Friday Feature: The Phantom Buck

Many of the funniest things that ever happened to me occurred during deer season. Hunting was a tradition in my family, and growing up in Missouri offered a lot of hunting opportunities. Many of my family are also my hunting partners during deer season. Pretty much all of them were from St. Louis, and included such characters as:

Grover AKA Paul Jr.: The great white hunter, just ask him. Also a postal worker in St. Louis and one of my half-step brothers (Dad's step kids from a previous marriage).

Guy: A very soft-spoken friend of his and mine. If memory serves, he works in an aluminum foil plant, and he is smoked up about all the time.

Don: A towering, 225 pound, six-and-a-half foot redheaded friend of Grover's. They met when they got in a bar fight -- Don versus Grover, which is much like David and Goliath fighting, but without the sling. Grover gained his respect when he stuck with it against what could be considered pretty long odds.

Wild Bill: Another tower of a man, but this one is a Native American. He had hair half down his back, appeared to be carved from a solid block of muscle, and was allegedly a pretty good tracker -- I know he could always find the beer no matter where it was hidden, so there could be some truth in that.

One evening, while huddled around the campfire -- it gets cold in Missouri in November -- and having consumed more beer than is prudent in the cold, Grover decided to drop a bombshell.

"There's a deer in these woods," he stated matter-of-factly.

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather! Imagine -- a deer! In these very woods where we had shot dozens of deer! It defied belief... and I of course couldn't resist telling him so.

"No, you don't understand," he said, looking up from his beer. "He's not like other deer. He's huge! And what's more, he's sneaky. Deer don't get to be that size unless they're very clever. He's like a mist, rolling through the woods. From now on, he's the deer I'm hunting!"

Well of course I was on the breaking edge of laughter, but I managed to contain myself for the time being. Don, however, couldn't contain himself and began to chuckle a bit with his hand over his mouth as if he were wiping away beer that had missed its intended target. But before I could come up with something really witty to say, Guy beat me to it.

"Ish like da Phantom Bumpk!" he managed to get out. Clearly the smoke and the beer were really working on him.

He started to say something else, but drained his can of Bud Light instead and began contemplating the fire once more, lost in his own little world.

Just as I was about to deliver the line of a lifetime, and most likely waste it on people who would never remember it, Wild Bill stood up. We figured he was going to dispose of some used beer, but instead he began to speak... and of course with someone Bill's size, you listen when he speaks, which was surprisingly rarely.

"There is a story among my people of such a deer," he rumbled in his too-bass-to-be-believed voice.

Well, of course I was fit to be tied now. I was just as drunk as everyone else. Could they not see this was the single most comical event in human history unfolding in their very laps? I mean come on! Sure Bill was an Indian, but he grew up in inner city St. Louis. The only teepee he had ever seen was on his belt buckle. Still, one never questions a man the size of Bill unless one is sitting in a hot car with the window open only a crack -- and did I mention the car should be running and in gear? I managed to keep silent while he continued, but only because the fear of death checked my mouth.

"They say a powerful medicine man can change himself into any animal," he went on, looking at each of us in turn for effect. It worked; we were silent.

"And when a medicine man dies, if he's strong enough, he can return from the spirit world in the form of any animal he chooses. I believe this Phantom Buck is such a creature!"

Wild Bill sat, or fell back down, on one of the oversized pieces of wood we were all sitting on -- it was hard to tell with a man the size of Bill. He cracked open another Bud and quaffed half of it in one swallow as if to seal his point and end the discussion.

What to do? I couldn't very well let that go by unchallenged. Instead, I decided it was time to question Grover a little about the alleged Phantom Buck. So, donning my best poker face, I tried to think back to every cop show I had ever seen, every court case I had ever watched on TV... and began the cross-examination.

"What does this Phantom Buck look like?" I asked, doing my best impression of Perry Mason.

"Well... I've never actually seen him..."

Ah ha! That's critical to the prosecution! I went on.

"You've never seen him, and yet you're convinced he exists? That's pretty weak..."

Grover squirmed a little on his decapitated log, then as if coming to a decision, made the following revelation:

"He only comes out at night," he finally squeezed out. It was as if someone had a hand around his throat, trying to prevent him from telling.

By this time I naturally thought I had a pretty solid case. Here we have a "Phantom Buck" no one has ever seen, that only comes out at night. What a load! Nothing could stop me now.

"Ok then, so how do you know it exists?" I roared in triumph. I had him now. There was no escape.

"Well I didn't want to say anything till I was sure..." He began trailing off as if he had changed his mind, then, "I saw his tracks!" He blurted that last out as if he was spitting out a spider. Clearly he didn't wish to share that last bit -- and I was, of course, intrigued.

Bill perked up instantly. Don stood up from his stump and went to relieve himself. Even Guy roused from his semi-comatose state and looked as if he had somewhere to go. Grover became sullen, as if he had told a secret and would now be punished. When Don returned, Bill spoke for the second time that night.

"Show me these tracks, and I will find this Spirit Buck." It was more of a command than a suggestion.

[italic]Jesus, Bill, "Phantom Buck", not "Spirit Buck" -- get with the program![/italic] Still, everyone willingly (or unwillingly) began gathering whatever gear we thought we'd need. Keep in mind we were pretty sloshed, and not thinking as clearly as we might have been in the daytime, or at least prior to midnight. It was now getting on about 1:00 AM, and not a one of us could have ridden a tricycle in a straight line. Thankfully we were already in the right woods.

I gathered my warmest clothes and stood extra close to the fire to store up some heat before the ordeal ahead. I grabbed a couple of flashlights, then decided to bring a third because being lost in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, didn't seem as appealing as it does on those survival videos.

Guy brought an extra big bag of homegrown. That must mean he used to be a scout... always prepared.

Don filled the pockets of his cargo pants and hunting jacket with beer -- which at the current temperature, would probably freeze -- so no fear of hot beer there. As an afterthought, he picked up his two million candlepower rechargeable spotlight. The spotlight weighed probably five pounds, appeared to take a motorcycle battery, and had a lens no less than 10 inches across. It was not something you'd willingly drop on your toe, nor was it something you'd lay on a vinyl seat, but that's another story.

Grover went as he was, with the exception of a tiny Mag-lite, which unlike the larger models wasn't terribly bright. It didn't help that the penlight batteries were near death. It made about as much light as leading a yellow dog around.

Bill, who had plopped down on his log in exactly the same clothes he had been wearing all day, also declared himself ready. His blue-jean jacket with suede fringes, tired cowboy boots, and massive hunting knife were all that he needed. His jeans had holes in the legs. I remember because his thermal underwear was showing through the knees.

Thus equipped, we set off on our quest to find the Phantom Buck, like something right out of Lord of the Rings. Not one of us thought to bring a gun...

Grover did his best to take us directly to the spot the tracks were located.
Guy fell down no less than 20 times, and once we lost him. We went back to find him and discovered him asleep -- or passed out -- at the foot of a tree with a half-rolled smoke in his hand. We managed to rouse him to his feet, but he trailed behind for the rest of the journey.

Don ran out of beer before we were even half way there -- wow, that man can drink.

Wild Bill saw the tracks first, and to his credit, he saw them by moonlight, though most of us were using our flashlights to avoid rocks, sticks, holes and other deadly hazards one encounters in the deep woods. He let out a grumble and called Grover next to him.

"These tracks..." He said, pointing at the depressions in the soft earth. "These belong to the Spirit Buck?"

[italic]Phantom Buck, damn it, PHANTOM BUCK![/italic]

Grover studied the tracks closely with his flashlight, which was becoming so weak it nearly made things darker than they actually were. He looked at them in the darkness from every possible angle. From the left, the right, overhead... He even dropped down next to them and tried to look at them edge-on. Finally, afraid to break the spell he was under, he simply nodded.

With a deep breath, Wild Bill studied the track briefly. He examined the trees and leaves nearby, looked closely at some acorns at the base of a half rotten oak that refused to succumb, and at last pointed in a seemingly random direction. "This way!" He stated bluntly, and without another word went marching into the woods.

We did our best to keep up. Man, Wild Bill can move in the woods. He hardly made a sound. We'd see him, then lose him, and then see him again. Once, we had somehow passed him, when he came up behind us, very nearly causing an undergarment crisis. Finally, he stopped cold. Bill was stone-still, and we gathered around him, making more noise than a school band in practice.

Wild Bill pointed into the darkest section of the pitch black woods, and stated very calmly, "He's over there... maybe 20 yards in. And he's watching us."

I produced my best flashlight, a fairly good one with fresh batteries, and handed it to Bill. Bill ducked behind a tree, then another. When we last saw him, he had dropped to his belly and was actually crawling in the indicated direction. None of us turned on our flashlights, but I'd swear I saw him put that gargantuan hunting knife between his teeth right before he vanished... just like a pirate.

Five minutes went by, then ten. We were starting to get a little paranoid -- and more than a little scared. Not a sound emanated from those woods, save for the occasional owl call. Leaves rustled occasionally. Once a twig fell or snapped --it was impossible to tell which -- and everyone jumped.

Then the end came.

It started with a shriek, which could have only come from Wild Bill. It was a sound unlike any I had heard from Bill before -- quite out of character.

His flashlight -- actually my flashlight -- still hadn't come on, and we couldn't see a thing. But the direction was right, and Don fumbled with the two million candlepower spotlight, apparently trying to remember how to turn it on.

Guy had been leaning against a tree, softly snoring. At the sound of Bill's shriek, he instantly woke up, but was too confused or stoned to know what was going on. He just stood there screaming, "What?! What?!"

There was a loud commotion in the woods that sounded very much like two sumo wrestlers fighting on leaves, and Don finally got the monster spotlight to come to life.

Night became day; we were all nearly blinded because he had it pointed at the rest of us. He had been looking for help in getting it to work when it suddenly came on. He swept the beam across the woods, somewhat disoriented as to the direction he was supposed to point it. That was a lot of light after having been in near total darkness for so long.

Just then, Wild Bill screamed, "I got the Spirit Buck!" He switched on the flashlight I had loaned him, but immediately dropped it. Something was going on, but we could only make out bits and pieces, and two widely spaced eyes flashing occasionally. Bill apparently had a chokehold on the beast and was refusing to let go.

With the dropped flashlight, Don finally got his bearings and swung that mighty shaft of daylight in the proper direction. Everything happened very fast from that point...

Wild Bill did indeed have the beast in a strangle-hold, and it fought mightily and twirled about, trying to get free. Guy, half-stoned and all drunk, looked more alive than he had all night at the sight of it, and started to take a step forward. In my defense, I was very confused. As a consequence, I did absolutely nothing but stand stock-still and stare.

The beast threw Wild Bill no less than ten feet -- and probably more like twenty -- to one side, and then turned to stare back at the light. It was then that it opened its mouth and made the single most blood-curdling sound I have ever heard in the nighttime woods.

"MOOOOO!"

Don was so startled that he dropped the spotlight, casting us all in the light and causing us to lose track of the mighty Holstein bull that Bill had attempted to subdue.

Guy shrieked and took off running blindly. He managed to flee a good ten feet before a massive oak blocked his path. He connected with it at full speed, but the oak didn't fall; Guy, however, did fall. He either had the wind knocked out of him, or was knocked unconscious and landed in a pile at the base of the tree that felled him.

Bill, who had apparently dropped the knife the minute he got hold of the massive black and white monster, just sat there and stared at the massive cow while it wandered deeper into the woods.

No one knew the way back, and Guy was snoring again. So we waited in the woods until morning, only to discover that we were no more than 200 yards from the deer camp.

Had we waited a while, the Phantom Buck would have come to us.