The Wild Boar of Piankashaw

William Matthew McCarter

I should’ve worn different goddamn shoes. If my socks get wet, I am completely fucked. Boog said we were going hunting, so I wore my hunting boots. However, I wasn’t thinking about the six inches of snow covering the Mark Twain National Forest like a thick quilt of misery. These boots aren’t waterproof, and the snow is past my ankles. A day like this is for looking out the window, wrapped in one of Grandma’s old quilts, watching the world disappear under white. This is not the kind of day to hunt feral hogs with two lunatics. 

Boog called and said to meet him and Donnie at the Cozy Corner Café for an early breakfast. “We’ll eat some bacon, then go kill some more,” he said, laughing his deep, rattling laugh. 

And there I was, standing in the middle of nowhere, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut at Boog’s birthday party when I marveled at the hog roasting in Donnie’s backyard. 

Boog was born on Halloween. That’s how he got his nickname—the Bogeyman. Over the years, it got shortened to Boog. Last year, Donnie had a whole pig roasting on a spit, slow-turning over an open flame. I’d never seen anything like it. It smelled like heaven, like sin, like something forbidden and ancient. 

“Where’d you get a whole hog?” I asked, chewing on a sandwich thick with shredded pork and cheap barbecue sauce. 

“Out by the Devil’s Tollgate,” Donnie said, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“A wild hog?” I asked. “I thought the DNR said they carried disease. Said you weren’t supposed to eat them.” 

“The DNR’s full of shit,” Donnie said. “Cook it hot enough, you kill anything bad. That’s how fire works.” 

“Besides,” Boog added, “the DNR don’t want folks hunting them, ‘cause if they said they were good eatin’, every hillbilly with a shotgun would be out here tracking them down.” 

That part was true. A few years ago, some rich asshole brought in a batch of Russian boars and set up a game preserve where city men could come and play Great White Hunter. Then the preserve went bankrupt, and the hogs got loose. Now, they breed like rats in the forest, tearing up the land and ruining crops. Officially, you weren’t supposed to hunt them. But this was the Ozarks—the other Appalachia. Laws here were more like gentle suggestions. 

At the café, Donnie said, “Easy day. Snow last night means fresh tracks. Just gotta follow ‘em.” 

“If we shoot fast enough, we can drop three or four before they scatter,” Boog said, finishing a cup of burnt coffee. 

On the county road leading to the Devil’s Tollgate, Donnie handed me a bottle of 1843 bourbon and said, “Drink.” There was about an inch left. I killed it. 

We picked up some tracks fast. Big ones. They led toward the Tollgate. 

“Shit,” Donnie muttered. “I hope we catch ‘em before they get past it.” 

As we walked, Boog produced another bottle, some unmarked hooch that came from a mason jar and could probably take the paint off a truck. 

“It’ll make your liver quiver,” he said, handing it to me. I took a deep pull. It burned like asphalt stripper and hatred. 

The Devil’s Tollgate is an eight-foot-wide passage of volcanic rock, fifty feet long and thirty feet high, the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re walking into the past, like Hernando de Soto might still be lurking in the shadows, waiting to slaughter some poor soul. The Trail of Tears ran through here too. The history here is soaked in blood. And here we were, about to add to the tally. 

Donnie handed me his gun and went to take a piss against a tree. 

Then Boog shouted: “Look at that big son of a bitch!” 

Donnie snapped his head up, still mid-piss. “Gimme my gun!” 

“They’re out of range,” I said. 

“GIMME MY GODDAMN GUN!” 

I handed it over, and he started blasting, a crackling rifle report echoing off the rocks. Donnie took off running, boots kicking up powder. I fell in step beside Boog. 

“Jesus Christ,” I said, “he didn’t even have the safety on.” 

Boog grinned. “Just make sure you stay behind him. That’s my rule.” 

“Real comforting.” 

Boog laughed. “Ain’t nobody gonna get hurt.” 

I wasn’t sure that was true. 

By the time we caught up, Donnie was panting, cursing, scanning the woods. 

“Goddamn,” he said. “I hit him, but the bastard got away.” 

“Let’s get to the Tollgate,” he added. “I can get the high ground and hit him when he comes through.” 

“We’ll get the truck and meet you on the county road,” Boog said. 

“Alright. See you there.” Donnie took off. 

Back at the truck, Boog fished another bottle from under the seat. 

“Here,” he said, “that’ll help you relax.” I took a long, stinging swig, then handed it back. “I can’t relax as long as that crazy bastard is running around with a loaded rifle and no safety.” 

Boog just laughed. “He’s a good hunter.” 

We drove past the Tollgate to meet Donnie. The whole way, I thought about de Soto, about the Piankashaw, about how the first thing white men did when they got here was start killing. Nothing’s changed. 

When we got to Donnie, he had two boars field-dressed and ready to go. 

Boog threw them in the truck. “Let’s hit that tavern off Deer Run Road. Get a six-pack.” 

“That’ll work,” Donnie said. “Then we’ll drop these off at Indian Meadows before heading back to the café.” 

Deer Run Road. Indian Meadows. Isn’t it funny how we name places after the things we had to kill to claim them? Maybe there was always a little Custer in de Soto. Maybe there was always a little de Soto in us. 

I thought about that as we drove back to Piankashaw, the weight of history pressing down like snow on my shoulders.