Beastly Winter — Chapter 6

George Lincoln checked his compass then poked it back into a pouch in his hunter’s jacket He glanced up at the treetops, angled his shotgun down, pushed past an overhanging limb. Winter had been mild and most leaves, colorfully painted by autumn, remained.

Since yesterday George had trailed unusual prints, not able to determine what kind of animal left them. That sparked his curiosity. They led first deeper into the woods but then looped back toward town.

Small pellets of sleet made it past the forest umbrella, bounded off his cap. George reached for another low branch, halted.

Twenty yards away, bushes rustled. He raised his shotgun and waited. When it came to dealing with the unknown in nature, caution was advised.

Rustling became thrashing. George set himself. Whatever it was, it was big and coming his way. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Manny Franklin stepped out of the brush, closely followed by Keith Yancey. Manny spotted George.

“Hey, don’t shoot! The sheriff told us to watch for you.”

George released his breath, lowered the shotgun before replying.

“He did? To find me, or give me stealth lessons?”

More thrashing came from the bushes. What now?