Measure of Grace by Al Lacy Page A

wall. Knowing that even in the spring the nights were cold at that altitude, he told himself he would cut more wood for the fireplace in the morning.
    The morning sun sent its rosy and golden shafts over the eastern elevations to tip the pines around their cabin in the foothills while Ace Decker and Keith Nolan saddled their horses and put a bridle on their pack mule.
    When they were ready to go, Nolan picked up his rifle and slid it in the saddleboot. “Well, Ace, ol’ pal, it feels good to get a day off and have some time for huntin’ deer.”
    “Sure does,” said Decker, putting his foot in the stirrup and swinging into the saddle. “I can taste that venison already. Let’s go.”
    Some two hours later, they topped a pine-covered ridge and Decker said, “Well, we’re at about seven thousand feet now. Best to go on foot from here.”
    Dismounting, they tied the horses and mule to spruce trees and proceeded toward higher ground, rifles in hand.
    A thousand feet higher up, Jordan Shaw left the old cabin just before nine o’clock and climbed up through the dense forest, carrying the battered bucket he had used when staying in the cabin before. The air was quite chilly, and Jordan was glad he had worn his denim jacket.
    Soon he came to the broad, shallow stream he remembered and dipped the bucket in the ice-cold water. He took a long drink, filled the bucket to the brim, and headed back to the cabin. Breakfast would only be jerky and dried fruit, but at least he was in a place where he felt welcome. He missed his family, and wished his mother and sister had not been subjected to grief because of hisdeeds, but since his father didn’t want him there anymore, he would never go home again.
    By ten o’clock, Jordan had devoured his breakfast and stepped out of the cabin, ax in hand. Going to the side of the cabin, he rolled a log off the stack and began chopping pieces small enough to fit in the fireplace. A fallen tree lay close by. Soon the warmth of the sun and the exertion of chopping made him warm.
    He took off the denim jacket, draped it over the fallen tree, and resumed his work.
    Ace Decker and Keith Nolan steadily made their way up the steep, tree-laden slope, talking in low tones, eyes running back and forth for any sign of deer.
    At one spot, they stopped to catch their breath, and Decker touched his friend’s arm. “Listen! What’s that?”
    “What?” whispered Nolan. “I didn’t hear anything. Are you talkin’ animal or—”
    “Shh! There it is again!”
    This time it came sharp and clear, from somewhere higher up.
    “Oh,” said Decker. “Somebody’s choppin’ wood up there.”
    Suddenly there was movement among the trees about fifty yards up the slope.
    “Hey!” said Nolan in a subdued voice as he shouldered his rifle.
    Decker spotted the small buck deer, and was bringing his rifle to bear when Nolan took quick aim and fired.
    The bullet struck the buck in the hind quarters. He leaped out of sight into the dense forest, and the hunters were in quick pursuit.
    Beside the old cabin, Jordan Shaw was about to finish cutting wood when he saw movement in his peripheral vision. Turning to see what it was, he focused on a small buck deer stumbling his direction through the trees, its coat dripping blood. He had thought he heard a shot a few minutes ago while chopping wood, but wasn’t sure. Now he knew it was someone shooting the deer.
    As the buck came closer, it was evident to Jordan that he was in extreme pain, and his bulging eyes didn’t even notice the human who stood at the woodpile beside the cabin.
    Jordan dropped the ax and ducked down behind the woodpile so as not to startle the wounded animal if it did happen to see him.
    The buck was grinding his teeth in agony as he staggered blindly up to where Jordan had stood seconds before, then suddenly collapsed, falling on the dead tree where Jordan’s jacket lay. Jordan knew the deer was dying as his blood soaked the jacket. His eyes had