Mercy Kill

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Spring had sprung into full splendor on the western high plains of the Gunderson Ranch.

New baby calves frolicked in the lush pastures under the watchful eyes of mama cows. A cavalcade of colorful flowers bloomed from the fields to the forest. Delicate pale pink heads of primrose, stalwart stems of golden yarrow, the emerald green bushes of sumac grew alongside the caramel-colored stalks of autumn’s dried grasses. Birdsong and insect chatter abounded on the ground and in the sky. Spring was a fleeting season at best, and I appreciated the metamorphosis after a long winter.

Sunshine burned the chill from the early-morning air. As much as I benefited from solitary communion with nature, I wasn’t out picking posies. I was out picking my first target.

Old habits died hard; hunting was in my blood. Plus, I had nothing better to do until my shift started at Clementine’s. And the thought of another night dealing with drunks and bar fights always put me in a killing mood.

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