On the other side of the field from where the hunters sat huddled in a bush, a ghostly animal wandered out of the dark and began chewing on the willow growing in the meadow.
“Damn, look at that!” Bob whispered and pointed into the dusk.
“We only have about ten minutes of hunting time left,” Frank peered into the dimming light. “Don’t waste it.”
“But the moose is white!” Bob said, “Maybe it’s diseased.”
“It don’t look diseased,” Frank sighted through the scope of his rifle. “Look at the rack on it.
Bob lifted his rifle up to look through the scope. The antlers were immense. He imagined himself in a picture standing beside the beast, probably in an outdoors magazine with hunters all over just screwed up with jealously that he got the shot. He lined his sights up extra careful. The pair had been out every day for a week and this was the first time they’d seen anything other than cows or footprints.
“Don’t take the shot,” came the voice of their guide through their radio. “That’s a sacred moose, a spirit moose.”
“Screw that. I paid five thousand dollars for this trip. I’m going home with a moose.” He pulled the trigger. The .300 Win Mag banged against his shoulder and he thought briefly it was dislocated. The voice over the radio was saying something again, but he couldn’t hear it over his whispered cursing.
Frank had his rifle up and he took his shot. The moose turned its massive head toward them then went back to eating the willow. Frank cycled his rifle and aimed for another shot, but then the moose went down on its knees before falling to the ground.
“Hot Damn,” Frank said, “We got it.”
“You mean you got it.” Bob rubbed his shoulder. “I missed.”
“Hell no. I could see the bullet hole through my scope. I just took a backup shot.” He slapped Bob on the shoulder and laughed when Bob swore. “I told you the .300 Win Mag was too much gun for you.” He stood up and stretched. “Let’s go check it out.”
The hunting partners picked up their gear and checked their rifles, as always, very safety conscious. They prided themselves on being responsible hunters. It was almost full dark now so walking across the field took some time. Their guide caught up to them as they reached the moose.
“I told you not to shoot. This is a spirit moose.” Their guide frowned at them. “A messenger from the Creator.”
“I’m sorry.” Frank shrugged his rifle into a more comfortable position. “We didn’t hear you.”
“Like hell you didn’t hear me,” the Cree guide said, “you just wanted to kill a moose.”
“Damn right I wanted to kill a moose.” Bob pointed at the guide. “I paid five grand for a week’s hunting and a chance to shoot a moose. This is the only one we saw all week. I wasn’t going to pass up a chance to bag an animal. I’m sorry you don’t like it, but tough. You should have found us an animal sooner and your precious sacred moose would be safe.
“Roger, go get the swamp truck,” The fourth man in their group joined them.
“Sure thing, Rivers.” The guide stared at him for a long moment then disappeared into the darkness.
“Well, boys,” the new man said, “you got your moose. I hope you enjoy it.” Something in his voice put Bob’s back up, but the man pulled out a camera out of his pack and got them to pose with their kill.
In the dark all Bob could see was the ghostly shape of the fallen giant, but when Rivers showed them the photographs on the camera screen the flash made the blood stand out stark against the snow-white hide of the moose.
“Look, Rivers.” Bob looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry I killed your people’s spirit moose, but this is the only time I’ll be able to afford this.”
“It’s done. Whatever message it may have had for my people is lost.” He pulled a hunting knife out of his pack. “I’d better dress it.”
“Let me,” Bob stopped Rivers, “My kill, my responsibility.”
***
“Yes,” Rivers stared at the white hunter from the south. What did he know about responsibility? “You’re right.”
He let Bob step up to the carcass. When the hunter knelt beside the white moose, Rivers leaned over and casually sliced open Bob’s throat with his hunting knife. Frank stood in shock, still with his gun in hand. Years of training himself to never point the muzzle at a human being meant he didn’t think about using the rifle in self defense until after Rivers buried his hunting knife in the man’s heart. Frank went down like the moose; first to his knees, then falling to one side.
Roger was pissed off enough he’d take as long as he dared bringing the swamp truck back, so Rivers didn’t feel rushed. Methodically, and with the ease of years of practice field dressing game, Rivers hung the men up in the trees beside the murdered spirit moose. He would like to have skinned them, but he didn’t think he’d have enough time. He contented himself with gutting them out and spreading their ribs to allow the air to cool their corpses.
He heard the swamp truck approaching as he laid the hunters’ hearts beside the moose.
The Spirit Moose had brought its message. River had heard it as the great creature breathed his last. It was time.
The war had started. He vanished into the trees as the lights of the vehicle lit up the meadow.
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