If you've spent much time around an old deer camp, you already know there are two things you never joke about. One's another man's rifle, and the other's Miss Betty's chili. The rifle might miss every now and then, but Miss Betty's chili never has. It'll hit its mark every single time. Sometimes just a little later than expected.
This happened several years ago, the night before opening morning. Camp was alive with the sound of stories, coffee cups clinkin', and everybody swearin' they knew exactly where the biggest buck in the county was gonna walk at daylight.
Miss Betty hollered from the kitchen, "Supper's ready!"
Well, that was all it took. Hunters came from every direction like somebody had rung the dinner bell at church.
She sat a big pot of homemade chili in the middle of the table. Thick enough to stand a spoon in. Loaded with hamburger, beans, onions, peppers, tomatoes, and whatever secret seasonin' she's been hidin' from us for the last thirty years. Lord have mercy, it smelled so good it'd make a man forget every promise he ever made about eatin' light before a hunt.
Everybody filled one bowl, except for ole Red, nope he filled himself up another bowl clear to the top.
Earl looked over at him and said, "You sure you wanna do that?"
Red grinned that grin only Red could wear.
"One bowl?... ain't nothin' to it. I got a belly like a billy goat."
The whole table laughed.
Earl just sipped his coffee, rolled his eyes and said under his breath,
"I reckon we'll see."
End of the conversation.
Before daylight the next morning we eased out toward our stands. Stars were still overhead, the woods were quiet, and the kind of cool air that only opening morning seems to have settled through the pines.
Red climbed into his climber about 600 hundred yards from where I was sittin'. We wished each other luck and disappeared into the darkness.
As daylight broke, the woods came alive. Squirrels started fussin'. A woodpecker hammered on an old pine. Somewhere off in the distance a crow raised enough racket to wake the whole county.
Everything was just about perfect.
Then, about an hour and a half into the hunt, Ole' Red wasn't watchin' the woods anymore.
He was shiftin' I could see him thru the woods with my binoculars and I was watchin' and waitin'.
First he'd lean a little to one side, then the other, sit still for a minute and go to squirmin' again.
I knew exactly what was happening, I learned that lesson years ago and never forgot.
A few minutes later I heard the faintest little stick break drift through the timber.
He looked around like he'd just heard it too, we both waited, and then everything got quiet again.
Then came another sound, it wasn't a stick break or leaves crunching, this was a low growling sound, something like a cross between a bear and a wounded bobcat. I raised my binoculars and glassed over to Red. His eyes were closed, his face all twisted up, I knew right then what that sound was and what was happening! You could almost hear Red prayin'.
Now, I've hunted with Red for a long time. I've seen him sit through rainstorms, swarms of mosquitoes, and temperatures cold enough to freeze your boots stiff.
I'd never seen sweat run down his forehead when it was forty-two degrees outside.
About then, as Murphy's law decided to show up with extreme prejudice, the biggest doe I'd seen all morning stepped out into the trail.
She looked straight toward Red, God bless him, he didn't move a muscle for what seemed like 10 minutes and finally she went back to feeding. By this time, poor Ole Red is got his legs crossed so tight you couldn't slide a piece of paper between his cheeks.
To make things worse, five minutes later another doe joined her, then a third, I couldn't help but snicker a bit.
I thought to myself, "Boy... this is fixin' to get interesting."
That's when Red's face changed to something like you'd see in a horror movie.
He wasn't lookin' at deer anymore, he was looking at desperation!
His eyes got wide, his jaw locked tight, and both hands squeezed the sides of that climber like he was hangin' over the edge of a cliff.
I actually saw his lips say, "Oh no!"
I knew exactly what was happenin' and I also knew time was short.
Miss Betty's chili had officially declared war.
Red tried every trick known to mankind.
He shifted, crossed his legs, uncrossed them, leaned forward, backward, stood up, sat down, he was at the edge of an eruption that he wasn't expecting. I have to hand it to him though; he has sense enough not to trust any gas release. That could have been catastrophic.
At one point I honestly thought he was gonna pass out from concentratin'.
Then it happened.
Not what you're thinkin'. A buck and not just any buck, it was the buck we have all been seeing on game cameras for 3 years and no one has ever got a shot at him.
A big-bodied eleven-point stepped right out behind those does.
Any other morning Red would've had that deer in his scope before his front hoof hit the ground.
Instead, Red was locked in the greatest battle of his life... and it wasn't with a whitetail and it wasn't letting up. Red was losing ground, surrender was the only option, but he couldn't give up yet, he couldn't give away his stand, he couldn't spook the deer at all costs.
That buck stood broadside for what felt like forever.
Red never even shouldered his rifle.
The buck finally wandered off into the palmettos like he'd never been there.
I reckon that old buck lived another year because of two bowls of Miss Betty's chili.
The second he disappeared, Red slid down that tree faster than a squirrel being chased by a hawk.
He hit the ground runnin', didn't grab his pack, rifle hanging off his back, hand pushing against the back of his pants like he's trying to keep his butt from falling off. He didn't even look back.
He was on a mission.
He disappeared over the ridge with both hands holdin' on to more hope than dignity.
By the time we made it back to camp a couple hours later, Red was already there.
Fresh clothes. Muddy boots. No socks.
He looked like a man who'd won a battle nobody else wanted to fight.
He was sittin' in a lawn chair drinkin' coffee like nothin' had happened.
Nobody said a word but we all knew.
Finally Miss Betty walked out with another pot.
"Who's ready for chili tonight?"
The whole camp got quiet, Red never even looked up, all he said was, "I'm not real hungry tonight, I think I'll just have me a peanut butter sandwich."
That was years ago.
To this day, every opening morning, somebody will ask Red if he's thinkin' about having seconds at supper, he just smiles and says, "Naw, I think my billy goat retired."
And Earl?
He just grins over the rim of his coffee cup.