Bull Mountain(3)

“The money is more than we will ever see in a lifetime,” Rye said.

“And there it is.”

“Damn it, Cooper, listen to me for a minute. Stop being so damn self-righteous and just listen.”

Cooper spit.

“It will give our children, and our children’s children, something to build on: a future. You don’t seriously think we’re going to survive for the next fifty years runnin’ corn whiskey into the Carolinas?”

“We’ve done okay so far.”

“You’re not seeing the big picture, Coop. We should be doing better than okay. We should be working smarter, not harder. The stills ain’t bringing in what they used to. Drinking ain’t illegal no more. We can’t survive off the back-door bars and pool halls. The money’s drying up. I know you know this. It’s not the same business it used to be. The rest of the world is getting smarter, and we’re staying the same. The odds are against us. This deal with Puckett is going to be triple what we’d make in ten years of runnin’ shine. It’s a chance for our children to—”

“Hold up a second. You keep saying ‘children’ as if you got a dog in this race. The last time I checked, that boy right there was the only child on this mountain named Burroughs. You’re telling me you want to have a bunch of machines come in here and rape his mountain so he’ll have a better future?”

“Somebody has to look out for him.”

Cooper stopped walking.

“Deddy,” Gareth said, and tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Deddy, look.”

Cooper looked down to where his son was pointing, then bent over to pick up a small clump of black mud. He held it to his nose, and then held it to his son’s nose.

“Smell that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s fresh. We’re getting close. Be ready.”

They kept walking. After a few minutes, the conversation resumed, but with hushed voices.

“The money will strengthen the family, Coop. We can take the money and invest in legitimate businesses. We can stop living up here like outlaws. You have to see the logic in this. We can’t live like this forever.”

“I’ve got other plans.”

“What other plans? To plant that ragweed over by the north face?”

If Cooper was surprised that his brother was aware of his intentions, he didn’t show it. He just shrugged.

“Yeah,” Rye said, “I know all about it. I know everything that happens on this mountain. I have to. I also know that ridiculous idea will have us moving in reverse. Bringing that kind of business up here will only bring more guns, more law, and more strangers—worse than any banker. Is that what you want? Is that what you want for him?” Rye motioned to Gareth. “Besides that, what’s the difference between you clearing a few hundred acres to farm that shit or Puckett clearing it—legally?”

“Wake up, Rye. Do you honestly believe they’ll stop there? Do you really think we’ll ever be rid of them once they get their hooks in this place?”

“Yes, I do. That’s what they agreed to.”

For a moment all the anger and tension fell from Cooper’s face. He looked at his brother and then at his son. “It’s what they agreed to do?” he said calmly.

“That’s right,” Rye said.

“So that means you met with them already. You done hashed out terms.”

“Of course I did.”

5.

They walked, quiet, for the next quarter mile. They stayed on the overgrown trail, stopping every so often for Cooper to show his son proof of the animal they were tracking: broken twigs, hoofprints in the mud, more crumbled deer shit. They were almost to the mouth of Bear Creek before Cooper said another word to Rye. He spoke in a whisper.

“You already made the deal, didn’t you?”

Rye felt more relieved than ashamed. It was finally out there. “Yes,” he said, “it’s done. They’re sending one of their people down with the papers today. I know you don’t see it now, but someday you’ll thank me for it. I promise you. You’ll see.”

Cooper stopped walking again.

“Come on, now, little brother, how long do we—”

“Shhhh,” Cooper said, and held a finger to his lips. He was looking past his brother at what Gareth had already spotted. Less than twenty yards to their right stood a massive eight-point buck drinking from the rushing water of Bear Creek. The sound of the small rapids covered up the men’s approach. Cooper silently motioned for his brother to move upstream while he set Gareth up for the shot behind a deadfall of rotten pine. Rye obliged. He crept through the woods, keeping his eye on the buck. Cooper dropped down next to his son, who already had his rifle trained on the deer. Cooper put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and reminded him to breathe.

“Relax, son. Put the crosshairs on the thick muscle under his neck. Where the fur turns white. Do you see where I mean?”

“Yessir. I see it.”

The buck looked up from the creek as if it heard them talking, and looked toward their position. Rye was about thirty feet to the left of Cooper and Gareth’s perch. No one took another breath until the deer dropped its head back to the water.

“When you’re ready, boy. Take the shot.” Cooper held his own rifle across the fallen pine, shoulder to shoulder with his son. Gareth was still and ready. As the boy’s finger squeezed the trigger, just like his father showed him, Cooper swung his own rifle to the left. Two shots echoed through the forest. Two shots that sounded like one. The big buck staggered backward from the impact, then bounded forward in an attempt to defy its fate. Its back legs quivered under its weight, and finally the animal fell.