Highwall

He stared into the embers of the dying fire, it had burnt out through the night but there had been enough heat left to brew a pot of coffee though what he had made would not be what someone would call “Gourmet” just bitter water if he was being all that honest but it was enough to wake him up. The cold November air helped as well being as the breeze flowing through the reds and yellows of the trees flowed down and right into his camp and his face and just for a moment as the sun was cresting the horizon the whole valley he was in was lit up like is was ablaze.


“Beautiful”


He spoke to no one as he turned and zipped up the tent he had set up in his little camp, it was deer season and he had been itching to take out his new High Wall rifle for the season. He had always wanted one of John Browning’s single shot rifles for god knows how long after he had seen his grandfather’s as a young boy but unfortunately when he had passed on the rifle had been buried with the old man, it had been in his will and while he knew his grandfather had a love of firearms he never thought the man would have one buried with him.

His High Wall wasn’t as old as his grandfather’s, as a matter of fact it was one of Uberti’s reproductions, it’s receiver was case colored with rich shades of gray, browns and blues that came with case coloring, the butt plate has been blued while the barrel was thick and in the hexagonal fashion it was also blued.

The only downside was that the damn thing weighed in at ten pounds though he was complaining as the weight helped mitigate some of the recoil of the 45-70 cartridge the weapon fired. He made his way to the hill leading up to his hunting spot, he always hated climbing this hill as it wasn’t just a straight slope going up but rather a twisting turning mess of trees and bushes while the only path actually made in the hill was covered in frost and made for a slipping hazard he sighed as he started the walk up.
The weight of the rifle pulled him back a little as he traversed the small hill to his hunting ground, he bent forward and got low on his hands along with the front of his boots digging in to get a better grip on the hill side as he climbed up.


“I keep telling the landowner to make an alternate path up this damn thing but no.”


“I ain’t got the money.” He says yet he paid the landowner five hundred dollars a year to hunt on his land.


During his lonely tangent he had made it to the top of the hill, a small wonder his fat ass ever got up this hill at all any time he came out here.

He stood to his full height and pulled his clothing tighter to his body as the wind picked up at this height and cut through most layers especially at this time of year but he was almost there so he wasn’t about to start complaining now.


It was only a ten minute walk from the summit of the hill and thankfully the landowner had made a path up here, the ground up here was flatter than back near the bottom of the hill and in the main part of the valley he had camped in the night before and it also had less trees though that was no wonder as several small crop fields had been plowed up here by previous owners over the years.

His destination was a large tree that looked into one of the more heavily wooded areas of the hill.


The tree he was making his way to was a rather large and old tree, it’s roots had been exposed through the years it had stood vigil at this tree line where many animals had made their homes through time.

He had found it his first year out here and at first had avoided it in fear of what might have made the large roots it's home but over time he had found that nothing ever went in the roots or came out of them so despite his better judgment and the possibility of walking into an animal den he had began sitting inside the massive tree to await his quarry.

He set the small bag he had carried up with him to the side while setting his High Wall to the side leaned against the tree, the bag he had contained some water bottles and small snack food as he figured he would be up here a while.


As he situated himself out of the wind he grabbed his High Wall by the barrel and pulled it to him, the sling he had was makeshift at least where it was attached to the rifle.


It was tied around the barrel and around the stock. Now he didn’t try and make his own swivel mounts or any of that bullshit like some of the dumb fucks he had seen in the gun shop he frequented did.


Drilling and tapping old surplus weapons that were priceless relics. But that was another story for another time.


He took one of the 405. Grain 45-70 rounds out of his coat pockets, he had about five of them and he doubted he would need any more than one...unless he missed.


He pulled down the lever of the High Wall, dropping the falling block and opening the breach or the rifle and sliding the 45-70 round into the breach before bringing the lever and the falling block up putting the rifle at half cock in the process.


He set the rifle in his lap and started to wait. He looked into the trees, there was no sound in these woods other than the occasional breeze blowing leaves and twigs around.


It was nice if he had to say so himself a little cold but if he couldn’t handle the cold he wouldn’t be out here in the first place. So he sat, one hour, two hours, three hours or more.

Five....damn….hours and not a hide or fucking cunt hair of a deer, he had sat here until almost one in the afternoon. All his food was gone and he was near to packing up and going back to camp empty handed then packing up and heading home.


As he was packing up he heard something….a dull thudding, he almost felt it more then heard it, he crouched down with his rifle in hand to wait just a bit more.


Out of the woods a goddamn flood of deer, doe, bucks and fawns like a stream flowed past him all the whitetails a hunter could imagine in front of him running past without even noticing him.


He raised his rifle and tried to find a target but their were so many he couldn’t get a bead on any one deer for a humane kill.

He crouched down with the butt of his rifle against the ground just waiting like a dog about to get a bone.

He looked down and realized even if he would of got a bead he hadn’t brought the hammer of the 1885 to full cock.


He brought his rifle back up this time cocking the hammer to full cock so he didn’t make a fool of himself by missing the chance at a deer because he forgot to cock his High Wall.


The flood of deer had slowed to a trickle now but none of them were stopping for him to take a shot, he started to try and slow his heartbeat so he wouldn’t miss any potential shot he got a chance to take.


Then suddenly standing broadside on to him was a monstrous buck, he didn’t have time to do a real count but he had to swear it was at least sixteen points. He brought up his rifle and quickly gained a bead on the deer’s chest and squeezed the trigger.

He was one with the weapon as he felt the tension cut when he depressed the trigger.


The weight of the hammer falling onto the firing pin.


The pin striking the primer of the 45-70 cartridge.


He could feel the primer ignite and start the powder burn.


Feel the bullet leave it’s case in all it’s explosive fury.


Felt as the lead bullet engaged the rifling starting it’s deadly spin to the target.


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“You know child, the best part of hunting is the moment before the kill.” He spoke long ago in the hunter’s childhood.


He looked at his grandfather quizzically. “What do you mean grandpa?” He had asked in his young ignorance.


“You’ll understand one day child, one day.” His grandfather spoke as he looked to his own High Wall.
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He had learned as he aged.


Learned what his grandfather had meant that day.
With each hunt it had become ever more evident.


The feeling of life and death.


The feeling a perfect kill.


The feeling of the hunt.