BLOOD BROTHERS - Sample Chapters

Chapter 3 - Part 2

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Clay's trail had dried up. No matter. Myrna could hear the wounded animal, which had been shot, crying as it wandered off. It had been howling for hours. Just what she was hoping to avoid. 

She couldn't even be entirely sure she was getting closer, not with the echoing effect of the canyons. Finally, the outcries stopped. That meant Clay and the party had caught up to the creature, or it had simply expired, unable to bear the suffering any longer. If she wasn't close, it meant waiting for another botched kill to close in on them. The thought alone had her in a cold sweat-snow or no snow, and wind-chill factor at ten below zero or no. 

Myrna made herself absolutely quiet, stilling even her breathing in hopes of ferreting out another auditory clue. The wind wasn't cooperating. She had to wait for it to die down before anything remotely hopeful sounding approached her ears. But there it was finally-laughter. Bastards! 

Picking herself up with the help of her hands, palms pressed against ice until they were numb, she hurried in the direction of the hurtful sounds.  

By the time she caught up with the hunting party, they were standing under a makeshift canopy erected to get them out of the elements while they dressed their kill. The magnificent elk was already hanging upside down, skinned and gutted. They were laughing and drinking beer and taking photos beside it. One of them was wearing the head which would later be mounted as a trophy for shits and giggles. Myrna turned to the side and vomited. She was downwind of them and the howling winds covered her presence. Which was good. Because she wanted to get closer to witness firsthand what her husband saw in these Neanderthals. Some side of himself he kept from her? 

She made animal noises to cover her tracks every time she stepped on a twig or sent a bunch of rocks scurrying downhill just in case the wind shifted at an inopportune moment-never the same animal twice, just whatever could have believably caused the ruckus. Just possibly, one or more of them might be a half decent tracker and not a total idiot. 

Having made sure to stay downwind, Myrna was practically through her entire repertoire of animal noises by the time she was close enough to hear the particulars of their conversation. The tree she was using for cover had plenty of friends, making it hard to so much as scratch her nose without setting the branches of one tree or another in motion and heaping a pile of snow on her head-which to clear, meant upsetting more of the delicate balance. 

Red Plaid, standing all of six foot four at the very least, with a red beard and a hearty laugh that even the howling winds were no match for, said, "Did you see the head of that coyote explode?" 

"Did I? My kid's piñata burst with less fuss." That was Tight Jeans, who must have thought he was out here on a modeling gig. His remark set off another round of guffaws.  

"What the hell were you thinking firing at it with a shotgun?" Pot Belly said. He was older than the rest with a more relaxed air to him, the kind of relaxed that usually only came with retirement.  

"I wasn't about to let some coyote come between me and my first kill." Hateful Bitch was blond and beautiful and her presence at least kept this from being an entirely sexist redneck affair. Myrna decided she hated her the most. She was supposed to be from the smarter, more human sex. She hated her for putting an end to her female chauvinism in one fell swoop almost more than she hated her for being a sadistic killer. She reeked of money, down to the designer jeans and hunting jacket and boots. Probably the one paying for the hunting party.  

"This elk put up a fight though, didn't it?" Tight Jeans said, reaching for another beer.  

"If you could shoot worth a damn," Pot Belly, directing his remark to Hateful Bitch, said to more laughs, "it might have died in less than a day."