Free Republic

So here Nat and I sit by the side of the road. A delegation from the Chamber of Commerce just came out and asked us to quit shooting at the tourists. Besides, it got a little too interesting when some of the tourists started shooting back. But what else is there to do on the outskirts of Hardyville on a slow day? Nat picks up a beer and tilts an eyebrow in my direction. “No thanks," I say. “That stuff tastes like moose drool." Nat shrugs and chugs. “So Nat, you were saying something about gulches not having to be...

So I'm driving out of town when I see the strangest thing. There's Nat's old Dodge pickup parked at the side of the road. He's roped his battered shooting bench in the bed. And there sits Nat himself with his spotting scope nearby, his deer rifle at the ready, and a six-pack of Moose Drool beer. He's peering over the rifle down the long, empty stretch of road that leads to Hardyville. Naturally, I have to stop and find out what the heck is going on. "Climb up here and spot for me," he says. "Er ... spot what?" "License...