Dissipation

The boy crouched on a rough construction of wooden planks he had constructed a while ago in a tree, a hunting gun dangling idly from his fingers, staring at his breath as it condensed in the cold. He glanced at the green mound of alfalfa standing out against the dead leaves on the ground. Thankfully, no deer had found it. It’d been awhile since he got away with missing his shot.
He sighed and played with the brown hat in his lap, pulling and stretching it idly. The sound of crunching leaves reached his ears. He tensed, then relaxed as he recognized the thick clomping of heavy boots. Three men were walking towards him, their faces down.
Blake stared at them for a moment, then picked up the gun with a smooth, practiced motion. Carefully, he centered each head in the crosshairs, switching between the three figures struggling below him. It’d be a hunting accident. It happened all the time. Isn’t this why they were here, the manly art of taking life?
Except it could only be one.
He centered his father’s head in the crosshairs. It’d be easy. No more effort than fingering a flute.
Shuddering, he set the gun next to him, the safety still on.
John Knight looked up at Blake, smiling.
“Come on down,” he said, the pride in his voice. “Evan got a five-point buck. Help us take it to the truck.”