along the fence line

by Michael Hagen

The air was still. Good for the hunt. The sun hadn’t reached the field yet when he crossed the barbed wire fence, the Winchester slung over his shoulder. This was his favorite time of day, when the world hadn’t woken yet. The cattle were up in the night pasture. Each step after the fence was taken slower than it used to be, his knee stiff until it warmed.

It was the last morning of the season. Today, or wait until next year. The spot was the same one, up on the hill to the west of the pasture, overlooking the valley on both sides. Deer had moved through those trails for years, slipping into the open field to graze near the creek or climbing for the fallen acorns.

The years of fast were behind him. Everything now came measured, and it suited him. The land was leased out. Leaving the place was never considered.

By the time the ridge was reached, light spread across the valley, red and low to the east. The cattle were bunched in the pasture, some lying down, others grazing along the fence. The grass had held through the fall. Rain had come steadily, and there had only been one light snowfall.

The oaks were thicker now along the ridge. Saplings had been cleared once, but they always came back. The trail was the same. The deer still came through. He sat on a fallen oak and rested his legs. When his breathing settled, the magazine was loaded and a round chambered. It had been a few years since firing from this spot. The rifle settled into him comfortably.

Below him, the field lay flat where deer crossed most often, darker along the water. The tree line and the trails where they usually came out stayed fixed in front of him, the places that had stayed the same year after year. A crow flew through the oaks behind him and then was gone. In the pasture, the cattle shifted. Nothing else showed itself. He stayed where he was, letting the minutes pass, eyes fixed, waiting.

The buck came up from the valley floor, its rack wide. Distance was judged twice. Too far. With no wind and the rifle he knew, two hundred was still workable, but not comfortable.

When it turned broadside, the rifle came up slow. Aim settled just behind the front shoulder, and he took the shot.

The deer flinched and ran, cutting into the pines along the creek.

The bolt was worked and a fresh round chambered. He held still then, listening. When nothing came back out, the spent casing was picked up and slipped into his pocket. He sat a moment longer, then stood and started down.

The descent was steep. Each step was tested before weight committed. Mud clung to his boots, loose and heavy, and once he stopped to catch his breath. There was blood where the shot struck.

A good pool of mud marked where the deer had cut through. Tracks led into the pines, long brown grass bent away.

He stepped over the lower fence and kept on. His hand stayed on the wire a moment.

Three good taps drove the post into the soft spring ground, the dull ring of steel settling each time. Four yards were paced out and the next set, struck hard at first, then knocked down with the post driver.

She drove up next to him in the truck.

“I made some sandwiches.”

“Thanks.”

“Want to take lunch now?”

“Sounds good.”

The tailgate dropped. The bed was full of posts and wire, but there was room enough at the gate to sit. It was warm for late April; the metal was hot. A blanket from the seat covered the leather, and he helped her hop up.

Sandwiches were unpacked. Sourdough she’d made from the starter kept in the pantry, sliced venison sausage from last year, smoked cheddar. Two apples. Two Old Styles.

“Can you open mine?” she asked.

The bottle was knocked against the side of the truck and the cap popped off. Then his. She smiled at him.

“I can never get mine. I cracked the glass last time.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I guess I don’t have as much practice as you.”

They ate together. The creek could be heard drifting past at the bottom of the hill in the trees.

“How long do you think it will take to lay all this fence?”

“A few more days, if we keep going like this.”

“Think we should ask Fred to help? He said he would.”

“We can do it.”

She sat quietly, chewing.

“What about tomorrow? What time should we leave?”

“Seven thirty.”

“Do you think that’s too early?”

“No.”

“I just don’t want you to have to sit and wait for a long time. I know you don’t like waiting.”

“I don’t mind.” A long drink of beer followed.

“I don’t know how long they’ll keep me. Do you think it’ll be long?”

“A couple of hours.”

“You’ll be there when I’m done?”

“Yes.”

“What about the fence? It needs to get done.”

“It can wait.”

She nodded. “I won’t be the same,” she said. She kept looking past him toward the fence line and tugged her sleeve down over her wrist. “I can feel it already.”

“You will be the same to me.”

“Will you still love me, the same?”

“Yes.”

“But it will be different.”

“No,” he said. “It’ll still be us.” The beer was finished.

One apple was grabbed and wiped on the lower edge of his button-up shirt.

“Why do you do that? I washed it before I packed it.”

“Habit, I guess.”

He took a bite, watching her.

“Can we just share? I don’t want a whole one.”

A bite was given.

“They are better in the fall.”

“These are sweet.”

“I hope we still make it up there in the fall.”

“We will.”

“Would you still go without me?”

“No.”

“I need to do some,” she said.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“I do.”

The post driver was picked up and she walked toward the next marker.

He let go of the wire and went on.

Along the creek, growth was thick. Bent limbs showed where it had passed, hoof prints fresh in the wet soil, kicked away as it ran. Moisture built under his jacket as he pushed through the underbrush. He crouched low to make it past the pines.

The creek was crossed slow.

Antlers showed first in the grass just beyond the water. The deer lay on its side, facing away. He tested it once from a distance. No movement. He approached slow, watching for breath.

The shot had been true. Thick-bodied and heavy, the deer was field-dressed there. A rope went around the antlers, and he leaned into the work of pulling it free.

He pulled it up out of the creek bottom, angling along the slope toward the fence line. He stopped to rest, then again, letting the rope slack before taking it up.

Through the trees, the fence came into view, wire dulled and settled, posts leaning in places.

He worked the deer under the lowest strand and kept to his side.

Cattle were already along it, hair caught in the strands. Heads lifted as he passed, then dropped back to grazing.

The deer was dragged along the line until the gate was reached. Beyond it, a newer truck waited near the road. The gate was unlatched and pulled open, then closed behind him, the latch set by feel.

He stood a moment, breathing. Then the rope was taken up again, and he kept moving. There was no one left to tell him to stop.

Photo of Michael Hagen

BIO: Michael Hagen is a writer based in Missouri. His work blends literary fiction and horror, exploring memory, place, and the quiet forces that shape ordinary lives. He is currently at work on a novel.