The shot cracked through the stillness of the woods, and birds by the dozens squawked themselves into flight. I stood very still, holding on to one big gulp of air.

From the eye hole, I saw Bo Hatfield hit the soft ground, his body crumpling to his knees, his neck flung back so far he was looking skyward. Looking if he could, of course. The entire right side of Bo’s face exploded and a mass of bone and flesh and hair was left in it’s place. His one good eye seemed to roll loosely around in it’s socket, his tongue lolled out of his mouth. His body folded and lay in a heap on the ground.

“Son? Someone jumped yer shot? Boy? Answer me? Someone done jumped yer shot!”

“No, er…Pa? I don’t know…” The barrel of the gun still lay stone and still in my hand. The shot had come from somewhere else.

Someone else.

Pa was asking me if he was a big buck, or was it a doe?

And damn if I couldn’t tell him it wasn’t either one. My tongue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth. My buddy lay shot, dead, nothing but blood and gristle in the thick carpet of the woods and somewhere very close by, a shooter. I still held the gun tight, my left hand beginning to sweat in it’s grip.

“Pa. That wasn’t no buck.” I couldn’t take my eyes from the scene before me. “Pa, that wasn’t no damn buck, it was…” and at that moment, the shooter stepped into view, into the small circle of sight afforded by the eye hole. His gun was loose in his left hand, the long barrel swinging down and up, and the man’s face turned skyward. I saw his red jacket, lined with brown, rough cotton. I saw his cap, twisted just so in the front so that it looked like his head was cocked to the side. I watched him bend on one knee, lift the hand of Bo Hatfield and then, with a sickening thump swish, drop the arm into the soft bank of dead leaves. I watched all of this and my Pa sat next to me, wondering just who in the Damn Sam Hill just shot his boy’s buck; the very one that would make him a man.

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My gun was still aimed in it’s slot, it’s business end hidden by brush and tangled vines that covered the outside of small shed. I wanted to scream to Pa, to yell and tell him that Bo was shot dead, shot dead and the sumbitch who did it was in my dead aim! But something held fast to my tongue and kept the silence in the shed tight. I knew the shooter would hear us, even a loud whisper could be heard when the wind was just right. And there wasn’t enough distance between the picnic table near Bo’s dead body and the shed for us to escape. The shooter turned, his eyes tracking the area around him, seeming to look for something. He settled his gaze on the shed. For a terrifying moment I thought he met my eye, the one that peered in fright through the eye hole. His gaze shifted and whatever blood I had left in my face drained away. In seconds, the shooter was gone, his red jacket with it’s ugly brown lining, a lingering reminder of the shooter’s identity. He was gone.

All the strength ran from my legs, and in one breath, “Pa! Oh Jesus, oh hell, Pa! That wasn’t no buck, that was Bo Hatfield. Bo! He been shot Pa! The sumbitch shot him dead and I saw…he walked…and now…he left, but….”

Pa wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but at my words, he bounded from his crouched position and flung open the shed door, the slowly setting sun giving off a few last rays to illuminate the doorway. I followed, keeping tight to the shotgun. The shooter was nowhere to be seen, and Pa was in full sprint to Bo’s side. I couldn’t bring myself to near his body; I had seen up close what had happened to my pal. He was dead.

Pa finally turned to me, “Son? Who wassit? Who dun this? Duane! Did ya see who dun shot this boy?”

The question stopped me cold. Of course I saw the shooter. And what was worse, I knew him. We all knew him.

The real question was, was I man enough to tell?