Ol' Shady

The hills themselves couldn’t repress the thunderings of the approaching jalopy. And jalopy it was as there was no other term that could suit the vehicle properly, unless it was dump truck—the sort of truck you construct at the dump.

Chad rested his head on his hands which were folded sloppily over the business end of his rifle. Sighing, he peered over at Bert. “No one’s gonna get any huntin’ done anywhere near these parts today. Ol’ Shady’s on the prowl.”

Bert descended branch by branch from where he’d been perched in his deer stand. “Might as well pack it up, though from the sounds of it he’s still a mile er more off. Blasted catfish! I was lookin’ forward to venison steak!”

By the time the two disgruntled men had taken down the stand, the reverberating engine coughs were so deafening that they knew Ol’ Shady and his mode of transportation were within a quarter mile.

Bert shouted. “That must be him comin’ from the left. I see a cloud of dust.”

Chad seemed to ignore the comment but more likely he just couldn’t hear it. He was scanning the tangled underbrush and trees. Pointing, he hollered. “Here he comes! Look out! He’s smokin’!”

Chad’s comment had nothing to do with Shady’s personal figure or the pipe perpetually glued to the right side of his mouth. Instead, he was referring to state of the jalopy, or what they assumed was the jalopy since they couldn’t see it for the haze of smoke.