There it was. A Northern Bobwhite quail. Beautiful plumage, with his black striped face; beautiful movement, his quick and quiet feet pushing him right to the edge of the wild blackberry bush – a right fine specimen, ‘specially for so early in the morning. Arthur Bishop quietly and slowly crouched down, his knees creaking painfully from the arthritis that had slowly built up over the last ten years. He moved the16-gauge Browning semiautomatic shotgun to his shoulder, held the barrel steady, and took aim. The little bird made his infamous whistle, heading closer to the bush. He strained to see, studying the shadows, taking care to get a perfect shot before the little fowl was lost in the tangled branches and prickly briars.
Boom!
Thump.
Arthur froze. That sounded heavier than a quail. A lot heavier than a quail.
Arthur slowly rose up off his knee using his gun as support, trying to rub away the ache and the pins and needles. He used his gun to steady himself, his heart racing. His hands were shaking horribly. He tried several times before he was able to put the safety on. He’d shot enough today; he was done with that now. He could feel the first quick pump of adrenaline – not that it did any good. Arthur couldn’t run away. Not from that loud thump. Especially not there.
Maybe it was a deer. Maybe that’s what got hit instead of the little bird. No matter it was the wrong season for deer – they were around all the time. He moved slowly closer to the bramble bush, being careful not to step on any broken branches or crunch up the dry leaves. Didn’t matter that there hadn’t been any movement since the gun went off. Animals could be crafty. Especially scared deer. Yes, a deer. Had to be a deer. Nothing else made sense.
Arthur peeked around the brush and briars. At first he didn’t see anything. He moved closer. Ah, there was the bird, quiet and still. He was a little to the right. Good shot though, to get him through the brush. Nice shot indeed. Worth bragging about later to Sherry. Arthur glanced to the left, and what little hair he had left stood stiffly on end.
Oh dear God in heaven, what have I done?
He took off his glasses with shaky hands and wiped the sweat from his brow – the glasses were fogged up. Maybe if he cleaned them, what he saw would be different. Maybe what he thought he saw would change, and he’d be right about that deer. It was just blurry, that’s all. It was really a deer.
He took a deep breath. Glasses in place, he took another look to the left of the quail. And promptly took off in a stiff, awkward, and painful jog.
He, Arthur Bishop (husband, father, grandfather, and a damn hard-working man) had just shot Herbert Finch. Shot Crazy Herbert Finch dead.
“Go tell Sheriff Donald Taylor, Arthur. He’s a nice guy – he’ll know what to do. Besides, it’s only Crazy Herb. And it was only an accident. Donald’s a good man, he is. Always does what’s proper.”
Arthur had arrived at his brother Charlie’s house about ten minutes after Herbert Finch died. He had found Charlie Bishop sitting on his front porch in an old wooden chair, chewing tobacco and directing his youngest son, Will (who was getting close to nineteen now), on how to get the farm dogs to keep the cows together. If anyone could help or knew what to do, it’d be Charlie. Charlie always knew what to do. Knew how to go about things. He had always been so much more knowledgeable about what needed doing and how to get it done. Charlie usually gave the best advice – what he was suggesting now, however…
“Charlie, I can’t go to the sheriff! ‘What’s proper’ isn’t how it happened – I killed a man Charlie! It don’t matter it was an accident! He’d have to lock me away and throw away the key!” Arthur panted out, mopping his brow with his damp rag. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. This couldn’t be right. Oh God, his head hurt and his heart was still hammering in his chest. “I can’t leave Sherry alone – you know her mind’s goin’ and she’s prone to weak spells. She’d be gone in a week if I wasn’t there to take care of her. If she didn’t die of humiliation first – imagine, Arthur Bishop, her husband of forty-five years in jail for murder! And what would little Mary think of her grandpap sittin’ and rottin’ in jail…Lord Almighty…” Arthur moaned.
Charlie chewed thoughtfully on his tobacco before turning his head and loudly spat out the juice – some of it still managed to drip down into his scraggly beard. It needed trimming. But it was getting harder and harder for Charlie to see, what with the cataracts in his right eye. He figured he was nearly half blind somedays. “Keep ‘em outta that brush Will!” he called before he heaved a great, big, heavy sigh and shifted around in his chair.
“Well that’s no good. No good at all.” He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. It looked like rain today – at least, from what he could see. It also seemed like there was only one thing to do – one thing to say that would make Arthur happy. Well, not quite happy, but as close as you could get to it right now. “Sounds like you just wanna bury him Arthur. If that’s so, go run off and do it. I ain’t gonna tell nobody. Won’t nobody miss Crazy Herb anyways – you know as well as I do that no one liked him.”
Arthur stared at Charlie incredulously. It wasn’t really that simple, was it? He knew some of what Charlie said was right – no one would miss the crazy man. Sure, he had his useful moments – the man could fix up a tractor or broken fence before the end of the day. He could clean your gun and nurse your half-dead calf back to health quicker than any man in the county. If you could persuade him to, that is. Man was awful mean unless you gave him food or tobacco or warm beer. He really enjoyed warm beer. Sometimes he asked for strange things, like an old truck part. Or a broken sewing needle. Or some tangled up twine. But he never helped for free. And more than likely he’d curse you and spit at you the whole time he was fixing it. No one knew how old he was, and no one knew where he lived either, if he lived anywhere. No one ever saw him with relatives or children or anything of that nature. No, he’d just showed up one day, crazy and cursing and decided that he’d live somewhere and wanted to live his life cursing the world and God Almighty and occasionally fix something that was broken. No, more than likely Charlie was right – best to bury the dead man. He seemed to hate life more than anyone he knew anyways. Maybe it was for the best. Arthur gave his own deep sigh and plopped down on the squeaky porch stairs, rubbing his aching, throbbing knees.
“I can’t bury him myself Charlie – you know I got arthritis in my joints. Doc told me to take it easy, ‘specially with the humidity. Says it gets worse when it’s wet. And if you’ll look over yonder (if you can see that far of course) towards those mountains – those are plainly rain clouds. Now imagine me, some sixty-three year old man trying to dig a grave all by his lonesome for poor dead Herbert Finch with nothing but a shovel and bad knees –“
“Alright already! Lord, if you worked as hard as you complain. Fine, go out back to the shed – should be three shovels. I’m goin’ to get Will. It’ll take a minute, gotta wrangle up the dogs and the cows…tell you what, when yer done, get Helen to make some tea. Or some lemonade. Doesn’t matter which one, just make sure it’s cold. S’gonna be a hot one, you wait and see. Ain’t no rain gonna wash away this heat.”
Herbert Finch was buried in the ground at four thirty-eight in the afternoon on one of the hottest days in August. The only people who attended his burial were the three men who dug had his grave, a few loudly singing cicadas, and a dead quail that didn’t pay much mind to the whole event. As they dumped the last shovel full of dirt, the three men quietly stood and paid what little respect they had to the dead man below them.
Clearing his throat, Charlie Bishop gave his final words:” No one will really miss ‘em. I mean, he was useful every now and then but he was too strange to mean anything to anybody. Too strange of a man. Won’t do any good now. A right strange man he was, mmhmm.” Arthur nodded his head and gave the ground below one last solid pat. All three men collected their things, and walked quietly back towards home.