No time for killing

Where I come from, the best killing season is summer ’cause the ground is soft; makes for easy digging…though times are the heat can be damn ornery. And you can’t keep a new kill around too long if you don’t want to deal with stink and rot.

Spring is good; blood seeps into the ground right quick with all the rain washing sins away…’course, trudging through the mud leaves tracks you don’t want nobody seeing.

Autumn has a double whammy, in a good way: Falling leaves provide cover for new graves and if that don’t work, soon-to-be hibernating wildlife devour details, leaving behind an unidentifiable pile of bones. Lots of trekkers are out in the fall, come to see the leaves changing colors and take pictures. Me ’n cameras don’t get on too well, if you know what I mean. But, trekkers, especially the lonesome ones…well, maybe I was wrong. Fall might be the best season.

But, winter? Winter is a time to rest, eat, and sleep. To think and to plan. To get better acquainted with next season’s target. Targets.

Ol’ Granddaddy told me this story and I ain’t ever forgot it. “Boy, if’n – or when, I ‘spect – you find yourself in a killing mood, winter is not when it needs doing. You might think the deserted, snowy mountain is your friend, but you’d be wrong. Not everybody knows this, but ‘roun here, we have us a murderous snow where blood bounces off and clings to death. I seen it with my own eyes back in ‘53. We was fixin’ to teach a lesson to some boy had no business stopping in our town. Mind you, I was just watchin’ as I was too young yet to have my own knife. Didn’t get my first till I was six. Just like you.

Anyways, boy’s there on the snow, naked, hogtied and cryin’ for his mama when my daddy’s friend, my Uncle Bo, says I’ll give you something to cry for, boy. Uncle Bo takes out his hunting knife and slices the boy’s side like they did Jesus on the cross. But when the blood poured out, it didn’t seep into the snow like blood should. Naw, call me a liar if that blood didn’t bounce off the snow and splash in ‘ol Uncle Bo’s face. He started to scream and all the men who was about to join in the killin’ backed away. The snow blood was stabbing, ripping and tearing at Uncle Bo’s skin. And when it spilled onto his clothes, they turned to ash leaving his skin covered in snow blood. In the end, don’t know if it was the stabbing, the burning or the drowning what killed him. Drowing, you say? Yep, he was gurgling and clutching at his throat, a bleeding mess before he finally fell down dead. Snow white as it was when it fell from the sky. Some kind of deadly miracle. Boy was dead, too. Bled to death, I ’spect. Or froze. My daddy picked me up and ran so I don’t rightly know.

So, son, listen when I tell you, winter is no time for killin’.