37.
The sheriff had never liked killing pigs. When he was a little sprat, he had been raised in a place with pigs, and he had
vowed to never own pigs himself, because pigs, fattened before they even reached two, screamed like toddlers being murdered
when it came time. They knew, too. Somehow, even before someone had boiled the water and readied the winch, or sharpened the
blades, those smart-ass pigs knew they were going to die.
And they screamed about it. They screamed in rebellion; they screamed in fury and fear.
The farm where he had grown up had a large pen, and the pigs were like little mean old men, always staring at you with those
beady eyes, their tusks having to be sawed down. The pigs had sharp teeth and could give you a very nasty bite. He had hated
the pigs, it went without saying.
All that afternoon, the hunt went on. Sometimes the pigs escaped the circle of men, running with loud squeals through the
forest, and the men sweated, taking more nips from their flasks. They were getting tired and frustrated. The fun was going
out of the hunt: It was work now.
But now the trap was finally closing. The river was ahead, showing through the tight green trees. The water looked like glass
along the edges, and the middle was nothing but deep rapids.
The men stepped out of the woods, triumph on their faces.
They raised their rifles in unison.
With a deep, bellowing grunt of utter fury and despair, an old boar lowered his long, deadly husks and ran directly at the
man most responsible for this travesty: the sheriff.
The sheriff had been expecting such a charge. But he was not expecting such speed. The massive boar came at him, low and impossibly
fast, his muscular legs churning up the forest floor, his tusks long and sharp. For a crazy moment, their eyes met and the
sheriff could swear it was a pig of the past, coming for him.
Yelping in fear, he sprung instinctually to one side, lowering his rifle to take aim—and the boar went thundering past.
The other pigs, seeing a break in the line, went running toward freedom, too. The men, in a fury, fired at them as they ran.
Several pigs fell, including the lead sow. Her body jerked as it was mutilated by the bullets she had feared, and she died
at their feet.
A few pig survivors raced off into the forest. The men were left looking at the ones they had killed. The sheriff, breathing
hard, used the tip of his boot, now wet with blood, to push at the pulsating flesh of the sow.
“This one was the leader, I bet,” he said to the other men, who were holding their rifles and looking upset.
“Naw. I think it was that big old boar. You let him get away, Jim.”
“I know. Would rather live to fight another day than have that asshole skewer me.”
“You should have shot him.”
The sheriff gave the man a dirty look. He was still the sheriff—he could deny the guy a hunting tag or pull him over forty
times in a week if he wanted. The man blanched.
“I guess if it had been me, I might have stepped aside, too.”
“We’ll come back, get the rest.”
Somehow, they all knew that wouldn’t happen. What had occurred that day in the forest seemed to make sense, but it did not.
They would not join the sheriff for another pig hunt. They had a bad feeling about him. Maybe they always had.