but the deer was slow to come all the way in. A couple times she did the hoof stamp, and we waited. Then the moment came, and again the dull wump of the silenced .22 sounded.
Again the disjointed collapse of the animal as a .22 bullet entered the brain. That night I knew why Matt Rankin was respected the way he was. In the dark night with only the faint yellow porch light on the far side of the garden he put 2 bullets into 2 brains. Again we walked up on the dead deer. This time he set his rifle aside and knelt down by the doe, taking out the little leather handle Ka-bar finn knife that was popular there at that time.
"How come you're gonna dress this one and not the other?" I asked him.
"I didn't want the scent of death around when I wanted to shoot a second one. This is good for a nights work."
"I watched as Matt made a neat, almost surgical cut up the deers belly, and in just a few minutes had the guts out. Watching him work with that little leather handle knife was a study in precision. He set the liver and heart aside. I asked him what he was going to do with them. He looked up at me.
"You mean to tell me ya ain't ever had fresh deer liver fried up with some onions and gravy?"
I told him I never had, and he gave me a funny look, then went back to work. He had the whole thing out and he told me to take hold of the windpipe and drag the guts down the border around the corn patch.
"Give them deer the scent of death, they'll be away for a while, then I'll come back and shoot some more."
I did as I was told and dragged the guts around the garden border, and Matt carried the second deer to his truck. He came back with the first deer and we did the same, then dumped the guts off the end of the Lady Anne's pier. He knelt down and swished the Ka-bar knife around in the water and wiped it off on his pant leg, replacing in the sheath carefully.
"Good for the crabs" was all he said.
I don't know what kind of deal grandad had made with Matt Rankin, but there would be nights where we'd have a venison roast for dinner, or some nights venison steaks, still others grandmom would have a fine venison stew in the kettle. It was all good eating.
But Christmas was the surprise. One evening there was a knock on the door, and when grandmom opened it there was Lizzy Rankin with a package.
I'd cought a glimpse of Lizzy Rankin now and then in passing, but never up close. I'd heard alot about her, and my first up close look at Matt Rankins daughter was something not to forget. Tall like her father, with a long mane of tawny brown hair hanging loose and tousled looking, she was striking enough to increase the heart rate of a teenage old boy. But most of all were her eyes. Vivid green is the only term I can think of to describe those green, almost feline eyes, that didn't seem to blink when she stared at you.
This night she was delivering a gift from her mother to grandmom. Unwrapping the brown paper, grandmom found a deerskin vest. Butter soft light brown leather, with three silver concho and rawhide closures, it was a work of beauty. While they all admired grandmoms new deerskin vest, Lizzy was invited to have some of the warm cider on the sideboard. She kind of slinked across the room and I tried to act the gentleman and poured her a cup of the warm cider. Standing face to face with her, I had the passing thought that if a female couger ever took human form to stalk among people, it would look like Lizzy Rankin.
The rest of the family were on the other side of the room gathered about grandmom, and as I handed Lizzy the cup, she looked down at me and said quietly,
"I've seen you around. You're the city boy from Washington, ain't you?" then under her breath, "You're a cute little pup."
I still don't know what a cardiac arrest feels like, but that night I must have come close. At that time Lizzy Rankin was 20 years old, and already had a reputation as the wild marsh girl. I felt like somebody had tighened a big radiator clamp around my chest and screwed it down tight.
"I'll have to take you back in the marsh and show you some of my favorite fishing spots." she said.
Little did I know then, that for reasons of her own, Lizzy Rankin would in the 14th summer of my life, grab me by the scruff of my neck and yank me across the threshold between boyhood and adulthood.
But that's another story.
!!
