“Jack and Jill to the Death”
by William M. O'Brien, Jr.

Jack and Jill went up the hill—

“Get the fuck off my land!” Jill Gilcrist, a well-built twenty-six-year-old born for confrontation, faced Jack Hinson, hands on hips.

“I’ve come to ask you to reconsider what you said earlier about the water.” Jack tried to remain calm and collected. “I need it for my cows and we don’t really know who the well belongs to, do we? There is enough water to go around, you know.”

“It belongs to me! Me! You understand?” She walked up to him. Her five feet eleven inches was taller than Jack’s five, ten. “There’s nothing else to say!”

“So, we’re right back where we started.”

“Get your ass off my property!” She moved up even closer to Jack. “Git! Damn it!”

Jack slowly turned and left. He knew when he thought he was right. In the middle of a serious drought, he needed water. Since the well sat on an area between their two properties, he knew it was supposed to be shared and he was not about to admit defeat, especially to this woman.

Jill watched Jack retreat down his side of the hill. I’ve won this round but he’ll be back, she thought. I’ve just got to be ready for the asshole.

When Jack was out of sight, she walked back to her house, all the while thinking what would be the best way to safeguard her water. At the house she withdrew from a closet a compound bow which she drew back to test, along with an oblong box. From the box, she removed eight long, broad-tipped arrows which she placed in a buckskin quiver. Soon after, she put bow and arrows by the back door and waited for night to fall.

At twilight, Jack gathered his cows, a bull and five heifers, from the lower pasture. He had taken them along the highway for four miles to what was left of the river, but this had proven a great bother in keeping them off the busy road. Tonight, however, he would use water that belonged partly to him.

About ten o’clock, he drove his six head through his back pasture up the hill to the fence. Lighting his way with a flashlight, he kept track of his group by shining his light at each cow in turn.

He snipped the fence wires with wire cutters and moved the coils aside to make a large passageway to the well. Then he drew a large bucket and began filling the old cement trough nearby. The cows needed no enticement; as soon as the first bucket was emptied, all six shuffled through the dry grass to the trough.

While emptying the third bucket, he heard an odd swishing sound just to his left. Wondering what it was, he shined his flashlight in the direction of the noise.

A second swishing noise was accompanied by the nipping of his shirt sleeve and the thud of an arrow into the base of a nearby tree.

“Jesus! An arrow! That bitch! That goddamned bitch!” He waved and screamed at his cattle to drive them back through the make-shift gate to safety. The cows quickly followed his frantic directions but a heifer in the rear, receiving an arrow in her side, plopped over on the coiled wire at the gate.

“Shit!” Jack stopped and squatted down to peer into the darkness for his adversary. He could see nothing. The flashlight beam, though, made him a target as well as his cows. He cut the flashlight and drove the remaining five cows downhill, stumbling over rocks and brush.

Well into his property, he stopped and listened. Faintly, he heard movement in the bushes at the top of the hill.

“That damned bitch is on my land,” he said out loud, hoping she would hear him. Knowing the flashlight beam would invite another arrow, he scattered his cattle and made his way to the back steps of his house.

There, he rushed to his office and withdrew from a desk drawer a Ruger Security Six, a .357 magnum with a six-inch barrel. Just as good as a rifle, he thought.

Loaded pistol in one hand and flashlight in the other, he rushed out the back door and crouched in the darkness behind a stack of firewood. He cocked the pistol and laid it on top of the wood, its barrel pointed into the darkness beyond the limit of the light.

“Damned cunt! I’m going to blow a hole through you big enough to stick a fist through,” he said to himself. Silently, he waited for anything to come into the dim range of the light, but nothing did.

Jill followed the noise Jack was making well into his property. Although she had five arrows left, she stopped. She knew that even with her good night vision, she couldn’t see well enough to get another shot but she also knew that Jack, once he reached his house, would probably retrieve a weapon of his own. Turning around silently, she retreated to Jack’s fence where she retrieved one arrow from the fallen calf. The other two she could not see well enough to find.

“We’ll see what this son-of-a-bitch is capable of tomorrow,” she whispered, feeling the spirit of excitement and challenge. “I’ll probably wind up killing him but I’m going to make double damn sure it looks like self defense when I do.”

Before dawn the next morning, Jack unpacked from a box in his garage four poacher’s guns, caliber .38/.357, along with a spool of heavy brown twine. These he planned to set up near the top of the hill. Also, he had a coil of rope and a heavy cement block. Then, with the loaded pistol in his belt and a pocket full of .357 cartridges, he set off for the back pasture.

Just before sunup, near the top of the hill, he set up one poacher’s gun, stringing its trip wire from one tree to the other, almost completely hidden in the dry grass. After tightening the wire, he loaded the gun, anchored firmly to the ground by a stake, with one .357 cartridge. Ten feet west of the well near another tree, the largest at the top of the hill, he set up a second gun the same way. Both of these weapons fired from the ground at an angle into anyone who tripped the wire.

Remembering that one of his guns was fixed to fire upwards, he hurried back to his house for a canvas and wood camp stool. He was a bit apprehensive about returning to the hill, thinking that she might be around, so he moved quickly and quietly toward the crest of the hill.

Just inside his property to the right of his make-shift gate, he set up the final two guns, with trip wires like the other two. The last one, the one that fired upwards, he put directly underneath the camp stool. Both guns, hidden by brush, were loaded with .357 rounds.

Last, he set up a crude trap with the cement block at the base of the hill. A trip wire, also hidden by brush, would release a rope holding the block, high in a tree, which would hopefully crush, or at least disable, anything underneath. All traps set, he returned to his house to wait.

“If I kill that bitch, she’ll be trespassing,” he said to himself. “And if she trips the one near the well, I’ll drag her body onto my property. “Hell, I can’t miss!” Once at his house, he made ready for the day.

Armed with her bow and quiver of ten arrows, Jill made her way through the downed fence onto the Hinson property. She edged forward, Indian style, from tree to tree, wary less Jack be waiting for her. In her hand, the partially drawn bow had an arrow seated and ready. Moving cautiously from behind one tree, she caught her foot on what she thought, momentarily, was a weed. Bent over, she had only begun to free her foot when a deafening explosion occurred eight feet from her and a bullet plowed deep into the tree directly by her.

“Shit! A trap!” She kicked her foot savagely, freeing it from the trip wire. Had she been standing straight up, she would have caught the bullet chest high. “That sneaky, devious bastard! I’m sure he heard that,” she said softly. “Let him come. I’m ready for him.” Carefully, she moved around behind the tree that had received the bullet.

“Got her! That was quick.” Jack jumped up and ran through his barnyard toward the back pasture. At the base of the hill, he caught a glimpse of Jill moving from behind a tree to release an arrow. Throwing himself down, he pulled the .357 from his belt as the arrow swished over him. Quickly, he set the sights on her mid-section and fired twice in succession.

“Shit! Missed her!” He cocked the weapon and covered the tree she had darted behind.

“You missed me farther than your crappy-ass trap, shithead!” Disgusted, Jill realized she had peed into her spandex shorts. She hadn’t been ready for Jack’s gun. Squatting in her new hiding place, she knew she was covered and that Jack was probably lying prone at the bottom of the hill, a small target indeed.

“This is a Mexican stand-off, bitch,” Jack said aloud. “You’ve got to draw that bow; all I’ve got to do is pull this trigger.” Silently, he covered the tree up the hill.

Suddenly, Jill sprang for another tree down the hill. Startled, Jack jerked the trigger, missing her as she ran. He fired again, trying to lead her, but missed. Not taking his eye off Jill’s new hiding place, he scrambled to eject the empty casings and reload, knowing that he would probably need more than two rounds to keep her, at least, pinned down.

Suddenly, she appeared in front of the tree and loosed an arrow which plowed into the dirt less than a foot from his head. Momentarily, he was helpless, his weapon open for reloading. Struggling, he crammed the cartridges into the cylinder, dropping one on the ground but retrieving it quickly, and, closing the gun, fired in her general direction. But by this time, Jill was safely behind another tree closer to him.

If I can get just a little closer, I’ve got him, Jill thought. She’d counted his shots-five. But she also knew he’d reloaded. “You can’t hit your ass with either hand,” she yelled.

“Step out from behind that tree and we’ll see,” Jack yelled back. He fired a round at her hiding place, nipping bark off the side. “There’s more where that came from, dog-fuck!”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Jill notched another arrow. It won’t be long now, she thought. All I need is about ten feet.

Suddenly, Jack rose and ran for a tree almost even with the one hiding Jill on the hillside. There he pointed the weapon like a finger and fired twice in her direction.

Easily, though, she scooted around, putting her tree again between her and Jack.

“Damn!” She realized only inches separated her and a bullet wound. She drew back to make a run further down the hill, not knowing she was partially exposed on the other side of the tree. An explosion was followed by a bullet which clipped the side of her upper hip.

“Damn him,” she exclaimed, well aware that she should have received that bullet in her lower side. She squatted and turned toward her adversary’s position.

Jack fired again, knocking bark off Jill’s tree. “I’m not going to give her a chance to shoot again,” he said, quietly. Quickly, he reloaded for a second time.

Suddenly, Jill ran for another tree close by, further down the hill. She crouched low in the bushes behind the new tree and turned toward Jack’s position further up the hill. She looked around for another hiding place close by but instead noticed, in a tree at the bottom of the hill, a rope, drawn tight. Following it upwards, she could see hidden in the dense foliage, a large cement block.

“So that’s his game,” she said to herself. After checking on Jack, she concocted a plan. To put it into effect, she drew her bow and loosed an arrow at the rope leading up into the tree. As she had hoped, the broad tip partially cut the rope, leaving it firm, about four feet from the ground. It then lost itself in the brush behind the tree. Then, Jill, bent over low, retreated around the side of the hill and made her way up the hill to her property. He knows I know about one trap, she thought. But he doesn’t know I’ve messed with this one.

Jack, hiding, wondered what she was up to. He’d heard her shoot but no arrow came close. “What the hell is she doing?” he whispered. He saw her take off, bent low, around the hill, but he wasn’t naďve enough to think she wouldn’t be back. The only question was when.

That evening found both sitting warily at home. Jack Hinson locked his doors, a practice which he, since he lived in the country, seldom did. He also had two dogs to announce the presence of any unwanted guest.

Into the night he sat at the back window, a 30.06 Springfield fully loaded and ready.

With his barnyard well lit, he could see well enough to drop her even beyond the light. He dare not shoot indiscriminately, however, as he might hit one of his cows, and this affair had already cost him one heifer, much to his chagrin.

Jill Gilcrist had a sophisticated burglar alarm she could depend on. She set it, although she didn’t need it. “Surely he’s not stupid enough to try to come in here,” she said.

Meanwhile, she placed nine more arrows in her quiver. She had firearms but she shunned them, figuring it would be “neater” to take out Jack with her bow, an event she figured would occur tomorrow.

Jill worried, however, about Jack’s pistol. Since she’d almost been shot that day, she planned the next day with a degree of animosity. With her plan concerning the cement block as a backup, she didn’t worry too much however. By this time tomorrow, Jack would be dead.

She decided to busy him and count his shots. When he ran out of ammunition, she would have him where she wanted him and this time she wouldn’t let him reload.

Early the next morning, Jill rose and donned her clothes. After pinning her hair back in a ponytail, she strapped on a wide leather belt holding a large hunting knife. Quiver over her shoulder and bow in hand, she burst through her back door and into the pasture to the Hinson property. Despite her recklessness on her property—she knew Jack didn’t have the guts to go over the hill to her land--she knew once she reached the hilltop, she would have to be careful, even early in the morning. When she got to the crest, she crouched behind the well.

Squatting there low, thinking about her next move, she noticed, about ten feet west of the well, a tree with a curious disturbance of brush underneath it. “I wonder if that prick set up a booby-trap over there,” she said softly.

Taking her bow by one end, she crept toward the tree in question, one eye warily on the hillside. Ten feet away, she poked the brush left and right, working her way slowly toward the tree. Four feet away, there is was, the inevitable trip wire running at a right angle from her. Studying the wire carefully, she found the gun in the brush one foot from the tree. Forcefully, she poked the wire, firing the gun. Before the echo of the shot had died out, she sprinted back to her cover behind the well, where she squatted and notched an arrow. “This is going to be over sooner than I thought,” she whispered, in silent readiness.

“The trap!” Jack, just making his way into the back pasture readied his .357. “Wouldn’t it be nice if that bitch was lying up there with a hole through her,” he said to himself. “I’m not going to hold my breath, though.”

He moved toward the hill cautiously from cover to cover, gun ready in his hand. The brush obscured anything lying at the top but he knew she was up there one way or the other. Slowly and carefully, he ascended the hill.

Forty feet from the well, he saw Jill rise and, in one movement, release an arrow at him. He fired a quick round in her direction while flinging himself violently to avoid her shot. The arrow barely missing, he rolled over on the ground and lined his sights on Jill, who still stood over the well. He’d put the sight on a spot just below her chest but his shot plowed into the top of the well, knocking a brick completely loose. In the meantime, Jill ran for a nearby tree.

“You missed again, bigger than shit,” she yelled from her new hiding place.

Jack crouched in the brush. “Come on out, bitch,” he yelled back. “Let’s get it over with.”

“In due time, asshole. In due time. When I’m ready.” She peered from behind the tree, arrow ready in her bow.

“Shit!” Jack aimed quickly and fired at her face, protruding from behind the tree.

“Three,” Jill said softly, her chest heaving up and down. She sprinted down the hill, making her way onto the Hinson property.

Jack followed her along the side of the hill just on his property. Seeing her go through his fence, he lined her up for a shot but before he could pull the trigger, she darted behind another tree. Before he could reach cover, however, she stepped out and loosed another arrow in his direction. Jack fired at her quickly, stepping aside to let the arrow go by, and felt the point slice through his shirt and cut his upper arm.

“Damn, that was close,” he said to himself.

When he recovered, he saw that she had turned fully in his direction, completely exposed, and was pulling another arrow from her quiver. As quickly as he could, he lined her up where she was widest, just above her groin. He squeezed the trigger.

Jill heard the shot and felt the bullet go between her legs just under her crotch.

Stepping backwards, she peed forcefully into her spandex shorts and spun around behind a tree.

“Damn that son-of-a-bitch!” The dampness in her crotch angered her more than ever. “I nearly caught that one but it’s four and five.” Fifty yards from her was the tree with the cement block suspended in it. Now it was clear what she wanted to do. “All I’ve got to do is get him to fire one more shot and I’ve got him where I want him,” she whispered. The idea that she had to expose herself again made her uneasy, but she stepped from behind the tree again and loosed another arrow at Jack who, by this time, was crouching behind his own tree fifty feet away. Then, she took off toward the tree with the cement block.

Jack, aiming as carefully as he could, fired, sending her sprawling to the ground.

“Damn! I got her,” he exclaimed. He ran toward her down the hill, holding the pistol out to cover her.

Lying prone, Jill quickly studied the brush around the tree just ahead for the trip wire to the cement block trap. Seeing it on the other side of the tree, she jumped up and ran behind the tree, careful to avoid the wire. She left bow and arrows behind.

“Shit, I missed again,” Jack said aloud. “But she left her weapon. I got her now.” He ran around the tree and confronted Jill across the trip wire.

“Drop the knife, bitch,” he said, indicated the knife on her belt and covering her with his pistol.

“Up yours!” She pulled the knife from her belt and raised it in a threatening gesture.

Jack pointed the pistol point blank between her breasts, cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger. Nothing but a hollow “click,” the hammer falling on a spent round.

“Empty, shithead,” she said, grinning. “You’ve had six.” In one movement, she drew the hunting knife across the already cut support rope running up the side of the tree and brought the heavy cement block down on Jack’s head. With a sickening crunch, he buckled at the knees and fell, the block still smashing into his head, to a bloody heap in front of Jill.

She stood, hands on hips, and watched the body twitching on the ground. Blood was everywhere, on the brush, on the body, on the block, everywhere. Finally, he lay still.

Grinning, Jill strode around the lifeless body, slapping the blade of the hunting knife against her thigh. “It worked just like I knew it would. Good-bye, asshole.”

Contemptuously, she kicked at the now useless trip wire. Then, she retrieved her bow and arrows and made her way up the hill to the well.

From the well, she scooped a drink, using a ladle found nearby. Sipping the water slowly, she thought about what she had done. She had gambled that if she gave him a consistent target, he would not reload, like he had done the day before. And it had worked.

Smug in her victory, she lounged against the well and surveyed the hillside down to Jack’s body. Nothing moved now but her and the dead grass blowing in a gentle breeze. While drawing another drink, she caught sight of yet another trip wire to her left across the fence.

“Not another one,” she said aloud. Doffing her quiver and placing her bow against the well, she filled the ladle and strode through the fence toward the wire in question.

Two yards from the wire, she stopped to survey the situation. Just like the others, the wire led to a poacher’s gun hidden in brush at the base of a tree. With a dead branch, she stretched the wire until the gun exploded, sending another round off into infinity.

Laughing out loud, she turned and stepped across the now useless trip wire to a canvass and wood campstool oddly by itself in some brush. Still laughing, ladle in hand, she turned and sat. Her laughter stopped with an explosion directly beneath her.

The bullet entered her bottom neatly, between the cheeks. Instantly, it transfixed her body lengthwise, exiting in an ugly wound at the top of her chest and nicking her chin. The force of the slug lifting her from the stool, she spun halfway around and fell to the ground.

“Shit,” she choked. When she hit the ground, she started to roll.

At the base of the hill, her body stopped in a patch of brush, her eyes fixed on Jack’s bloody remains not twenty feet from her.

The pain in her badly perforated innards was nothing compared to the pain she felt in realizing that Jack had succeeded in killing her after she had killed him. Unable to bear the sight of him, she closed her eyes.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered, pressing both hands against her body. Blood welled up in her throat and mouth and she choked, trying to swallow. A sudden numbness caused her to think that her wounds were not as serious as she first thought but her effort to move out of her situation sent her into darkness and she settled into the brush, to move no more.

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