Bonds in the Wild

The hounds bayed sharp and wild, their voices bouncing off the oak-studded hills of eastern Tennessee. Jace loped ahead, his lanky frame cutting through the underbrush, a coon’s trail hot under his boots. Behind him, Tuck trudged steady, stocky and sure, the old 12-gauge slung over his shoulder. The night was thick with cricket hum and the tang of pine, the kind of dark that swallowed you whole if you didn’t know these hollers.

“Rusty’s got him treed,” Jace called, flashlight beam jerking toward a gnarled sycamore. The hound’s bark turned frantic, paws scrabbling at the trunk.

Tuck caught up, wiping sweat from his brow with a sleeve. “Betsy’s circling. Reckon it’s a big’un.”

They were barely twenty, raised on these ridges—Jace a dropout with dreams too big for school, Tuck a feed store grunt who’d rather wrestle sacks of grain than read a book. The dogs were their ticket out, or at least their excuse to roam. They’d hunted since they were kids, splitting pelts and patching each other’s mistakes, but it was the shack that sealed it—a tin-roofed lean-to tucked in a hollow, their claim on the wild.

Jace grinned, teeth flashing in the dark. “Gonna skin this one clean. Maybe get enough for that carburetor you’ve been yapping about.”

Tuck snorted, adjusting the shotgun. “You’re the one busting engines. I’m fine hauling feed.”

They worked quick—Jace coaxing the coon down with a stick, Tuck ready with the gun. One sharp crack, and it was over, Rusty and Betsy nosing the prize. They’d drag it back to the shack come dawn, but for now, they sank onto a fallen log, catching their breath. The air cooled, stars peeking through the canopy.

“Mom’s done with me,” Jace said, picking at a splinter in his thumb. “Caught me fiddling with that still again. Kicked me out ‘fore supper.”

Tuck didn’t look up, just dug a can of dip from his pocket and tapped it against his knee. “She’ll cool off.”

“Nah. Said I’m a lost cause this time.” Jace’s voice was light, but his hands stilled, the splinter forgotten.

Tuck spat into the dirt, then stood. “C’mon. Shack’s open.”

They trekked back, hounds trailing, the path worn by their own feet. The shack squatted at the holler’s edge—walls of scavenged pine, roof dented from a storm two summers back. Inside was a mess: pelts stacked in a corner, a kerosene lamp flickering on a crate, a cot Jace had claimed since Tuck liked the floor. Tuck kicked the door wide, tossing Jace a quilt from a milk crate.

“Ain’t much,” he said, dropping his gear. “But it’s ours.”

Jace caught the quilt, draping it over his shoulders like a cape. “Better’n a porch step.”

Tuck grunted, fishing a dented thermos from his pack. He poured lukewarm coffee into a tin cup, splitting it with Jace. They sat on the porch—really just a slab of warped boards—dogs flopped at their feet, the coon’s carcass slung over a branch nearby. The night settled heavy, a whippoorwill calling somewhere deep in the ridge.

“Got something,” Tuck said, pulling a pocket New Testament from his jeans. The cover was scuffed, pages curled from damp. He flipped it open by the lamp’s glow, squinting. “‘Two are better’n one,’” he read, slow and halting, “‘‘cause they got a good return for their work. If one falls, the other hauls him up.’” He stopped, scratching his jaw. “Ecclesiastes, I think. Preacher rambled ‘bout it once.”

Jace smirked, sipping the coffee. “You’re turning holy on me?”

“Shut it.” Tuck elbowed him, but his mouth quirked. “Just stuck, is all. Figure it’s us.”

Jace leaned back, staring at the stars. “Yeah. Hauling each other up’s about right.”

They sat quiet after that, the words hanging between them like the smoke from a fire they hadn’t lit. Tuck wasn’t one for books—Jace usually did the talking—but he’d kept that little Testament since his granny slipped it to him years back. Reading it now felt right, like staking a claim.

“Gonna be alright?” Tuck asked, voice low.

Jace nodded, slow. “Long as you’re here, I reckon.”

Tuck capped the thermos, setting it aside. “Ain’t going nowhere.”

The hounds snored, the night stretched on, and the shack held them—two boys too rough for the world, too tight to let it break them. It wasn’t much, this patch of dirt and tin, but it was theirs, built on pelts and promises and a verse Tuck could barely pronounce. They’d hunt again tomorrow, or the next day, and the holler would keep them. For now, that was enough.