The old man sat silent as a ghost in the brush as he watched the buck drift into the meadow. It was just past the gray light of dawn, and the old man and the boy had been sitting quiet since an hour before the sun had begun to lighten the eastern sky. The boy had been afraid to utter a sound, fearing that if he foiled the hunt, his grandfather would never allow him to go again. The boy had been looking forward to this for months, so the price of silence was a cheap thing compared to accompanying his grandfather.
The buck in the clearing took one more step, and in slow motion, the old man lifted the Rifle. It was an old lever action Winchester in .32 Winchester special. The blue was worn off the receiver and most of the barrel. leaving the gun a dull silvery finish. With it up to his shoulder, the old man pulled back very slowly on the hammer, taking it from half cock to full cock. Only the faintest of clicks of the well oiled action betrayed any movement. The boy held his breath as his grandfather took careful aim. The buck took yet another step and hesitated to sample the clover that grew in the meadow. The sudden deep throated blast of the rifle made the boy almost jump out of his skin.
The Buck stumbled sideways and almost went down from the bullet impact just in back of the shoulder. The boy thought it was going to get away, but with a flick of his wrist, the old man levered another round in the chamber and shot again while the deer was still staggering from the first shot. The second shot went where the first one hit before the echo of the first shot died, just in back of the shoulder. The old man had spent over forty years with that rifle, and he knew it well. The buck was down, and the old man and his grandson waited for a few moments to watch. The buck didn't move, and the the old man stood up slowly, stretching his arthritic joints.
"Grandpa, how'd you get that second shot off so fast" the boy asked.
"Well, I guess a lifetime of shooting has slicked up the action a bit. That rifle and me have been over the mountain a few times, so I'm right familiar with it." the old man replied.
They had walked up to the deer, and now the old man leaned the gun against a tree, and took out his knife. The boy had seen the knife many times, as like the rifle, it was the only one the old man had. A small sheath knife with a slim blade just a bit over 3 inches, and a stacked leather handle. The old man kept it sharp as a surgeons scalpel. The leather on both the knife handle and sheath was darkened with age to a rich nut brown, and a gray patina covered the blade. As the boy watched the old man work, he admired the economical way the old man moved. No wasted motion, no sawing away, but smooth cuts like strokes of a brush on canvas. The old man was as much an artist with that old leather handle knife as with the rifle. In short order, the old man had the buck field dressed, and he wiped of the blade of the knife on a tuft of grass. He examined the edge of his knife carefully, and nodding with satisfaction, he slid it carefully back in it's sheath.
"Now boy, go and get my gizmo, and I'll show ya how we're gonna get this old boy out of here real easy." the old man said to his grandson.
The boy ran back to the place where they had stashed the bundle of poles the old man had carried from the truck. The boy came back with the bundle of aluminum tubing that was held together with some rope. There were two long tubes and some shorter ones, all with holes drilled in them with some long bolts and wing nuts.
"What is it, grandpa?" the boy asked.
"Well pup, I ain't as young as used to be, so I made up this gizmo to help me with this. You just watch and see what this all becomes. "
And as the boy watched, the tubes were very quickly bolted together to make a travois with two small wheels from a shopping cart on one end. The old man lined up the predrilled holes and put a bolt through them and secured it all with the wing nuts. With the boys help, he rolled the deer onto the travois and lashed it down with the rope that had held the bundle of tubing tougher.
"Like I said, pup, I ain't as young as I used to be, so grab one side of the travois and we'll git this load of venison out of here."
The old man and boy got the deer back to the cabin and the old man hung the deer up in the shed. Later, the boy watched carefully as the old man cleaned his gear. Patches were run down the bore of the old Winchester, and a slightly oily cloth was used to wipe down the outside of the old gun. Then the old man turned his attention to the knife. He slowly stroked the old blade on a stone, carefully feeling the blade now and then. Satisfied with the edge, he then stropped it carefully on the back of an old leather belt. Then he shaved some hairs off the back of his hand. All the time, watched by the boy who never took his eyes off what his grandfather was doing.
"Grandpa, how come you always use the same old rifle and knife? Would't it be good to have something new?" the boy asked, wondering if maybe he should buy his grandfather a new knife for Christmas. "I mean, wouldn't new rifle be better?"
The old man chuckled to himself.
"Well pup, a new rifle wouldn't kill that deer any better. There's newer, snazzier rifles on the market, but that old Winchester has been dropping game for me since your daddy was a tiny baby. This old knife has been cleaning game since before your daddy was born. I guess theres newer knives out there, with new materials, but they won't gut a buck any better, and it won't feel the same in my hand. That old knife is like shaking hands with an old friend. It has a friendly feel to it. Here, see what I mean." said the old man as he handed the knife to the boy.
The boy took the offered knife and closed his hand around the dark time stained leather. It felt warm in his hand, and as his hand settled around it, it seemed to me made for him. The aluminum birds beak pommel nestled against his little finger, making the knife feel secure in his grip. He felt the razor edge the old man had honed on the blade, and how it grabbed at the ridges of his thumbprint.
"I see what you mean, grandpa, but why do you only have just the one rifle and knife? Wouldn't it be nice to have more guns to choose from?"
"Well pup, how many rifles can I use at one time?" the old man asked with a smile, "And besides, I have a thing about stuff that works. I'm not the most patient man in the world, and I don't have time for things that don't work. I like time proven things. Like that old Winchester, and that old Case hunting knife. Both of them use a design that has been proven by time for a hundred years. I know they are going to work. They've been used by generations of hunters, and that's some pretty good bonafides. That's good enough for me."
The boy looked down at the slim bladed old Case hunter in his hand, and saw what his grandfather was talking about. The slim blade felt capable of doing what needed to be done, and the leather washer handle felt secure in his hand. It felt like a light agile cutting tool. He handed it back to the old man.
"If that's good enough for you, grandpa, then it's good enough for me too!"
The buck in the clearing took one more step, and in slow motion, the old man lifted the Rifle. It was an old lever action Winchester in .32 Winchester special. The blue was worn off the receiver and most of the barrel. leaving the gun a dull silvery finish. With it up to his shoulder, the old man pulled back very slowly on the hammer, taking it from half cock to full cock. Only the faintest of clicks of the well oiled action betrayed any movement. The boy held his breath as his grandfather took careful aim. The buck took yet another step and hesitated to sample the clover that grew in the meadow. The sudden deep throated blast of the rifle made the boy almost jump out of his skin.
The Buck stumbled sideways and almost went down from the bullet impact just in back of the shoulder. The boy thought it was going to get away, but with a flick of his wrist, the old man levered another round in the chamber and shot again while the deer was still staggering from the first shot. The second shot went where the first one hit before the echo of the first shot died, just in back of the shoulder. The old man had spent over forty years with that rifle, and he knew it well. The buck was down, and the old man and his grandson waited for a few moments to watch. The buck didn't move, and the the old man stood up slowly, stretching his arthritic joints.
"Grandpa, how'd you get that second shot off so fast" the boy asked.
"Well, I guess a lifetime of shooting has slicked up the action a bit. That rifle and me have been over the mountain a few times, so I'm right familiar with it." the old man replied.
They had walked up to the deer, and now the old man leaned the gun against a tree, and took out his knife. The boy had seen the knife many times, as like the rifle, it was the only one the old man had. A small sheath knife with a slim blade just a bit over 3 inches, and a stacked leather handle. The old man kept it sharp as a surgeons scalpel. The leather on both the knife handle and sheath was darkened with age to a rich nut brown, and a gray patina covered the blade. As the boy watched the old man work, he admired the economical way the old man moved. No wasted motion, no sawing away, but smooth cuts like strokes of a brush on canvas. The old man was as much an artist with that old leather handle knife as with the rifle. In short order, the old man had the buck field dressed, and he wiped of the blade of the knife on a tuft of grass. He examined the edge of his knife carefully, and nodding with satisfaction, he slid it carefully back in it's sheath.
"Now boy, go and get my gizmo, and I'll show ya how we're gonna get this old boy out of here real easy." the old man said to his grandson.
The boy ran back to the place where they had stashed the bundle of poles the old man had carried from the truck. The boy came back with the bundle of aluminum tubing that was held together with some rope. There were two long tubes and some shorter ones, all with holes drilled in them with some long bolts and wing nuts.
"What is it, grandpa?" the boy asked.
"Well pup, I ain't as young as used to be, so I made up this gizmo to help me with this. You just watch and see what this all becomes. "
And as the boy watched, the tubes were very quickly bolted together to make a travois with two small wheels from a shopping cart on one end. The old man lined up the predrilled holes and put a bolt through them and secured it all with the wing nuts. With the boys help, he rolled the deer onto the travois and lashed it down with the rope that had held the bundle of tubing tougher.
"Like I said, pup, I ain't as young as I used to be, so grab one side of the travois and we'll git this load of venison out of here."
The old man and boy got the deer back to the cabin and the old man hung the deer up in the shed. Later, the boy watched carefully as the old man cleaned his gear. Patches were run down the bore of the old Winchester, and a slightly oily cloth was used to wipe down the outside of the old gun. Then the old man turned his attention to the knife. He slowly stroked the old blade on a stone, carefully feeling the blade now and then. Satisfied with the edge, he then stropped it carefully on the back of an old leather belt. Then he shaved some hairs off the back of his hand. All the time, watched by the boy who never took his eyes off what his grandfather was doing.
"Grandpa, how come you always use the same old rifle and knife? Would't it be good to have something new?" the boy asked, wondering if maybe he should buy his grandfather a new knife for Christmas. "I mean, wouldn't new rifle be better?"
The old man chuckled to himself.
"Well pup, a new rifle wouldn't kill that deer any better. There's newer, snazzier rifles on the market, but that old Winchester has been dropping game for me since your daddy was a tiny baby. This old knife has been cleaning game since before your daddy was born. I guess theres newer knives out there, with new materials, but they won't gut a buck any better, and it won't feel the same in my hand. That old knife is like shaking hands with an old friend. It has a friendly feel to it. Here, see what I mean." said the old man as he handed the knife to the boy.
The boy took the offered knife and closed his hand around the dark time stained leather. It felt warm in his hand, and as his hand settled around it, it seemed to me made for him. The aluminum birds beak pommel nestled against his little finger, making the knife feel secure in his grip. He felt the razor edge the old man had honed on the blade, and how it grabbed at the ridges of his thumbprint.
"I see what you mean, grandpa, but why do you only have just the one rifle and knife? Wouldn't it be nice to have more guns to choose from?"
"Well pup, how many rifles can I use at one time?" the old man asked with a smile, "And besides, I have a thing about stuff that works. I'm not the most patient man in the world, and I don't have time for things that don't work. I like time proven things. Like that old Winchester, and that old Case hunting knife. Both of them use a design that has been proven by time for a hundred years. I know they are going to work. They've been used by generations of hunters, and that's some pretty good bonafides. That's good enough for me."
The boy looked down at the slim bladed old Case hunter in his hand, and saw what his grandfather was talking about. The slim blade felt capable of doing what needed to be done, and the leather washer handle felt secure in his hand. It felt like a light agile cutting tool. He handed it back to the old man.
"If that's good enough for you, grandpa, then it's good enough for me too!"
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