Tall Tales & Old Memories * Mike Johnson Short Stories
As a child during the 1950s and '60s, Mike Johnson was an avid reader. 
Drawing and painting pictures, writing stories, and camping and backpacking were his first loves, long before he became involved in singing and songwriting. He consumed volumes of books and magazines, and movies about camping, hunting, fishing, trapping, and the adventures and exploits of daring outdoorsmen like Ernest Thompson Seton; John "Liver-Eating" Johnson; Sasha Semiel, the famous Jaguar hunter; Frank "Bring'em Back Alive" Buck; Jim Corbett; and Ben Lilly, as well as equally famous wild animals like the notorious wolf Lobo and his mate Blanca. He was especially fond of the stories of Rudyard Kipling, and many novels written by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Particularly his Tarzan novels and his "At The Earth's Core" series. Incidentally, Mike and other true Burroughs fans have always known that Tarzan and Jane were legally married at the end of Burroughs' second novel, "The Return of Tarzan." The Catholic Church had ordered all Tarzan novels removed from their schools book shelves because its censorship committe deamed the couple living in sin because they weren't married, and thus were a bad example for Catholics. Even earlier, the Hays [Hollywood movie censor] committe wanted the couple sleeping in separate beds. The irony is that none of the members on these two panels had ever read a "Tarzan" novel, much less the second novel! And they continued to ignore the truth or change their position even when the proof was presented to them. In fact, a wedding cermony was performed in a Elmo Lincoln silent movie version. Oh well, sometimes ignorance maintains a strangle-hold on itself!
Mike Johnson began writing short stories in elementary school and by the time he reached high school he had begun experimenting with novels. He has been self-publishing his works on a limited basis since 1977, when his first book, REFLECTIONS, a collection of poetry, was printed. This was followed by a short story collection, I WROTE'EM IN SCHOOL in 1977, and a novel RETURN OF THE BUTCHER in 1978. He published his favorite novel, THE LEOPARD'S CUB in 1979, the story of an orphaned boy living with leopards. Most definietly influenced by Burroughs, yet totally different, this wild, fast-paced adventure spawned two still unpublished sequels, "What The Jungle Saw," immediately after, and several years later, "Deadly Vengeance." Burroughs' son-in-law, 1927 ex-movie Tarzan, Big Jim Pierce, read "The Leopard's Cub" and wrote Mike to tell him that he "enjoyed it very much."
Real life experiences would begin to emerge in more short stories compiled into two more collections; "CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF A BEAR KIND," and "EL LATIGO, A LITTLE KNOWN LEGEND OF THE TIJUANA JAIL and Other Stories" while other true incidents would appear as flashbacks in several of his novels. Joining the Boy Scouts in 1957 opened the first of many doors to young Mike's adventurous cravings. 
While in the Navy, he took full advantage of the local outdoor offerings, both in the states and when his ship pulled into different ports between combat periods in Vietnam. The horseback riding stables tucked away in the jungles of the Subic Bay Naval Air Station in the Philippine Islands was an extremely popular hangout for Mike and many of the fleet sailors. Running the swift, twisting, jungle waters of the Pagasanjan River in Filipino dugout canoes was another popular pasttime. It was while swimming in these waters that Mike encountered a seven-foot water monitor lizard, called bayawak by the locals, which, in the water, looked so much like a crocodile! As Mike's stories will illustrate, this imaginative 1960 Eagle Scout eagerly explored the each next horizon.
"I WROTE'EM IN SCHOOL" contains 16 short stories that Mike Johnson wrote in high school between 1961 and 1965. Most of the illustrations for some of these stories were done some 10-years later when Mike decided to seriously explore publication. The 2009 paperback edition, photos of Mike and some of his classmates, the notebooks that he wrote these stories in, and some of the sketches that he caricatures that he drew of his classmates and staff. Only the spelling and some of the grammer has been corrected so that the stories would remain just like Mike "wrote'em in school!Enjoy...
I WROTE'EM IN SCHOOL May not be copied, reproduced, and or distributed, whole or in part, by any means, without the written permission of the Copyright Owner and or Publisher. All Rights Reserved. MAJJ Productions, P.O. Box 100933, Arlington, Va. 22210. CONTENTS:
Copyright 1977 Mike Johnson
Cover Art & Design by Mike Johnson
Drawings by Mike Johnson
Photographs [2009 paperback edition] by Mike Johnson
1977 First Edition Limited Printing
2009 Second Edition Printing
13MAJ002
1. THE OLD BUFFALO
2. CURIOSITY
3. JUST PASSING THROUGH
4. CLOSE CALL
5. SHE LOVES HIM!
6. WAZI WARRIOR
7. KING AND THE STRANGE DEER
8. TWO CATS IN THE NIGHT
9. FATE
10. A FEW HOURS AT THE LAKE
11. VICTOR, HUNTER OR THE HUNTED?
12. YOU OLD RASCAL!
13. THE DECISION
14. BRUSH, THE ORPHAN COYOTE [text version]
15. A TURTLE NAME OSGOOD
16. THE BUTCHER [a novella]
THE OLD BUFFALO
The old bull stood gaunt and fearful. A glassy look was in his eyes. His sides heaved in and out with each breath and his tail lay limp between his legs. Every few minutes he shifted his position, sometimes half stumbling. He was weak. Very weak and blood-soaked. It seemed just short of a miracle that his torn and bloody legs could hold his tremendous weight. Each awkward move and snort brought forth a series of growls and snarls from the mangy wolf pack surrounding him. A hungry, evil looking lot they were, also torn and bleeding from the numerous wounds inflicted by their giant foe. They knew the end was near. It was only a matter of time. And this they had. Too tired to move on and hungry enough not to, they would wait. Wait for the right moment and then...
Earlier that day the old bull, master of a small herd of cows and young bulls, was lazily grazing and swatting files, while the young bulls were enjoying themselves in mock battle. Life was just one monotonous circle. Grazing, swatting flies, dust baths, mating, and guarding their rambunctious offspring.
The morning as most, had passed quite calmly. The herd slowly grazed towards the hills where they could take advantage of the shade and the cool breeze that drifted across the valley in the evenings. The old bull went ahead, grazing as he did, and putting considerable distance between himself and his herd. To expose himself so was a bold and daring venture even for one so large as he.
The gap steadily increased nor was it unnoticed. Unseen eyes watched the old bull and the herd. Greedy eyes. Over a half a dozen pairs peered hungrily from their concealment among the grass and boulders by the willow tree.
Suddenly the bull looked up, his nostrils and eyes working and his little ears as erect as possible. Almost instantly the herd noticed him and they too became alert. And true to buffalo curiosity came forth to see what the master had discovered. Scarcely fifty yards had been gained when from the grass by the willow tree about eight or nine mangy, howling wolves rushed forth, straight toward the leader.
The herd turned as one and fled towards the other side of the valley. The old bull snorted in hesitation then turned. But he was too late. The pack was on him, biting and snapping at his legs and sides. He fought back slashing right and left with his curved horns and letting his sharp hooves fly hard and fast. The wolves closed in and held on where ever they could. He was an old bull with not much left in him. They knew this and they hit heard and savagely, sometimes knocking him to the ground.
So the old bull stood gaunt upon his wobbly legs, staring death in the face. Finally two wolves rose and rushed at him from opposite sides. The bull spun and catching one of them on his horns, slammed him to the ground and trampled him. His companion limped away growling. The bull breathed heavily and snorted. Fresh blood ran from his nostrils and his sides quivered heavily and he crumbled to the ground.
The rest of the wolves rose to their feet and closed in.
The End
CURIOSITY 
Kuma was perplexed. He’d never seen the likes of such a thing before. In all of his one year of life he’d never seen anything as startling as man! He resembled none of the creatures of the jungle, except maybe the great apes. But then there still was hardly a comparison except that the two could walk erect. Kuma watched curiously from his concealment behind a leafy bush. As the man walked along the trail Kuma followed at a safe distance, always keeping a bush or tree between himself and the stranger.
After a while the man stopped to rest. Kuma stopped also, sitting upon his haunches, his head cocked puppy-dog fashion, and a curious gleam in his eyes. He was even more amazed as he watched. Even more interested now was he than he had been before.
After the man yawned and stretched he began to tear himself apart, much to Kuma’s surprise. First he pulled off a large portion of his head, then the hump that gave his back a large meaty appearance. Next he pulled off part of the skin covering his back and arms and neck! Kuma shook his head and patted it with a paw, whining excitedly at the same time. This was too much! How could he stand it, just standing there tearing himself up and live! Impossible! Kuma sat there amazed and awe-struck for he knew naught of clothing. Something as unfamiliar to him as a collaborating dehydrative-evaporic precipitator is to us!
After the hideous self-torture the man gathered wood from the ground and snapped twigs from the low hanging branches and placed them on the ground in a pile, the smaller ones on the bottom. Then talking something from his left side he made it produce a sparkling glitter similar to that of the sun’s reflection upon the water and wet leaves. He put this glitter next to the woodpile, soon engulfing it in its jumping glitter. From his hump the man took out some meat and vegetables. Kuma could smell the pork from where he was without the assistance of the wind.
The pork was placed on a long stick and placed over the dancing glitters. Like small yellow sunspots they leaped and popped about the meat, engulfing it. The scent drifted over to Kuma who kicked his chops in anticipation. That food reminded him that he too was hungry. But his curiosity held him. Even a few of the local monkeys and birds had gathered around to watch the spectacle. Kuma stretched and yawned. Likewise did the man after he had finished eating. Soon he was snoring in unbroken slumber with half of the meat still left. The scent of the pork was reassuring and the young cat crouched and stared questionably at the man. He was asleep. Temptation was strong but so was caution. But the former was a little stronger this time. Slowly he began to creep forward upon his soft padded feet, constantly stopping to observe the man.
Presently after much stalking and stopping he reached his goal. He sat there for some time watching the man while the pork scent hung like a fog in and around his nostrils. He wanted the pork but to get it the man had to be watched. This was why a considerable amount of time elapsed before he turned his attention to the meat and commenced to devour the remainder of it. Being hungry caused him to chew off large chunks greedily amidst much low growling. This is what awoke the man, who upon opening his eyes could hardly believe them. He sat there holding his breath staring at the young leopard who had now by this time noticed him. Both creatures sat frozen, eyes glued to each other. Evidently both of them were somewhat frightened for neither dared move an inch.
Then there came from the jungle’s edge a low menacing growl. Kuma’s mother. The man turned his head slightly, even more concerned than ever when he saw looming at the edge of the jungle, the large spotted form of Kuma’s mother. She paced back and forth nervously, her muscles gliding in place with the easy motion of her lithe body. She moaned excitedly as she watched the man and her cub.
Kuma looked from her to the man, then back to her. His ears laid back and perked forward with their guttural exchanges. Slightly he began to inch away then stopped to note the man’s reaction. He did not move. His mother growled more encouragement to him. He inched away some more, always keeping his ears in the direction of his mother and his eyes in the direction of the man. She then snarled loudly, exposing her long white fangs, and at that Kuma sprang forward and raced to her side.
The man’s posture relaxed and he breathed a sigh of relief and watched the two cats disappear from view into the dense and brilliantly colored foliage of the jungle.
The End
JUST PASSING THROUGH
A tall cowpoke rode down the dusty street of Wasatch. The bay horse he rode was big but showed the weariness of long miles. The man’s hat and clothes were battered and dusty, worn from hard use, as was his physical condition, evident by the way he slouched in the saddle. His gray eyes were glassy, staring straight ahead. The corners of his mouth were cracked, and a rough stubble of a beard covered his hard weathered face.
The town was busy and hot. People scurried back and forth across the street, some nearly bumping into the newcomer, who never flinched or pulled in his reins.
In front of the Wasatch Saloon he stopped, and dismounting, he tied the reins into a slipknot on the hitching post by the water trough. As the bay drank the man unbuckled his saddlebags and pulled forth a feed bag and a sack of grain. He filled the bag and returned the sack to the saddlebag. Turning he was confronted by a young boy about twelve years old who was eyeing him curiously.
“You new here in town mister?”
“Here boy,” answered the stranger, handing him the feed bag and two-bits. “Feed’em good then put the bag on the pommel,” and he went around the youngster. He patted the horse’s head and went up the stairs and into the Saloon.
The Wasatch Saloon boomed with music, laughter and jingling spurs. Every one was having a good time. Only a few took real notice of the stranger entering.
“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked. A middle-sized man with a broad mustache and heavy eyebrows, his hands hard and callused, telling that bar tending was not always his life’s work.
“Whiskey,” the stranger dropped a couple of coins on the bar. At that the bartender wiped a glass and took down a bottle and placed it in front of the man who took the bottle in hand and took a long swig. Then he poured a glass full and leaned against the bar.
“Ah ah,” fumbled the barkeep. “You’re new in these parts?”
“Yep.”
“Trail Scout, huh? We get plenty of them here this time of year. People always going somewhere you know.”
The stranger didn’t answer. He downed his drink, then poured another.
“Oh. There’s a hotel down the street in case you plan to stick around. Got hot baths. And a barber too.”
“Thanks,” was the only reply.
The stage lights came on and the curtains drew back, followed by a loud uproar of applause from the men. The stranger turned towards the stage just as the dancing girls came out, smiling and bowing. They were gaily-dressed in short thigh-high dresses and webbed leggings and light shiny slippers.
The men loudly roared their approval. All except the bartender, who had seen the show countless times, and the stranger leaning against the bar holding his drink in one hand. His expression showed no outward signs of emotion although his eyes closely followed the movements of the dance girl in the center. All of the women were attractive, but this one in particular stood out as a little special.
When the act was over his eyes were glued to the curtains for some time, then as though suddenly awakened he turned to his drink. Something made him turn around again and the girl was there. His eyes followed her as she passed from table to table, talking and laughing with the men who pawed and playfully grabbed at her. Often her gaze went to the bar and always the stranger’s glare was on her. She strove to ignore it, but the stare was insistent. It worried her.
Presently she gathered up the nerve to stroll over to the bar her hips swinging loosely, bringing approval from the men she passed. Stopping just short of the stranger she eyed him from his boots to his hat and smiled. The cool gray eyes of the stranger seemed to shoot straight through her. She looked down nervously, then up at him again smiling.
“What’s the matter cowpoke? Ain’t you ever seen a woman before?”
A few of the men within earshot laughed. Just above a whisper, loud enough for the girl to hear he said, “Is that your character or your appearance?”
The girl’s eyes went wide and her complexion turned bright red and she turned and rushed off. A hush fell over the crowd then they broke into laughter.
From the corner table near the door a young man rose and started towards the bar.
“Oh no,” mumbled the bartender, turning to his shelves to look busy.
The younger man stopped next to the stranger and ordered a drink, watching out the corner of his eye. He downed two drinks quickly then turned towards the stranger, wiping his mouth as he did so.
“What’s your business Mister?” he asked.
“I didn’t say” came the reply casually and unconcerned.
The younger man turned red and clenched his fists. Sweat rolled down his face and neck. “Now look here Mister, let’s not get steamed up over a friendly little question.”
“You’re the one who’s sweating sonny.”
The younger man stepped back a foot, breathing heavily. His face and palms were dripping sweat. The Saloon was quiet and watching. Mostly the eyes fell upon the stranger who seemed indifferent about the whole matter while his eyes conveyed the alertness of a man who knew what he was doing.
“Now look here stranger, I’m fed up with your smart-aleck answers. And I speck you should wise up and apologize to Maybelle for whatever you said to her. Now I’m a waiting mister,” he snarled.
“Suit yourself sonny, there’s plenty of room at the bar.” And the stranger poured another drink.
The young’un reached out and grabbed the stranger by the shoulder and spun him around to face him. And as he did the cold gray eyes gave him a start.
“Nobody mister,” he pointed a finger in the face of the older man. “Nobody insults Johnny Blake’s girl and gets away with it. Specially not some no ‘count saddle-tramp like you anyway. Now you apologize or we’ll settle the matter another way,” his hand hovered over his Colt.
“Sonny. That could be a very costly mistake. And I don’t think your Maybelle would like you with a .45 hole in your head. So be a nice kid and go back to your table.”
There was something in that tone that could not be ignored. And the eyes, they seemed to tear right through him. Johnny was scared, too scared to back down. Besides every one was watching so he couldn’t back down and save face with the rest.
“Mister,” he blurted, “If you call me sonny once more, I’ll kill you where you stand. Without the apology!”
“Johnny no!” cried a woman’s voice from across the Saloon. He turned to see Maybelle running to him from her dressing room. She threw her arms around him pleading and kissing him on the neck.
“Oh Johnny! Let’s get out of here, please? It’s all right honey. You’re always fighting ‘bout something. Come on, let’s go.”
“Now honey, don’t you go getting excited. I’m just gonna to teach this here cowpoke a lesson. And he owes you an apology.” Her presence seemed to boost his bravado a little.
“Oh, Johnny, he only asked me my name. Come on, let’s go to my room and forget about this. Please?”
“Then why’d you up and leave so fast? He must have said something else!”
Maybelle dropped her head slightly. She could not find a valid answer fast enough so she grasped him by the arm and started for the door.
“Let’s go Johnny. For my sake?”
“Okay honey, for your sake I’ll leave,” he answered, permitting the girl to lead him away. He shot a quick glance at the stranger, smiling slyly.
“His arms must he mighty tired,” he thought, “leaning there at the bar. And he still ain’t apologized.”
Just before they reached the door, Johnny’s hand slipped from Maybelle’s arm to his Colt and he whirled swiftly. Maybelle muffled a scream as she turned realizing what had happened. Johnny was fast. The Colt seemed to leap into his hand and he thumbed the hammer back while bringing it from the holster. A futile act that was never completed. A shot rang out from the bar and young Johnny Blake fell forward face down, a clean hole in his forehead and a tangled bloody mass of flesh and hair in the back of his head where the .45 slug made its shattering exit.
Maybelle was at his side instantly. She cradled the bloody soaked head in her lap and sobbing silently.
The Saloon was in whispers. Eyes shifted from the tall stranger to the dead man and back again. A few men nearest the door departed swiftly, fearful looks in their eyes. Their shouts could be heard in the streets.
“Gawd!” whispered the bartender to another man near him. “I didn’t even see his hand move!”
The stranger, expressionless, holstered his smoking Colt and walked over to Maybelle who was still holding the dead body. She looked up into the man’s eyes questioning, her own eyes swollen but letting forth no tears. That she hurt was obvious but she would not give him the satisfaction of letting it be shown.
“Sorry Ma’am,” the stranger said, touching the brim of his hat as he walked towards the door. Maybelle crushed the body of Johnny Blake to her, burying his soaking head in her bosom.
Just as the Stranger reached the door, the Sheriff entered, his Colt in hand. He was followed by one of the men who’d left after the shooting. He pointed to the stranger, “That’s the man Sheriff!”
“Hold it mister, you’re under arrest.”
“Oh,” returned the stranger, and his gaze hit the Sheriff full.
“Did anyone see what happened,” the Sheriff called out. Everyone was silent. Then the bartender spoke up.
“Fair fight Dan. Blake pushed him to it. Didn’t he?” and he looked around at the people in the bar. They nodded yes.
“Yes. “Blake drew first Sheriff. Fair fight. Fastest thing I ever seen,” came the answers.
“That so,” said the Sheriff and he turned glance to Maybelle who was still holding her man.
“It’s true Dan,” she sobbed. “Johnny drew first.”
The Sheriff turned to the stranger and holstered his Colt. He eyed him for a minute then addressed him.
“I reckon you can go mister. Folks say it was a fair fight. Always knowed he’d end up with a bullet. Wild one that young’un. You staying long Mister?”
“Just passing through Sheriff,” he answered and started out the door.
The Sheriff sighed and gathered some men to take Blake’s body out. He took Maybelle in his arms and led her to thewindow as the men removed Blake’s body from the Saloon. Her head was buried in the Sheriff’s chest so she did not see the stranger as he put the feed bag in his saddlebags, mount the big bay and ride off out the South end of town, looking neither to the right nor the left, nor stopping once the whole way.
The End
CLOSE CALL 
Young Sheeta the leopard was hungry. Though there was plenty of game on the veldt, there was no suitable cover in which to hide to secure a good kill. So he sat, restlessly watching, his mouth watering.
Then as he was about to make a bold rush onto the veldt, the wind shifted, bringing to his nostrils from the jungle the sweet alluring scent of deer. Without hesitation he bounded into the jungle towards the scent. His beautiful coat blended well with his surroundings as he hurried along lured by that luscious scent.
In an open glade fed a sleek young doe, totally unaware of the lurking peril. Sheeta inched his way forward freezing whenever the doe lifted her head to check her surroundings. Now she began to feed again while the hungry cat crept closer and closer.
Not far away in another part of the jungle, another great cat, the king of beasts was hunting. He was stalking an old zebra that was walking dumb-founded along the game trail ahead of him. The lion himself was old with age, which was a great handicap since he did not live with a pride. He was now resigned to relying upon a great deal of stealth and then a quick and desperate rush.
The king cat crept up upon his victim as much as the cover would allow and then with a loud roar the lion charged his quarry, leaping swiftly into the air towards the zebra’s flanks with out-stretched claws. But the zebra pulled a fast one. Instead of bolting forward, he leaned forward on his front legs and mule like delivered a mighty kick backward full into the lion’s face. Then he bounded off, leaving the lion rolling on the ground in stunned rage and disappointment. Gathering himself up amidst a few angry growls of disapproval, the king set off upon the trail of a new victim.
Sheeta heard the lion’s roar as he lay crouched eyeing his quarry. Fearing the lion’s nearby roar would frighten his prey he leaped, voicing a shrill snarling scream. The doe went down hard under the impact of the heavy body, the slashing fangs, and the rending claws. Within a few seconds, the deer lay still and Sheeta screamed forth his challenge, then settled down to eat. Not three mouthfuls had he tasted when a low growl from the underbrush to his rear interrupted him. Sheeta turned.
The tall grasses parted and out stepped the lion that had missed the zebra. He had heard the leopard’s scream and knew that when a leopard hunts he rarely misses. With this in mind he had decided to invite himself to dinner though it looked as though his host was going to need a little persuading in the matter.
This was Sheeta’s kill and he meant to keep it no matter what. The two cats paced around each other in circles, Sheeta always keeping himself between the lion and his deer. Suddenly the lion charged, catching the young cat almost off guard. The two went down, snarling and clawing madly. The lion, heavier, pinned the cat under his massive weight, then sought his throat, while Sheeta fenced off his fangs with his own, all the while struggling to get free. Even though out matched, a leopard will give his all. And so would Sheeta. Bringing his hind claws up, he buried them in the lion’s chest. Then with all of his might he raked downward ripping out long ribbons of flesh from the big cat’s chest to his stomach. The lion leaped up roaring in pain and rage, releasing Sheeta, who once free, bolted for safety, leaving the lion rolling in agony across the ground.
But revenge is strong too, and the lion rose and charged after his enemy. Like an express train is the speed of a charging lion. But a fleeing leopard is lightning.
The lion hit the tree with a thud and bounced off. He rose to leap again with a roar. But Sheeta was well within the safety of the higher branches. There he nursed his wounds panting heavily. Below him, the king of beasts paced about, roaring defiantly in pain and anger. Never again Sheeta possibly thought would he dispute the king of beasts, even an old one.
Presently the lion ceased his roaring and went to feed on Sheeta’s deer.
The End
SHE LOVES HIM! 
Cru the Caveman sat on the ledge watching Sona the Cave woman. But he did not see Jon the Caveman, mate of Sona the Cave woman. Sona was with the other cave women by the river chatting and washing and skinning hides. Sona was very beautiful and lovely to look upon. There were other beautiful women there also but Sona was the most alluring sight. It was Sona that interested Cru and he desired her for his mate. True she was already mated, but law, Cave Law said that a cave woman may become the mate to whomever she chose or to whomever was strong enough to take her, even though she were already mated.
Cru watched the woman’s every move with craft and cunning in his eyes. Jon was away. This Cru knew and took advantage of for he knew that he could not stand up to him successfully in open combat. That is why man has brains, and Cru was making full use of them.
The sun of the Dawn years began to set and the women prepared their belongings to leave for their caves. Among them was Sona. Cru was still watching from the ledge while chewing on a piece of wallasarous meat. He watched the women pass beneath him. After she passed he descended to the ground and followed stealthily after her. Soon her lithe well-shaped body could be seen before him. He darted into the woods recklessly. Sona startled, turned to see the cause of the disturbance but saw nothing. She was sure that something was there and she peered long down the trail covered with grass and moss and into the edge of the forest bordered by tall ferns and lilac flowers. Finally she shrugged and turned to continue on her way.
Instantaneously a rough hairy hand was clasped over her soft delicate mouth and another rough hairy around her smooth brown arm. She with the sweet oval face looked up into the burly scared face of Cru. His cunning had worked. She tried to bite him but the hairy hand was held tight over her delicate mouth.
“Quiet beautiful one,” he spoke in a heavy bear tone. “Quiet and I take hand from mouth.”
Sona consented and Cru removed his huge hairy hand from her delicate mouth.
“Why do you grab me Bear face?” she scowled.
Cru flared at the insult but controlled his straining passion.
“Because I want you,” he panted dog-like, with his tongue hanging out. “I want you to be the mate of Cru.”
Sona shrank from him.
“Ha!” she laughed. “You want me? You would have to slay Jon and that you cannot do. For he is twice as big as you and he would spit upon you and you’d whither like a sick flower. Lucky for you he is away a lot and only comes to his cave when the sun sets, or I would have him slay you so that you would not pester me.”
Cru bellowed and raged and thumped on his hairy chest like an angry gorilla, filling the girl’s small lithe figure with fear.
“I can kill any man!” he roared. “Including Jon. Me strong like bull!” again he bellowed and beat heavily upon his massive hairy chest with his hairy hands and sometimes tangling the hairs of his hands and chest so that they pulled out painfully when he pounded. “And I shall have you too!” he shouted as he lunged at Sona.
Sona turned to flee and Cru would have succeeded in catching her if it hadn’t been for the big toe on his left foot that got stuck in a hidden mouse hole and tripped him, making him fall flat upon his big burly face. Scowling he got up and raced after Sona who had put on a good lead. She heard him crashing along the trail and pushed on a little harder. Sona was fleet of foot and Cru was flat of foot, but a wolf on endurance. He steadily chewed up the distance between himself and Sona as though they were mere inches. Soon the quarry was in sight. Her pace had slowed down considerably. It wouldn’t be long before she would tire completely and with this in mind Cru licked his lips in anticipation and slacked his pace to a slow trot.
Sona the Cave woman noticed Cru the Cave man closely behind her. She also knew that she could no longer keep up her pace but the thought of the loathing beast behind her goaded her doggedly on. Faintly she smelled firewood ahead. Slowing down she crept forward cautiously lest she run into something or someone more formidable than Cru behind her.
Peering through the bushes she saw a fire burning large chunks of wood. By the wall a huge prehistoric dinosaur sat catching chunks of meat thrown to him by a rock-faced brawny muscle-bound Caveman about four-feet ten inches tall throwing meat to it. Sona leaped to her feet and shouted and rushed out to the man.
“Jon! Jon!”
The man turned and shouted “Sona! Sona!” and rushed to the woman.
The two embraced each other happily and Sona, overjoyed swept Jon completely off his feet and covered his rock-type face with kisses from her soft delicate wanting lips. She placed him on the ground and Jon looked dizzily up at her with twinkles in his eyes.
“Wow!” he exclaimed while smoke steamed from his rock-type lips and he tiptoed up to kiss her again.
Sona kissed him again and again and then they sat down to talk. Suddenly she turned and glanced fearfully in the direction from which she had just come.
“What wrong?” Jon inquired.
“Jon “ she cowered “Cru! He is after me. He wants me to be his mate. I think it is him now,” she pointed out to where the movement came from. There was a slight rustle caused by movement behind.
Cru the Caveman panting heavily peered through the leafy screen at his quarry. Also they fell upon the form of her towering muscle-bound mate. Since Jon was from another tribe, this was the first time he had seen Jon. Since he was sitting down he had no idea of the man’s true height. Cru held back to think for awhile. Night found Cru in the same spot though in a more relaxed position. Ahead of him glowed the cook fire of his cave-mates Jon and Sona. Cru wished for a fire but dared not knowing that it would upset his plans. So shivering he watched them fall asleep.
In the morning Cru awoke just in time to see Jon rise, and with his wallasaurous, though so big, exit very quietly without awakening Sona, in search of the morning meal. This suited Cru just fine. Now he could put his plan into effect. As Jon left the area Cru rose to a crouching position his eyes upon the lithe figure whose side rose and fell casually with each breath. For several minutes to be sure that Jon had gone Cru waited with straining patience. Finally he decided to move, creeping forward on all fours like a great panther though being constantly halted by the big toe on his left foot. Soon he was at her side and paused to gaze greedily at the girl. His thick hairy hand went through her soft silky hair and he smiled a broad grin showing a gapped line of green and decayed teeth. Sona awoke slowly and teasing thinking that it was Jon. Upon gaining her full senses she looked blankly into the hideous face of Cru. She frowned disgustedly.
“Oh, you again,” she snorted “Can’t you leave people alone?”
Cru looked shocked. Then he answered with a grin. “I have come for you.”
“But Jon is here. He will kill you,” she answered.
Cru thumped his hairy chest. “Me strong like bull! Kill little munchkin! You mine!” and he grabbed her in his arms threw her across his shoulders and started off with her. Sona kicked and screamed but to no avail.
About fifteen minutes after Cru had departed Jon returned with meat. He was shocked to see Sona missing. Why would she leave he thought? He loved her and she loved him he hoped. Jon examined the ground and then started off in the direction that the tracks led. Impatiently he urged his wallasarous to greater speed.
Cru stopped to rest. He was tired after struggling with the struggling woman. He sat there panting heavily until a crashing noise on his back-trail caused him to become alert. Turning he saw a huge two humped dinosaurous type dinosaur come trampling through the jungle straight at him. Astride the beast was the muscle-bound rock-faced, axe-swinging caveman, Jon. At the top of his lungs he yelled some half-wit half-ape, half-monkey cry as his beast pulled up to a stop in front of Cru who was still holding Sona in his big hairy hands. Jon raced down his dinosaur’s back and skidded to a unique one point landing on his eagle beak type nose. Sona burst out in a loud laugh but ceased when her mate stood up and dusted off himself and his mouse-skin breech-cloth that he had made from a whole family of field mice that he had trapped with a chunk of moldy cheese.
Jon walked up to Cru who still had his huge hairy hands on Sona’s soft delicate limbs. He halted and folded his big brawny arms that knotted into solid balls of muscle that would make Steve Reeves blush. From a leather thong tied to his wrist hung his big stone axe. Jon stared long and hard up into Cru’s eyes and then in a stern and husky voice said “Boo!”
Cru’s upper lip dropped to his lower lip and he looked stunned. Sona was shocked as well.
“What you do with Sona?” he asked.
“I take her to be mine” Cru answered.
“Oh.” replied Jon indifferently and turned away.
“Jon!” exclaimed Sona. “Don’t you love me? Aren’t you going to kill Cru for trying to steal me?”
“Jon love Sona,” he stated still walking away. “I take back when feel like fighting. Me in no mood to fight now.”
“Jon,” Sona called pleadingly. “I love you. All four feet and ten inches of you. Cru will beat me! He is mean and ugly! I do not like Cru!”
Jon turned around and came back. This time Cru released Sona and sat on a rock. Sona stood and watched. Jon addressed Cru.
“Cru. I take Sona with me. She my mate. Come when I want to fight. Come Sona, we go home.” And he took her by the hand and led her off. Sona was overjoyed and she placed an arm about him.
Cru was dumbfounded, shocked, and every other big word to be thought of. He jumped off the rock and started leaping up and down on the ground and beating his chest and shouting, “Stop! Stop! Stop it!”
Jon and Sona stopped and turned.
“Why you muscle-bound half munchkin of a man, I’ll kill you!” and he drew his knife. Jon came stomping up to Cru and halting drew himself up to his full four feet ten inches of height and demanded, “What you call me?”
“A midget!” Cru sneered.
Without warning Jon swung his mighty axe and landed it on Cru’s big toe, bursting it and bringing forth leaps and howls of pain. Cru came out of this quickly and caught Jon on the jaw felling him to the ground. Following up the play Cru then pounced on Jon and attempted to pin him down. Jon gathered up all his strength to remove the heavy Cru. He fought valiantly but was still losing. Finally he began to rise and in a big voice he yelled “Sic’em Dino!”
At that Dino his wallasaurous charged over and gobbled up Cru like a kid eating a lollipop then sat back like a hound dog and licked his chops. Sona bent down to Jon and lifted him in her arms and started off down the path all the while covering him with kisses.
“Aw cut it out” he blushed. But she kept on.
“Sona love Jon,” she said.
“Yeah,” he sighed happily, “All four feet and ten inches of me.
The End
WAZI WARRIOR 
Kudo the sun poured forth his brilliant rays down upon the vast African jungle. Ragged clouds drifted over lofty mountain peaks while gaily-colored birds darted from tree to tree, singing their sweet songs to the coming day. The water buffalo rose from his bed of tall reeds and surveyed the plains before him, then with a snort turned and vanished into the reeds. The zebra, the deer, and elephants cautiously approached the waterhole ever on the alert for their ancient enemy, Simba the lion or his mate.
A brown rat scurried across a small clearing to a patch of grasses where she hoped to find the morning meal. With the first few hours of dawn the birds and beats of the jungle came forth sluggishly and cautiously until the plains and jungle were teeming with life as on any other day. The early morning was spent obtaining the needs of the stomach. Presently the activities were temporarily halted by the distant beat of drums. All were alert, then quietly feeding again.
In one corner of the Dark Continent lay the vast domain of the Wazi. And in one section bordering the jungle and facing the Great Plains was the large impressive village of the Wazi, a proud and noble people, unlike some of the Coastal tribes who cared for few things short of eating and fighting. The Wazi were a cultured and refined people in their own way, though when it came to spilling the blood of the enemy they had no equal.
Today was a day of days for the Wazi. It was the day on which Bulan, son of Chief Mutoto, was to start his final test of manhood. Then he would be a Warrior.
The tribe assembled in the center of the village, joyous and talking, excitedly awaiting the beginning of the event. The lovely wife of the Chief sat upon a crude but beautiful stool trimmed with leopard skin. She wore a soft antelope skin dress with a lion-claw necklace given to her years ago by Mutoto. In the very center of the crowd stood the Chief of the Wazi, a stalwart, ebon giant, his smooth skin glistening in the early morning dawn. Before him stood Bulan, sleek and lithe with flowing muscles that suggested a Greek soldier of Ancient History.
“Bulan,” spoke the Chief. “Today is the day you shall prove if you are a warrior or not. During the past days you have shown your skills in craft, judgment, and wisdom. And even the beauty of art. Now you must test these gifts and combine them with courage. You must slay one of the larger beasts of the jungle and bring back its pelt. Also you must bring back a gold rock from the river of the great crocodiles. Do you wish to continue the tests? Speak Bulan,” he commanded.
“Yes, I shall take the test,” he answered.
“Then take this knife and this spear,” continued the Chief. “You will be given three days and if you truly have a Warrior’s heart, you would hunt in the direction of the Spirit Leopard, Kali-Heni. Great shall be the glory of the Warrior who slays him. Go now and good Luck.”
“Father, I shall not fail you. Nor the Wazi” shouted the youth, waving his spear above his head. Immediately the crowd broke into cheers and shouts of good luck. They parted on both sides of the village street as he turned and trotted off towards the jungle. Even the boy’s mother joined in the dancing, her body glistening in the sun and as he passed her she bid him a “safe journey.”
Off into the jungle strode Bulan, toward the south, the celebrators’ voices and drums getting dimmer as he went on. Soon only the natural noises of the jungle filled his ears. A smile touched his lips as he moved restlessly through the jungle, an ear ever on the alert for some sudden danger, or his trophy of manhood. His young chest swelled with pride and enthusiasm as he neared his first objective. The river.
It had taken him until early afternoon to reach it. He propped his spear against the nearest tree and sat down to rest before following the water down to where it branched off and formed a beautiful emerald lagoon fed by a swift running stream. In the broken rays filtering through the foliage above he could see the reflections of the gold nuggets on the bottom of the pool, and the almost invisible guardian, the crocodile. Or Gia, in the language of the Wazi. Many an unwary swimmer and animal had lost their life to this denizen of the deep who came without warning. Bulan smiled as he noticed the green-brown body on the lagoon floor.
“Not today Gia. I have work to do. And slay you too if I must.”
Placing his spear against the bole of another tree closer to the water’s edge and checking his knife in its scabbard, Bulan, son of Mutoto, Chief of the Wazi, took a deep breath and slipped noiselessly into the tepid waters. Long powerful strokes took him quickly to the bottom with always an eye on the big reptile lying seemingly lifeless on the soft bottom. At sixteen feet, the deepest part of the pool, Bulan dug into the soft ground and uncovered a gold nugget the size of a golf ball. Slowly, still watching Gia, the boy rose towards the surface. And as he did Gia rose his huge bulk and glided silently after him. Bulan hurried to get that precious breath of air, knowing full well what his fate would be if he were caught by an arm or leg with little air. There was no time for reaching shore so he placed the nugget into his pouch and took his knife in hand and dove to meet the crocodile. Just beneath the surface Bulan met Gia, who came with wide open jaws, showing a nasty row of sharp teeth. The youth slipped under the destructive devices and grabbing a front leg stabbed repeatedly into the tender underside anxiously searching for the reptile’s heart. The waters churned violently as the beast tried to get at the cause of his misery who clung onto that one leg. His air running out Bulan was forced to surface. The crocodile seized that fleeting moment to slip away, leaving a crimson trail behind him. Bulan treaded water briefly, relieved and exhausted, and then started for the shore.
After a short rest he prepared a fire and then went up the river a short way in search of food. A few hours later he returned with some fruit and a young monkey. Throwing more wood upon the fire he went to the task of dressing out his kill. The meal was good. His belly was full he was content. Soon he drifted into a deep sleep with his fire still blazing would ward off the night creatures while he slept.
The Spirit Leopard stretched at ease bathing himself in the tropical morning sun. A bright reddish orange, with a crimson scar ran across the forehead. It was his size and his elusiveness that earned him the name of Kali-Heni, Spirit Leopard. Particularly his size, for he was unusually large for a leopard. A man-eater of the worst kind he was, spreading terror along his northward territory. Of a sudden the cat was awakened with a start, his yellow orbs glaring intently at the unnatural movements of the tall grasses, which only the jungle bred could detect. Silently he left his retreat and submerged into the tangled vegetation.
It was Bulan that the cat saw, and Bulan saw him at the same time. Earlier he had crossed his spoor and knew that this would be his trophy. When he saw the cat leave he knew that his life was in more danger than had it been Simba the lion, for the leopard was the most savage fighter in the jungle.
To a small clearing he came. As if on cushions he crossed to the other side and turned to wait. Being experienced in jungle lore he knew that the cat would approach from downwind so as not to be detected. Bulan waited tensely, thinking. It had to be the Spirit Leopard. No other leopard was as big as this.
Presently he was rewarded. At the end of the clearing from which he had just come there came a growl. Then a huge spotted head with a long scar on its forehead protruded from the yellow grasses. Bulan noted it with a smile.
“Ah, the Spirit Leopard. Surely your pelt will make me a warrior.” With spear hand relaxed he advanced several paces towards the beast and that brought forth snarls of anger from the huge cat.
“Ho! You are not afraid of me devil cat, are you?” The youth taunted.
The cat only growled through bared fangs, his tail lashing swiftly back and forth.
“But you should be,” continued the youth. “I, Bulan, son of Mutoto, Chief of the Wazi, shall slay you and take your handsome coat as my trophy of manhood. With this spear I shall pierce your wicked heart and you will die as you have made others die from your cruel fangs and sharp claws.”
The youth was dancing a war dance in front of the infuriated cat who was gathering up the nerve and hatred to charge upon this puny man-thing who dared dance and threaten him, Kali-Heni, the Spirit Leopard, mighty hunter and killer of many.
The boy finished his dance and was now a changed person. No longer was he the laughing carefree youth of yesterday, but rather a grim determined warrior of the future.
“Come now,” he commanded, advancing towards the cat. “Come now and die at the hands of a warrior. Come now and die or kill me!” Bulan leaped forward.
The leopard, a beast of nerves which had now reached their breaking point, rushed forward snarling angrily. Bulan halted, his spear arm thrown back. Lithe smooth muscles rolled into place and with all his effort he hurled his missile forward, straight at the oncoming beast. Squarely into the chest the shaft embedded itself, but the momentum of the leopard’s leap carried him with out-stretched talons straight at Bulan, who ducked, and was missed by a mere inch from those raking claws. Still alive and ready for a fight the cat landed a few feet from the boy who, simultaneously with drawn knife leaped, full upon its broad back. Wrapping his muscular legs around the cat’s torso and a strong left arm about the tawny neck, while his right arm with flashing knife in hand, stabbed repeatedly into the savage heart. The two rolled across the ground in their death lock then suddenly the cat lay limp and quiet. Bulan held his grip momentarily then slowly unwrapped himself from his bloody stained foe. Sheathing his knife and pulling his spear loose he stood and looked over his prize. His chest swelled with pride and admiration. A grim half smile touched his lips.
“The Spirit Leopard is no more. No longer will he terrify our women and children, nor kill our cattle and dogs. I, Bulan. Son of Mutoto, Chief of the Wazi, has slain him. No longer will the Wazi look upon me as a boy, but as a warrior of the Wazi.”
After cleaning his weapons he cleansed himself and saw to his wounds so that he could depart towards home, the great village of the Wazi. With the regal dignity of Simba the lion, the young man strode across the plains while across his shoulder lay Kali-Heni, the Spirit Leopard, a savage beast who died thus, a savage in the heart of savage Africa.
The End
KING AND THE STRANGE DEER 
Young King moved noiselessly through the woods, his handsome red coat blending with the autumn background. Almost everything was rich in browns, reds, and oranges, contrasted by the bright green of the running cedars covering the forest floor. Blackbirds, magpies and blue-jays scolded, and gray squirrels chattered from the higher branches of the pines and the oaks. A mother raccoon and her young ambled along, making haste back to their lair as the morning crept in.
The young buck cautiously picked his way down the narrow path to the stream a few hundred yards away. As the buck topped the last hill that overlooked the stream he stopped and sniffed for a long time. First left, then right, repeating this several times until finally convinced all was well. Slowly he descended to the stream. At the edge he stopped and checked the air again, his big ears twitching nervously, then he drank.
Suddenly his head went up, both ears went forward and his nostrils flared as he tried to catch the scent floating faintly on the breeze. A rustling in the brush sent him bounding off up stream. From the underbrush on the other side of the stream peered two beady black eyes. Then there was a series of snarling hisses and out popped two stripped skunks, wrestling and nipping at each other.
Hearing no sound of pursuit King slowed down to a trot. He continued on up stream, browsing as he went. About a mile and a quarter further fences came into view paralleling the stream. And with it was the man scent. Instinctively the buck hesitated. He had had his dealing with man before and always it meant death. As he paced back and forth by the fence, caution and instinct warned him away. To flee. But curiosity and the alluring aroma of the fresh green grass and ripe acorns on the other side began to get the better of him. His pacing turned into a quick trot as he crossed the stream. The big white tail flicked several times and King rose gracefully into the air over the fence, landing nimbly on the opposite side. Through that inherited sense of caution instinctive in all animals, King froze exactly where he had landed, alert for any signs of lurking danger. Finding none he began to graze, his tail twitching occasionally with contentment.
The place in which King grazed was a large field, which was bordered by woods on one side and rolling hills on the other. Completely unaware of another’s presence King grazed on, he also unnoticed by the other. Usually scent would have betrayed the two if not their sight. But by some trick of fate the wind had managed to blow between the two. Thus the two grazed on sometimes near to and sometimes farther from each other.
The wind held true to its course for some time then suddenly shifted. Simultaneously King’s head went up, his body tense, every muscle ready for instant flight. What was this? Nothing familiar to King. That it was an animal he was sure, but what kind, though it did resemble one of his own, sort of. Steadfastly he watched the strange thing. By this time the other animal had noticed King. There from about a hundred yards the two beasts eyed each other with suspicion and curiosity. Not a muscle twitched. They stood there immobilized like two bronzed statues.
To King the animal resembled a strange looking deer. And no doubt the other was just as baffled by King’s presence. Let out to pasture only occasionally the bull was naturally suspicious of most everything. Such was the life of a stud bull that always cooped up in a stall.
Everything was fine until King decided to advance closer. Then things began to happen. The great brown frame of muscle with head held high and tail straight, advanced toward the buck. Slowly at first, then breaking into a trot, snorting and shaking his head, stopping to paw the ground once. Then his tail shot straight up and he charged with the speed of an express train, the ground shaking under the pounding of his hoof beats and reverberating at the sounds of the hoarse bellows issued from its heavy throat. King dodged just in time, being missed by a few inches. Had he met the bull head-on he would have been just a memory.
The bull was now preparing for another charge. King wanted out, but the bull was blocking the way he’d come. And he could sense the futility of battling such a creature. So he did what any red-blooded American deer would do. Run! And that he did, straight towards the oncoming “express train” who had turned to charge again. Every step, every heart beat meant life or death, depending upon his actions. Fate held the answer. As the two sped towards each other, the outcome seemed certain. The gap closed quickly. Thirty feet, twenty feet, ten... s-w-i-s-h, King propelled himself into the air and sailed gracefully over the back of that mighty mountain of flesh, which rushed blindly beneath him. Landing some twenty feet away, King bounded for the fence. With little effort he cleared the obstacle and bounded up-stream never looking back once.
About a mile upstream King finally slowed down to a trot, then a walk, peering nervously over his shoulder. Finally convinced that the danger was far behind he allowed himself to lie down in a bed of spruce to shake off some of the excitement. Finally he laid his head down and slept though it would seem that he’d never forget this encounter for some time.
The End
TWO CATS IN THE NIGHT 
I was hunting buffalo that day. Cape Buffalo. The deadliest of all the African Big Game. Sillah, my guide and I, not that I’d get lost or anything, but it’s nice to have company along when hunting. Especially you’re when after the elusive water buffalo. Anyway, we were quite beat under that tropical sin. The veldt was a dusty brown with uprooted clumps of reeds scattered about. Several herds of zebra, gnu, gazelle and other less familiar species moved restlessly about in the burning heat.
Sillah and I had been out two days and no sign of the quarry yet. Usually, buffalo can be found by the marshes and riverbanks. But today, no dice. I soon began to sweat like I was Niagara Falls. Glancing over at Sillah, I noticed that he hardly sweated and didn’t. Even if he was conscious of the heat he showed no signs of discomfort. So we trooped on, poking into the reeds and the mud wallows by the banks. Once a leopard sprang away. From us fortunately. But we were ready for with lightning speed Sillah had brought forth an arrow, fitted it onto his bow and drew in preparation for a shot. I followed a little slower bringing up my Winchester to a firing position. When Winchester is mentioned, referring to guns that is, one is inclined to think of the Model-94 of the by-gone pioneer days of the late American West. Well, believe it or not, that’s exactly what I was totin’.
I know it sounds crazy, shooting a buffalo with a .30-30, but I like risks. I mean look at all these great hunters armed just short of a Sherman Tank when they go on Safari. Who has the edge? Besides, the pioneers and Indians killed buffalo with Winchesters and bows and arrows so why can’t I do it African style? I’ve shot bears, moose, lion, (African and American) leopard, and a rhino once, with this gun. And one day I’ll work up enough nerve to try an elephant. But you can bet I’ll be behind something like the Alamo when I do. And that rhino. I’ll never fully get over that. He just didn’t want to stay down!
Finally after an hour or more Sillah spoke to me and was I glad to hear what he said.
“Bwana Sharp,” he said. “We rest under that tree. Sun too hot. Not good for tracking.”
All I could say when we finally sat down was “Whew!” And I can tell you that that cool breeze really felt good. I had to unbutton my shirt and take off my hat to take full advantage of it. Even a tall glass of Budweiser wouldn’t have felt so good.
I must’ve been tired for Sillah woke me calling my attention to something beyond the shade of our tree. I put on my hat and leaned forward to gaze in that direction.
“Simba,” he said. “Her cough awoke me. She feeds. Soon her mate will join her.”
I sat back to a more comfortable position and watched in the direction that the Native had pointed. Presently I could hear the coughs and grunts coming from the shrubbery and I let my imagination drift. I visualized a magnificent young lioness sitting patiently by the carcass of a fat zebra mare waiting for her mate. Then my visions were shattered by a growl several yards away from the bushes on the other side of our tree.
Sillah and I turned at the same time to look upon a full grown black-mane lion standing about forty yards from us with his face wrinkled in a snarl. I slowly reached for my rifle and straddled it across my lap. Sillah’s bow and arrow had been ready the moment he turned. I couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s alertness. He was always ready.
“Sillah? What do you think?” I asked.
He looked at me, the lion, then me again and shook his head replying, “Hard to say. We are between Simba and his mate. If he is not hungry he might wait. If he is hungry he might charge through. Hard to say.”
I could understand his ‘mights’ for lions are unpredictable. Once they’re like kittens, then they’re raging demons. One can never tell. Every lion encountered is different in character no matter how much alike in looks. Sillah sat motionless, his ebony skin firm and glistening in the fractured rays of the sun.
“We shall wait him out Bwana,” he said.
“Fine,” I answered. Then I caught myself thinking, ‘Fine! What am I saying! There’s two lions out there and on both sides of us. When night comes they could be in here on us before we knew it. And that’s what I was believing too for the cat had settled down before us with no evident fear, though with a slight pose of caution. Then a really terrible thought that I dared not voice seeped in. Where was the rest of the pride?
As hard as I tried to pierce the brush behind him, my eyes came back the disgruntled male. His head was magnificently framed in a thick black mane with tan roots making it look as though it had been dyed.
The three of us had been regarding each other for the better part of the day when suddenly the lioness behind us roared and stepped into view. With her she dragged the carcass of the zebra that she still had not eaten. She was waiting for her mate. The male looked up and returned a growl that shook the leaves of the tree above us. The lioness settled down with a yarn and waited. How long she’d wait I couldn’t say. Cats are nervous creatures. Anything can spur them into action. Especially a lioness more so than the males who will wait hours for their quarry or sometimes just give up.
Daylight was fading and I was all for departing but Sillah who sat there almost indifferently made me feel somewhat ashamed. But then I thought to myself, ‘He was born that way. He lived with the beasts. It was nothing to him.’ So I felt that if he could, so could I.
Soon the sun disappeared all together and the moon slipped suddenly into view. I could see the yellow eyes of the lioness glowing in the dark.
“Now’s the time,” I thought to myself.
Sillah’s spear reflected the moonbeams and cast some fragment light spots across his shoulder and chest. I fingered the trigger of my rifle nervously and Sillah turned to me and grinned. He was a trusted guide but there was something in that grin that disturbed me. I couldn’t say what it was and thought about it often.
“Simba eat now Bwana,” he spoke. “Dark now. Mate will make large circle around us,” he indicated with his hand, “to join mate. She safe is from us now. She will go to mate.”
“Safe from us!” I thought. “What are we safe from? Those cats could steal in here during the night and finish us off before we even knew what happened. Sometimes I wonder about Native philosophy.
When the cats’ eyes disappeared, I instinctively cocked the hammer on my rifle. Sillah grinned again.
“Cat go around Bwana.”
“Can’t we go around or up or something?”
Up! That was it! The trees! Why didn’t I think of that before? I slung my rifle on my shoulder and stood up.
“Down Bwana. Simba get excited. Think you try to harm her.”
“Nonsense Sillah. Help me up the tree then I’ll pull you up.”
Reluctantly the man laid down his spear and gave me a hand. I grabbed the nearest branch and started to pull myself up. Meanwhile the lioness had stopped, distracted by the noise we made. She growled and snarled menacingly. To make things worst she trotted over to investigate.
“Hurry Bwana,” Sillah called. “Simba comes!”
I struggled to pull myself over the limb. Simba lost no time in coming. Her gait was swift and determined and she rushed in with fangs bared. Sillah had taken up his spear and repelled the first two attacks with neat jabs to her head. Finally I gained my limb and sat in a position to shoot.
“Drive her off once more Sillah so I can drop her.”
The man raised his spear for the next assault. I could see the cat’s eyes as she rushed in. What little moonlight there was helped. I saw Sillah jab and the cat swung a paw. The spear went flying from his hand and the cat lunged. I fired and there was a shrill scream as the cat landed on the man who waited with ready knife. The cat was only wounded.
From the brush came her mate, his yellow eyes blazing. I let him get closer then fired. He roared painfully and fell, and at the same time I lost my balance and fell from my limb right on top of Sillah and the struggling lioness.
By pure accident the rifle struck the cat’s head, stunning her, and allowing Sillah to finish her off with two quick stabs straight into her heart. Sillah pushed the cat from him and stood up. He rubbed his wounds and wiped the excess blood on his thighs. In the moon’s dim light I could see the wet blood reflecting the light off rising and falling chest as he sought to regain his composure.
“Her mate?” he questioned, looking about.
“Dead.” I replied, rubbing my head. “Dead. Are you alright, Sillah?”
“Yes Bwana,” he grinned.
In the morning we inspected the two cats. After searching through a foot of tangled mane I found the hole in his chest where my bullet had entered. Right about a shoulder and straight down to the heart, killing him instantly. The lioness, along with stab wounds in her chest, had a bullet hole in her back, right next to the spinal cord. Both heads were in pretty good shape so we took them with us. Sillah took the claws, which he considered good luck. The heads were heavy, but after a few more days and no buffalo I was glad I did keep them. We turned back rather reluctantly towards the Outpost where we’d hear all the others bragging about their buffalo while all we had was two lions.
But I figured it was better to be alive with two lions, than dead with no buffalo.
The End
FATE 
Dead stillness rose over the jungle after the roar of the jaguar King of the South American jungles, pierced the air. On padded feet the author of the fear-instilling voice melted through the densely tangled underbrush. He did not hurry. Nor was he careless. But very intent was he as he stole along. Silently as a shadow he passed, scarcely disturbing a leaf.
Suddenly he paused, and with him the surrounding creatures ceased all activity. They could sense his presence and knew his purpose. All eyes and ears were alert, watching and listening, trying to locate their long-time enemy.
The jaguar crouched and sniffed the air, then wormed his way forward, his tail twitching excitedly. About fifty yards ahead was a stream that supplied the neighboring jungle folk with water. Drinking from it was a fat doe and at her teats suckled a newborn fawn. Very close to her he stayed, bleating in contentment. An inspiring sight the two presented, soon to be shattered by the cruel stroke of death.
The doe drank and fed at the same spot. She never moved more than a few feet in either direction as though held by some strange power. The fawn stuck close to its mother, casting suspicious glances about him at the strange new world that he’d just entered.
In time the jaguar had succeeded in worming his way within striking distance. He licked his chops in anticipation as he crouched, gathering his muscles beneath him for the final spring. He breathed hard, a cough escaping his throat. The doe heard it and up went her head. Eyes and ears were locked in the direction from which the sound came. Simultaneously, there rose a streaking, orange form that shot straight for the deer with outstretched talons, issuing a savage snarl that changed to one of howling pain as he twisted in mid-air at the sound of a sharp crack from the underbrush on the opposite side of the stream. The cat landed heavily upon the doe. She struggled desperately to escape from her dead enemy but the weight was too great.
From the brush where the noise had originated, emerged two men. One, a husky brown-skinned Indian, jabbering andgesturing to his companion, a deeply tanned tall white man, a coarse beard covering his weather-beaten face. The two halted at the feet of the jaguar and looked down upon the frantic deer. She had ceased struggling though her eyes were still wide with terror. Her fawn was standing a couple of yards away, bleating and trembling. The white man stooped down, grabbed the deer and then lifted the jaguar from her. Then he reached for his long hunting knife. On the hilt it read “Made in Japan” but that was of no importance.
As the doe felt the pressure of the cat’s weight removed she sought to escape, but to no avail, for the man held her securely. As he drew the knife he glanced up at the Indian who smiled and nodded his approval. The man returned the smile and his knife blade flashed in the sun and a swift stroke severed the rope that had been fastened to the doe’s ankle. Then he released her.
“You’re free now, and thanks,” he said.
The doe bounded over to the fawn, and she licked and nuzzled him excitedly, then led him off into the protecting foliage of the jungle.
The two men watched until the two disappeared then turned to the business at hand. The task of skinning the jaguar that had met his end at the phantom hand of fate.
The End
A FEW HOURS AT THE LAKE [true story] 
It was a pretty nice day from the beginning, so I decided to take advantage of it. After breakfast I donned my swimming trunks and dagger and grabbed my snake snare and started up the path through Acorn Grove and down through Beech Valley towards the lake.
Oh. Acorn Grove and Beech Valley is the name of a group of cabins. These two groups and another two make up Camp Goodwill, a summer Camp for girls in Prince William Forest in Prince William County, Virginia. That brings up another question, why was I there? Simple, I worked there. I was in charge of the Commissary, which opened after each meal, and any odd hour of the night that the Camp Counselors got an acute case of the munchies.
Most of my time was free, which I spent roaming the woods or helping Al Lazure, the Camp Truck Driver.
Now getting back to the nice day! I went through Acorn Grove and down the path pass Beech Valley. I could hear the kids singing and laughing as they were doing their morning chores. Among them, I could hear Kathy, one of the Counselors, calling to her kids.
“Hurry up girls. Let’s sweep real good.”
A few of the girls from Pat’s cabin, which was closest to the path, saw me and waved. I smiled and waved back. They were all nice kids. Beech Valley was for the 8 to 10 year olds.
Upon reaching the bottom of the hill I stopped momentarily on the wooden stairs looking over the lake. The sun was shinning full blast upon it, making a blinding glare for so early in the morning. The lake was man-made and a pretty good sized one. About an acre I recall. At the end closest to the stairs, its bottom was made of concrete for non-swimmers and beginners. A dock and diving board divided the shallow end from the rest of the lake where the real swimmers swam.
I went on over to the dock. Down along the shoreline were a few painted turtles sunning themselves. The resident greenheron rose from the far end of the lake near the beaver lodge. There were many turtles and snakes, the turtles being the most famous. Especially one old Snapping turtle in particular. We called him Osgood. Though we caught a few of his brothers, we never quite got him. That’s another story.
Today I was intent on catching a few water snakes. There were plenty that liked to sun themselves on the other side of the dock. Silently I crept across to the beaver’s storage lodge for this is where the snakes sunned themselves the most. Just as I reached it I stopped suddenly. Neatly coiled on the woodpile was the biggest water snake I’d ever seen down there. He was over a yard long, a giant compared to the others I’d seen who ranged from eight inches to almost two feet. I crouched and inched my way forward a few inches at a time. I couldn’t tell if he was sleeping, since snakes have no eyelids, so they look the same, sleeping or awake.
After getting into a lying position on the edge of the dock over him, I opened the loop on the end of my snare. Very slowly I brought it over the edge and towards his head. He did not move. The loop moved closer and closer to his head. It was at his nose when his tongue flicked. The loop froze. His head moved back and the loop followed. Slowly he let his rear end slip down into the water. I figured I’d better do something quick or lose him. Jerking the pole toward his head I pulled the line. The snake moved too so that I only had him by the tip of the nose. The momentum of his descent freed him.
You talk about someone burned with anger as I saw him swim off. I knew he’d be back, but when? I pulled the pole up to me and fixed the loop, then settled down to catch a nap. After sprinkling some water on myself, I fell asleep.
It must have been a good hour or two before I awoke. I was well rewarded too. The snake was back. His fat reddish brown body, slick with water shone brightly in the sun. I reached for my pole and froze instantly at the sound of the loose leaves rustling on my right. A quiver went up my arm and I tensed it to try and get rid of it. Turning my head slowly I came to look another snake square in the face. He was the same color as the other one with the yellow diamond pattern on his back. But his skin was dry, caked with dirt. And he wasn’t even a full arm’s length away!
How long he’d been there I don’t know, but that it was while I was asleep I was certain. His eyes glared full into mine with an occasional flick of his tongue. For no reason at all my eyes shot to the left. Between the boards of the dock, protruded the head of another snake. His head was facing the other direction.
My limbs tingled with excitement! Surrounded by snakes! Big vicious man-eaters! I was letting my imagination run away with me. I was excited. I’d get one for sure now. I inched the noose towards the one on my right. He let it get but so close then backed off under the dock. I turned to the other and he was gone also. That left the big one and a few pint-sized ones that had recent1y crawled ashore. My noose went desperately for his head and likewise he retreated. Hopping up to a kneeling position I whacked at him in an attempt to stun him, but he got away. I’ve caught several swimming snakes that way, by whacking them across the back. They’ll remain stunned for several minutes, enough time to grab hold of them.
The first swimming group came down to the lake, proceeded by Carol, the Lifeguard. I told her of the recent happenings and spent a while swimming with the kids. Afterwards I went up to my cabin to dress and find Tina to tell her that she’d have to wait awhile for any snakes for the camp’s Nature Center.
The End
VICTOR, HUNTER OR THE HUNTED? 
The big tan cougar watched nervously from the cliff ledge. He breathed heavily while from his shoulder poured a little trickle of blood that had clotted at this knee. His eyes were upon a figure ascending in his direction. The cat coughed and turned away.
Ascending the broken trail was a young Indian brave. His hair was black and straight with a single Eagle feather protruding from it. His skin was covered with dirt and particles of rock powder. He had wounded the cat the day before and clung persistently trail. His bow was drawn tight with an arrow rested across it.
The boy could sense the near presence of his search. Every now and then he would get that feeling of being watched. His scalp tingled or his arms trembled and always he looked up. He was not wrong for the lion stopped often to see how well his lead was.
The evening grew late as the two trudged on. The hunted trying every trick possible and the hunter solving them just as quick. In a small clearing among the rocks the Indian stopped. He gathered what wood that could be found and started a fire. When the blaze was going good he pulled out a piece of venison from the pouch which he carried on a strap which hung from one shoulder. The firelight flickered and danced upon his brown skin as he sat there watching the rock formations around him while he waited for the meat to cook. Possibly he was thinking of home and his family. Or some far away place he had never seen. But it could not be doubted that he was also thinking of the lion somewhere out there in the shadows. Maybe he... No, he dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. The lion would be too exhausted, having been pushed all day. He must be nearby.
The old cat was in the vicinity. Quite closer than the boy could imagine. Just across the clearing and behind a pile of boulders he crouched, tired and panting, watching the Indian behind the fire which made weird, dancing, leaping figures upon the boy and the earthen walls and floor around him. The cat knew of fire for what it dealt, pain and death. In his youth he had experienced the heat and sweat of the roaring inferno of a forest fire and had barely escaped alive. So there huddled the cougar, once king of a large domain, among the large boulders, cowering in fear and pain, tending his burning wound.
The moon was a half-hidden glow in the sky and lit the earth in various places, catching an occasional swallow or an owl in its rays. Having ate well, the boy eventually drifted off to sleep.
Dawn broke suddenly and with it came chirping birds and buzzing insects. The cougar was stirred by the morning noises of nature and the Indian scattering the remains of his fire. The cat growled as the boy stretched and loped off. Evidently the boy heard or saw something, for he glanced up suddenly and then hastened off in that direction. The lion heard the quick pursuing lad and lunged blindly ahead. The boy came rapidly, stringing his bow and notching an arrow. He arrived at the point that had harbored the cat the night past. From the bloodstains he determined that the cat had not rested much, for it was scattered about showing that the cat had shifted about nervously all night. He guessed the closeness to his camp had caused this. Satisfied, the boy mumbled something and continued of his way.
Up ahead was the lion, even more worried than before, as shown by his constant peering over his shoulders. The trail he had taken in his haste to gain a lead took him to the edge of the cliff, which went around, and up. It also suggested one’s fate should he fall over the side. A straight two-hundred foot drop that ended sharply upon the jagged rocks at the bottom. The lion went on, searching futilely for an avenue of exit on the summit. A few more paces held the answer. A dead end! The cat started back quickly in an attempt to reach the other path before the Indian. In mid-stride he halted, growling in disapproval. Just around the next bend he could hear the Indian picking his way up the narrow ledge. Too late! The cat screamed forth his challenge and turned back towards the dead end. In the little space he paced back and forth nervously, bearing his teeth and unsheathing his claws.
At the scream of the cougar, the boy stopped, then gestured approvingly. He took another arrow from his quiver and placed it parallel with his bow before starting cautiously up the path, totally unaware of the big cougar watching his progress from about twelve feet above him. Though ignorant of this the boy went cautiously, making sure of each foot he placed, alert and carefully watching the trail ahead of him as he went.
About twenty five ahead crouched the silent waiting flesh of destruction. He licked his jaws in anticipation and bared his teeth silently. His leg muscles tightened like steel springs as the cat prepared to launch himself upon the cause of his pain and discomfort. The Indian came right to the wall around which crouched the cougar. He stopped to listen for any sign of movement on the other side. Evidently he was not satisfied for he drew his bow and stepped into the blind space. Simultaneously came the scream of the cougar who sprang so swiftly that the boy was caught completely off guard. So sudden and hard was the attack that the bow was knocked from the boy’s grasp. He grabbed at the snarling cat to keep from falling over the side. But the momentum was so strong that nothing but the two going over could have happened. The boy and lion fell, fighting and raging. The cat screeching, biting and scratching and the boy, grasping, yelling, and stabbing with his puny knife.
The whole hillside and canyon echoed with the battle cries of the two combatants as they fell, fighting desperately. Their cries ended abruptly when the two smashed heavily upon the rocks below. Both bodies, torn, mauled, and blood soaked, lay broken and limp upon the rugged protruding rocks. All nature was quiet for a brief moment, then began its everyday activities as though nothing had happened.
Night came the same as any other night, cool and moonlit. The nocturnal dwellers came forth in their quest for food, which is one of their chief objectives in life.
Morning came in its regular fashion. The owls roosted and ground squirrels emerged from their burrows. Far out on the horizon, a black speck seemed to move. As it got larger, it began to split into several dots that circled around repeatedly in the sky and drew nearer with each rotation. Closer they glided to the high cliffs until they almost touched the summit. Vultures. The trash and garbage collectors of the wilderness.
The smell of death was strong from this wall and the ill omens floated about taking in the aroma and deciding whether or not to land. Finally the temptation got the better of them and Nature’s Sanitation Department descended one by one, down upon the broken remains of the battle combatants of the day past. The large birds hissed and squabbled with each other, fighting for the choicest parts. For three days the vultures and other scavengers fed upon the carcass of the lion and the Indian. On the morning of the forth day the flock rose, leaving only the clean picked bones of the late departed to the elements of Mother Nature.
For many years, through countless rains and dry seasons the skeletons remained there upon the rocks. To you they would be just skeletons that once lived, but to a more nature minded person, an individual of the wild, it would have a broader meaning. That always it will not be the hunter to win and the hunted to lose, nor vice versa either. For as it happened in here, death may claim both.
The End
YOU OLD RASCAL! 
“Get out darn it!” shouted an angry voice amidst much yelping and barking. The door to the old log cabin flung open and out burst a yelping black and white hound, tail tucked, and a few pots and pans sailing and bouncing about him. An average sized bearded man of about sixty, framed the door and hurtled a few more insulting remarks, plus a shoe at the retreating figure. At his feet cowered three other hounds watching their companion take to the woods. The man turned and walked angrily back into the house.
“Damn dog!” he cursed as he stomped into the kitchen. In one corner of the room a side of half eaten venison lay on the floor along with a spilt pitcher of milk and syrup. The old man grumbled as he cleaned up the mess. He was mad.
Outside in the woods just beyond the cabin the puzzled but frightened hound sat upon his haunches watching the cabin. His side and back ached from the numerous blows he had received in the process of retreating. This was the first time in his life he could recall being treated thus. Haven’t they always shared the same food before? There didn’t seem to be any reason why his master should object to him having a bite of the meat. Well anyway, he could return later on, doubtless the man would be only too happy to see him.
Turning, he trotted off down the path, sniffing occasionally at several scent posts along the way. Several times he stopped to glance back in the direction of his companions, the other three hounds. He seemed undecided. First he started one way, then the other, always stopping mid-way in either direction. After a few minutes of what would seem like thought the hound then turned and continued on the way which he had commenced.
Down the trail a rabbit broke cover and was immediately pursued. Around the larger trees seemed to be the hare’s best method of keeping a lead. But the hound kept to him until the chase ended abruptly with the rabbit ducking into a decaying log. The dog paced the length of the log scratching occasionally at the entrance through which the rabbit used.
Inside, the little cottontail huddled in fear as he watched the dog stick his nose into the end of the log. He then paced back and forth whining and growling constantly. For some time this kept up then ceased completely. The rabbit took notice of this. Leaning over he thumped the inside of his refuge with one of his long feet then sat to listen to its effect. Nothing happened. Just the normal everyday sounds of the forest could be heard. Cautiously he inched his way up to the entrance. His rolling brown eyes scanned as much as they could cover while his big ears and nose twitched like antennas. Again the rabbit sat motionless listening for one distinct sound that would cause him alarm. Satisfied, he began to near the entrance and was about to bound out when there came a rustling noise in the leaves just a little out of view at the log’s end. The rabbit froze again with his ears pricked forward and eyes glued to the direction from which the noise was coming. The dog’s return would be the only thing that the rabbit could connect with the noise since it had so insistently hung around for quite a while looking for a chance to grab him. As the noise increased, the author began working its way around to the front of the log thereby giving the rabbit a full view of his fears. His body sat huddled in a little ball then suddenly relaxed as he saw a little sparrow hopping through the leaves, pecking constantly and scattering leaves every which-way, searching for a meal. The rabbit then started for the entrance. Seeing the small bird made him re-assured that no danger could be lurking within the vicinity. The cottontail bounded out and in that same instance a set of steel-like jaws closed about him. He struggled for a while, but when the pressure increased he fell quite limp. The hound dropped his victim and nosed it then carried it off a few yards and began to eat. By the log could be seen the impression of the hound’s body where he laid in ambush for the quarry which he succeeded in obtaining.
When night fell the Black and White was still in the vicinity of the kill. He had curled up in a cozy little ball with tail over his nose and fell off to sleep. In the distance he could hear the bobcats and gators in the swamp, screeching and grunting along with the buzzing insects and other night dwelling creatures.
Back at the cabin the old man sat by the fireplace in his rocking chair. He puffed on his Walnut pipe as he disassembled his rifle and started cleaning the parts. The three hounds lay at his feet dozing and watching the man, occasionally perking up their ears at a high pitched or especially accented word emitted by the man who talked between puffs upon his Walnut pipe.
“Got to get an early start tomorrow,” he spoke. “Down in the Echo is the most likely place that panther’ll hole up.”
The Echo was a superstitious part of Deadfoot Hollow Swamp, called thusly by the people because of the numerous water moccasins, gators and mosquitoes, the latter basically an early spring menace.
“Now Bell, Jack, Streak, you listen good.”
All three hounds looked up at the sound of their names. Their long tails thumped the floor.
“I want you to make a good showin’ tomorrow. We’ll git that cat or your names ain’t your’n and mine ain’t Ben Ellis. Don’t make no sense that cat foolin’ us like that. You’re the best trackers in this here county and we’re gonna prove that you still are by gittin’ that lion. I know’s you can do it. Just ‘cause we’re one man short, that don’t mean a thing. That dumb old Rascal’s probably miles away from here by now. Nerve of that dang dog. Why I’ll... I’ll...” he couldn’t say what he wanted.
“Well,” he switched the subject, “Time to let you out fer the night.”
Ben got up, laid his gun aside and went to the door, the hounds following on his heals. Ben opened the door and the three hounds trooped out, one after another.
“Don’t git too far,” the man called. “We got a lion to catch!”
The three hounds bounded off into the woods, baying loudly. They raced down the path like a couple of frisky ponies. From their left came another baying. The three halted, then started off in that direction. It was their brother, Rascal, who had been chased out earlier.
The two parties met each other at a fork in the road. First they came cautiously toward each other then once they were recognized there was much tail-wagging and whining and playful sparring. United, the four-some raced off through the moonlit night, baying and barking loudly. Even the gators and bobcats in the swamp stopped to listen to the chorus.
As the band raced along the edge of Deadfoot Hollow, one of them, Bell, picked up a coon scent and followed it. The others followed close upon her heels. After much tramping through muck, mud, and water, they brought the coon at bay up a small slanted tree, and sat on their haunches baying at the coon a few feet above them, who just sat and chuckled with indifference.
Jack began jumping up at the coon who then stood to his full height, exposing his teeth. He was a young coon, but doubtless he knew well how to handle himself in a treed situation. Streak, with a running start ran up the slanted side only to receive a rain of sharp claws from his quarry. As the hour grew late the hounds began to tire of the sport and started back to the cabin. Rascal followed them up to the clearing bordering the cabin and there he hesitated. The other three hounds whimpered encouragement to him, but still he lingered. He wanted to go but still there was something within him that held him back. This he could not understand. After repeated tries and no results the trio went over to the cabin where they stretched out next to the door and fell asleep. Rascal took refuge under a nearby bush where he was soon asleep.
At the first gleam of dawn, a misty cloud hung over everything. Only vaguely did things begin to stir. As the mist faded and the sun broke through did life began to come into existence. Woodchucks, one of the earliest risers came forth cautiously, then scurried about in search of their morning morsels. Jays, crows, Redwings and other birds swept through the tangled branches, screeching and chirping.
Ben Ellis got an early start also. With the first rays of the sun, the dogs were awake listening to the movements of their master inside as he rose and got dress. Bell stood at the front door, tail wagging and tongue hanging as her ears pricked forward to the sounds of the man coming to the door. By this time Jack and Streak had joined her while their exiled brother watched from the edge of the woods. The door of the cabin opened and out came Ben carrying a tray with three large chunks of venison and rabbit on it. The dogs wagged their tails excitedly, jumping about the man, howling gleefully.
“Hold on there now,” he spoke, swaying back and forth. “Let me set it down first. All right now, come and git it. Bell, down! Jack! Streak!”
The dogs stopped jumping and sat watching the platter of food in the man’s hand.
“Now you can eat,” he said, having set the platter down.
From the edge of the clearing came a short bark. The three hounds looked up. It was their exiled brother. Jack barked at him and he came towards the cabin, slowly then with an air of confidence. He was about halfway when the cabin door opened and Ben emerged, carrying a large bowl of milk. Rascal froze.
“Here, I forgot this,” replied Ben. “As soon as I eat breakfast, we’ll leave.”
He then turned to re-enter the cabin when a glimpse of something made him turn his eyes immediately towards the woods. Halfway between him and the woods stood Rascal. At first his expression was blank, then it change to a scowl. Growling he ran down the steps and picked up a rock and hurled it at the retreating figure, who upon seeing the purpose of the man, lost no time giving ground.
“Git outta here!” the man screamed. “The nerve of you, comin’ back here. Don’t you ever show your carcass ‘round here again!”
For awhile he stood there watching the direction in which the hound had departed, then disappeared into the cabin. From safe concealment the exiled hound watched his former master exit from view. He moved restlessly about then started towards the cabin in a roundabout way. He knew that it would be sometime before the man would again emerge since he had to eat also. Rascal came up the side of the cabin and listened quietly. He could hear old Ben Ellis preparing his meal so he went quietly to the front of the cabin and joined his brothers and sister.
Old Ben had lit the pot-bellied stove and cut off a huge slice of ham and dumped it, along with three eggs, into a huge cast iron frying pan. While they cooked he sorted out his ammunition and re-assembled his rifle. From the dresser in one corner of his bedroom, he withdrew a blue barrel Colt .44, tucked inside of a brown cowhide holster and a box of cartridges. A whiff of smoke told him that his food was ready. Dumping the meat and eggs onto a platter he took a roll of bread and a can of syrup from the cabinet, a bottle of apple cider from under the sink, and sat down to eat. He poured the syrup over his meat and eggs and dabbed it with the bread before using his fork. Rascal had been lying by the porch with the others after he’d finished eating.
Suddenly his ears pricked forward and his eyes turned towards the door. Ben was coming! Quietly he retreated around the side of the cabin. No sooner had he disappeared from view than did Ben emerge, carrying his Winchester rifle, a light pack on his back, and the Colt strapped to his side.
“Alright let’s go,” he said and started down the stairs. Bell, Streak and Jack followed obediently, baying and wagging their tails vigorously.
From the rear of the cabin Rascal peered. Seeing nothing he crept cautiously towards the front. Just disappearing into the woods was Ben and the three hounds. Instead of following, Rascal went to the front door, which was slightly ajar and poked his nose into the intervening space. Inside he could smell freshly cooked ham and the sweet aroma of the syrup that covered it. With his paw he pushed the door open enough to gain entrance. Suspiciously he looked around the interior even though he was familiar with the place and knew that no one else was there. But caution was strong within him. Finally convinced, the Black and White let his nose lead him to the kitchen. On the table were some leftover slices of ham and a little bit of syrup in the platter to go with it.
Having eaten his fill and almost the plate included, Rascal went back into the front room where he reclined in front of the fireplace to let his food settle. A few coals still glowed. After a short nap he left, and picking up the scent of his fellows, he followed them at a swift trot.
Old Ben and his hounds had pushed quite a distance since they left. It seemed now to him, because of his age, that he had been gone for months. They trudged along through the rising heat searching for a fresh spoor. Finally the old man was forced to sit down in the shade for a spell. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took a drink from his canteen.
A rabbit broke cover and immediately the dogs gave chase. Ben called them before they got far off.
“Come on fellas, we’ve got more important things to git.”
He stood up, took his rifle, and placing it across his shoulder started off again. This time towards the swamp, carefully watching the ground for a sign. Several birds took flight before him and a few gators could be heard bellowing from a distance. At the edge of the swamp Ellis stopped to look and listen. His hounds sat quietly beside him as he peered one way then another, shading his eyes with his hands.
“Hmm,” he finally spoke. “I think we’ll try that direction in the mornin’,” he indicated with his hand. “Seems to me more than likely he’s over in that direction.”
A little ways from the edge of Deadfoot Hollow Ben dropped his gear and went to fetch his firewood. In a little while he had a small fire going. Placing a few large pieces of wood on the flames the old man grabbed his rifle and started off into the swamp.
“Come on dogs,” he called. “Got ‘bout an hour of light left. Let’s see if we can pick up a track for tomorrow.”
The party plunged into the woods totally unaware of another stalking them from their left. Always it had kept itself well concealed under a bush or behind a large tree. It kept downwind and followed at a safe distance.
As Ben followed his pack, he began glancing repeatedly over his shoulder. Three times he thought he’d seen something moving nearby. What it might be he couldn’t say for sure. But he was sure that it was large enough to be classified as fair game. He went on trying to ignore it but it happened again. This time he could not! It was too evident. He stared long and hard in an effort to make out something. Nothing stirred except a few birds. Ben scratched his head.
“I must be getting’ old,” he sighed. “I think I’ll take a look over there and make sure.”
Bringing his rifle down into a firing position Ellis started towards the shrubbery. Just then there came the loud baying of his pack and a wild piercing scream.
“Panther!” he exclaimed and turned about to join the race, at the same time shouting encouragement to the pack. As Ben left so did the mysterious stalker, loping at a safe distance. Most of the terrain was dry and firm and provided easy running. At a little stream the chase came to an abrupt halt. There the scent seemed to disappear. The three hounds paced back and forth searching vainly for the spoor. At this time Old Ben arrived to see his pack standing at the edge of the water baying.
“Got away, didn’t he?” he stooped down to feel the impression of the cat’s last paw mark then stood up again.
“Well I reckon we’d better git on back to camp. Too dark now to go on. Might step on a Cottonmouth back there.”
As Ben neared his camp he could see the remaining embers of his fire glowing softly. The old man was full of high hopes now. He had flushed out the quarry and now all he had to do was claim it by stopping it. Stirring up the coals produced a flame. To this he added some small twigs and as the flames got higher he feed it larger wood. Filling the coffeepot with water from his canteen, he placed it on the coals he had sorted out. Some ham slices he threw to the hounds. His pipe he stuffed with tobacco and lit it with a burning twig.
“You know?” he mused. “That was a pretty darn good run. Came across that cat sooner’n I expected. I wonder which way he went when he pulled that backwater trick on you? Not in the stream ‘cause his track was dry. If we’d had a couple hours more of daylight, he probably wouldn’t have gotten away. I heard you out there Streak. Blowin’ like a bugle, you was.
“Uh. My coffee’s ready.” He took the pot off the coals and poured a cupful.
“How about another piece of ham?” and he threw them another slice apiece. Then he pulled out a harmonica from his shirt pocket.
“Care for a song while my coffee cools?”
The hounds looked up briefly and continued chewing up their food. Old Ben began playing Silver Moon, Rag Mountain Blues and a few other hand me down tunes he knew. The scene suddenly changed to a roaring chorus, with Ben his a foot stomping and the hounds howling away. From the distance came a long and lonely howl. At first Ellis did not hear it, but when it was repeated he stopped playing. One by one the hounds quieted down. From Deadfoot Hollow came that long drawn out wail again.
“Why I’ll be doggoned. That old hound’s out there in the swamp. Must be loco. Mighty loco to be out there now. Could be bitten by a Cottonmouth. So what?” his attitude changed. “Serves him right if he does. Thieving, sneaking no-count hound like him don’t deserve no home! Better not show his hide around here!”
The howling had ceased for sometime but still the old man listened. Only the crickets, gators, and an occasional bobcat could be heard. He stroked Bell behind the ear and glanced at the other two. As it grew late the man turned in. He let the fire burn on. The man slept soundly while his hounds dozed off and on.
Hours later one of them stirred and then the other two were awaken by the presence of a dark shadow moving towards them. The three stood and faced the intruder with stiff backs and bared teeth. When the newcomer whined, immediately the three relaxed and went back to sleep. It was Rascal. He went over to his former master and lay down beside him. For an hour or so he lay awake, then dropped off to sleep.
With the sun, the old man and the hounds were up. From a bush Rascal watched. Ben stoked the fire and warmed up some coffee. He sliced some of the extra venison rations and gave some to the eager hounds. After eating and securing his fire, Ben and his pack entered Deadfoot Hollow. On the way to the spot where the scent was lost he shot two Cottonmouths. At the stream he examined the tracks, then went up and down the stream several hundred feet, then returned to the last track, stooping beside it thinking.
“Now, if I were a panther bein’ chased through here, where would I go?
He thought upon that for a while then stood up. As he did so, a gray blur lashed out for his face. He ducked. The thing hit his hat and fell to the ground. Simultaneously Ben pointed his rifle at it and fired. Instantly, the dogs attracted by the shot and the falling object surrounded the thing and worried it.
“Move out of the way,” demanded Ellis, pushing them aside in order to see what he’d shot.
“Well I’ll be danged.” he exclaimed with a sigh. “That Cottonmouth’s near as long as a child!”
“Hey! That’s it!” he snapped his fingers. “The tree!”
The Cottonmouth had been lying on a branch that stretched across the stream, and was resting on a tree standing on the other side. Ben saw the cat’s strategy. Coming to the edge of the stream the cat had leaped into the tree and followed the branch out and took advantage of the dead trunk resting on the tree on the other side.
Calling his hounds together Ellis started off across the stream, which wasn’t as deep as it was wide. Around the base of the tree Ben picked up the spoor about the same time as the hounds. They rushed off baying loudly. Ben followed them his rifle ready. Any minute now and they should hit a hot trail. Then the real work would begin. Soon the chorus changed to short deep howls.
“They’ve spotted him,” he muttered. Ben pushed on and soon the sound of the baying changed again. Treed!
As Ben came up he saw the situation in one glance. Half way up a small cedar the cat was hanging on with all claws, snarling at the three hounds below. Ben moved up to a few paces from where he had stopped to get a better shot. He knelt and aimed for the neck. Gently he squeezed the trigger and at the same time the cat turned to snarl over his right shoulder, thereby exposing his left shoulder to the bullet, which hit him like a sledgehammer. With a yowl of pain, the cat shot down the side of the tree right into the laps of the waiting dogs. Ben thought he had made a kill, judging by the way the cat had come down. But he was proven wrong when his pack jumped in to worry the lion only to be repelled by a spitting, biting, clawing flesh full of rage. The man was spellbound at first, but then started moving in for a better shot. The cat broke and Ben missed. He shouted encouragement to the pack closely pressing the fleeing feline.
From the side, Rascal followed. Everything that had happened aroused his fighting spirit, his willingness to join the melee. But the sight of Ben and the rifle held him in check. So he tailed them.
Every hundred yards or so the lion would stop and battle it out then take off before Ben could get situated for a shot. Several times he stopped and a bloody spree took place. Always it would end with the lion bursting away just as Ben would be ready for a shot. It was these quick spurts that sent the lion blindly into a boxed draw. After a spat he would take off in any direction, so closely was he pressed. Realization of his mistake came when he reached the dead end. There staring him in the face was an almost straight earthen wall with a few shrubs and a clump of bushes in front of it. The sides rose straight up, offering no other avenue of escape other than the way in. The cat turned towards the entrance, the only way out, which was being corked by the three hounds pouring in after him. Closely behind them came Ellis with his gun! The trio skidded to a halt just beyond the reach of those menacing claws. They barked and feinted at the snarling cat and drove him towards the rear wall. The cat rushed them but was repelled. About this time the man entered the scene and the lion slipped into the concealment of the bushes.
While the hounds kept the cat occupied Ben checked his rifle and walked boldly towards the cat. About forty yards behind the man was Rascal. When Ben stopped, he stopped. When Ben moved, he moved in turn. Nearly twenty yards from the bush Ben halted. He was overjoyed for now he had his shot. Confidently he walked closer, almost forgetting that the lion was wounded. About ten yards away he sent the pack in.
“Git’em boys! Bring’em out Bell!”
The hounds rushed in and out, stirring the cat around. All three were blood stained and slashed from the numerous short battles they had on the way. Ben chanced a shot between the darting hounds. There was no sound other than the report of his rifle. Ben aimed and fired again at the shadow in the brush. There was an ear-splitting scream and simultaneously the lion rushed out pass the hounds and leaped straight at Ben, felling him before he could shoot again. In the same instance that the two touched the ground, a Black and White streak hit the lion with a stunning impact that sent the two rolling into the three flanking hounds. Rascal fastened himself to the cat’s neck while the other three attacked it from all sides. Limply Ben looked up to see his pack and the lion tearing savagely at each other. He fumbled around for his rifle. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was a shot and the scream of a panther.
Several hours later when Ben awoke, quite feebly at first, he came into a silent world. Not even a bird or an insect stirred it seemed. Straddled across his legs was one dead mountain lion and attached to its throat was the Black and White hound, Rascal. Ben recognized him instantly. The other three were lying nearby, blood soaked and panting heavily. Ben reached for the dog angrily.
“Dang fool hound! I said I’d... I’d... Why’d you come back?” he choked, his eyes watering. “You damned old Rascal, you,” he wept, clutching the dog and hugging him close. Rascal was still alive and he managed to loosen his grip and return his master’s love with a feeble lick. Ben stroked the dog affectionately.
“Who else would’ve taken on that cat single handed? Nobody but a dumb fool dog like you,” he shook his head.
After gathering some strength, he looked to the other three who had had a pretty rough going over themselves. Their wounds were beginning to clot and their sides heaved heavily. Grateful tails wagged as Ben checked them over. They would hunt again.
“I’ll git to you later,” he said to the lion, and stooping, he picked up the weak Rascal and started towards his camp at a slow and dogged pace. Behind him staggered Bell, Jack, and Streak, themselves hardly able to walk not much better than Ben Ellis under the weight of their valiant brother, Rascal.
The End
THE DECISION
“Krang! Krang!” the Winchester roared, followed by an excited, “Good shot Jim! One dead center and the other off by a good quarter inch!”
“This piece speaks pretty well, Bob,” spoke the author of the shots.
“You like it, you can have it! I don’t use it.”
“”Whoa now!” protested the man politely. “You can’t go around giving away guns like that! This thing cost a good bit!”
“Well then,” concluded Bob, shrugging his shoulders. “If you don’t accept, you can use it as long as you’re here. Then if you’ve changed your mind by the time you leave here, you can have it.”
“It’s a deal, Bob,” agreed Jim.
“What say we go in and get a bite to eat?”
“Lead on.”
Bob and his cousin Jim walked around the barn to the house. Jim was on a three-month vacation and decided to spend some time with his cousin Bob, who owns five thousand acres of land that he calls the Lazy Z Ranch. The land was plentiful and scenic, part forest, field, and mountain. Many streams, large and small ran throughout the land, some forming ponds that were used by himself and his sons.
Bob raised horses. He had grown up on a horse ranch and was an excellent rider. Next to his family and friends, came horses. There wasn’t a horse he couldn’t tame if he got close enough to it. He had sort of a green thumb with them. He liked them and they in turn liked him. He had seventy-five head that he gave the run of most of his land. Everyday he or his sons checked on them. He had no trouble in locating them for they seemed to hang out in one particular place near a boxed canyon. There was water and fresh grass, everything a horse could want. So he knew just about where to go and find them all unless a mare was foaling. Then he’d have to look for her and bring her to the ranch so that the offspring would have a better chance to survive.
Game was plentiful on his land. Everything from rabbits on up to mountain lions, the most dangerous beast as far as the horses were concerned. There were bears also but they rarely infringed upon his land.
There were also several wild horse bands, one of which Bob gave special attention too. It was led by a three-year old Palomino stallion that he called Golden Boy. Bob considered him a magnificent creature.
“As beautiful as a show horse, and fleet as the wind,” he always said.
Whenever he was checking his own herd he would check Golden Boy’s herd also. He considered Golden Boy his, because he was generally found within the boundaries of the Lazy Z. This built up Bob’s thoughts of someday owning the horse.
After the men had finished eating they went to the living room to smoke and talk. Bob’s two sons, Jerry and Ronny were on the floor playing with their toy soldiers.
“Boom!” shouted Jerry. “I blew up your tank Ronny!”
“I got your cannon.” returned the other.
“That reminds me of when we was young,” spoke Jim, indicating the children.
“Yeah, it does. Those were the days,” agreed Bob.
“Pow! Pow! Et et et et et et! A ah ah! Et et et!”
“All right boys, cut the noise down or it’s off to bed.”
“Okay, Pop.”
“Well. What’s on the agenda for tomorrow Jim?”
“I think I’ll ride out and test that rifle on some rabbits. Just to see how it performs in the field on a moving target. I just might buy myself one too. And he glanced over to see Bob’s half-questioned gaze, then continued. “That is if it works okay. Then I might go as far as...”
“Hey! That’s no fair! You’re cheating!” shouted Jerry.
“You are!” returned his brother grabbing a toy tank. “My man blasted yours off the world. How can he be alive!”
“I told you he missed! That’s the one with the Colgate Invincible Shield!”
“Boys,” spoke the father. But they did not hear him.
“Boys!” he repeated a little louder and firmer. This time they stopped arguing and turned towards him. Mrs. Millard came into the room with a dripping dish half covered with a drying towel.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Ronny’s cheating in the war Mom,” spoke jerry quickly before his father could say anything.
“Ronny?” the Mrs. tapped her foot on the floor. The boy looked at her but didn’t speak.
“Well?” asked his mother.
“No Mom,” he started. “I shot down one of his men with a tank and he says it’s indivisible.”
“Invincible,” corrected the father. “And I told you boys if you made any more noise you’re going to bed, right?”
“Yes Dad,” they answered slowly.
“Well. Good night.”
“Good night Dad.” They began picking up their soldiers. “Good night Uncle Jim.”
“Night kids.”
“Good night Mom.” And they both hugged her and she kissed them on the forehead.
“Good-night boys. And put your pajamas on too,” she said as they went to their room.
“Now I can hear myself think,” breathed Bob. “Honey why don’t you sit a spell. You look kind of worn out.”
“No. If I stop now I won’t get done until tomorrow. I’d better finish up tonight.”
“Suit yourself then,” was the answer. “How many more days do you have until exams Jim?”
“Almost three months, Bob.”
“Don’t you think you should be studying for them. Mighty important.”
“Naw. Are you kidding! The first vacation I’ve had all year and you want me to study. Not a chance! What was that?”
“I’m afraid to say,” answered Bob with a tone of recognition. At the repetition of the cry, the two men leaped for the front door and were on the porch in no time. The nickering and whinnying of the terrified horses rang in their ears.
“Come on!” said Bob. “Only one way to find out!” and he leaped from the porch and started towards the corral at a run.
Jim followed a short distance behind and caught up with as Bob reached the corral. The horses were huddled one terrified lot. They had crowded themselves at one end of the corral and shifted back and forth shaking their heads and pawed the earth. Bob and Jim worked their way cautiously up to them seeking to quiet them. After a while they succeeded and then looked around the enclosure for clues of the disturbance.
As Jim walked along, his eyes going back and forth across the ground, they fell upon a path of moist spots running in a single file. They only slightly entered his mind as having anything to do with the disturbance of the horses, so he kept on searching until he began to notice a change in the spots. They began to get larger and glossier. This time he stooped down to inspect one of these mysterious puddles. He strained his eyes over one of these and moved to one side so that the moon would give him a better view. Jim looked around for Bob. It was too dark. He placed a finger in a puddle and held it up in the light. Blood!
“Hey Jim! Come here!” called Bob from halfway across the enclosure. “I’ve found it!”
Jim wiped his hand and followed Bob’s voice. He found him standing over the prostate and bloody carcass of a young colt. Jim, unaccustomed to the sight of a mauled carcass drew back in uneasiness.
“Lion,” indicated Bob. “That old Ghost Cat. I’d know his tracks anywhere.”
“Ghost Cat?” inquired Jim.
“Yeah Jim. Just an old horse killer that’s been living off us ranchers for the past four years. He’s got a way of coming and going without being seen. I caught a fleeting glimpse of him once. And then again, the thing had disappeared so fast that I sometimes doubt it was really him.”
“Hasn’t anybody tried tracking him down?”
“Tried was all too. Leaves a bold trail then it just disappears.” Jim scratched his head and poked the horse with his boot.
“Help me get this horse on over by the fence. I can dispose of him in the morning. I wonder if Golden Boy is alright?”
Just where the forest and cliffs met the young stallion and his band rested peacefully while somewhere out in the dark shadows lurked a hungry mountain lion.
Sometime after noon the next day the men had finished burying the colt which had begun to decompose and draw flies. With that task done the men went in for a bite of lunch before taking on some other scheduled task.
Mrs. Millard was working in the garden when the two emerged from the kitchen, each talking with a mouth full of food.
“You two are worst than the children,” she smiled. “Chew your food up so you can speak right.”
The men laughed.
“Oh, Bob?” she called. “Are you going into town? There’s a few things I’d like you to pick up.” And then she pulled out a long list.
“Sure you shouldn’t bring the whole store?” laughed Jim.
“Aw, go on now Jim,” replied the Mrs. “But you can if you want.”
“Jim’s going out and try the rifle on some rabbits and gophers, Linda. I can take the boys though.”
“They went fishing early this morning. You will get the things won’t you?”
“Sure honey,” and he kissed her.
“And Jim. You should take the shotgun too and bring back some quail for dinner.”
“I might even bring a lion rug too,” he called.
“Lion rug?” she repeated to herself, and then “Oh well,” and turned back to tending her garden.
Jim saddled up a mount and went over to the house to fetch the rifle. Bob had just pulled off down the driveway in his two-tone station wagon. With rifle and a box full of cartridges, Jim trotted off across the west field to the little rocky grotto he had heard so much about. The horse he rode was a six-year old mare just right for riding. She was gentle and responded easily to the slightest touch and tug of the reins.
Every now and then a rabbit would break cover from a clump of grasses or a bush. Gangs of crows winged their way above the green treetops, while far above them an eagle hovered. Jim had become so interested in his surroundings that he dropped the reins and let Blossom roam at will through the field.
A small band of wild horses grazed peacefully by a rocky mound of earth with a few trees and shrubs about it. Half way up the side of this mound stood a Palomino stallion, still and picturesque, his silky mane and tail blowing in the breeze. To escape the burning heat Golden Boy had moved up the side of the mound to catch the cool breezes. This also gave him a commanding view of his mares and colts. This was almost his first complete year of being herd master and he seemed to be doing pretty good at keeping the position. Most stallions would drive other males, a potential threat to one’s position, away from the herd. But Golden Boy seemed content to live peacefully with his fellow stallions as long as they didn’t go horsing around with his mares. Then his mean streak showed. He’d come at them with teeth bared, feet a stomping and wouldn’t stop until they were down, dead, and buried. Or just too fast to catch.
Suddenly the stallion’s ears pricked forward, his head went higher and he sniffed the calm breeze. Several of the mares noticed their leader and stood at attention also. All eyes were turned towards the rocky path that ran beside the forest. Some of the mares grew restless and began to paw the earth and call their yearlings to them so that they could take flight at the slightest hint of danger. Golden Boy was still as a statue, his eyes glued to the trail, and ears twitching back and forth then suddenly forward. He shook his head and whinnied softly. As he did so a horse came into view, and on his back was a rider. The stallion turned and started down to the level ground.
The first that Jim noticed of the horses was when Golden Boy started descending the mound.
“So that’s Golden Boy!” he murmured with admiration. “I wouldn’t mind owning him either. I wonder how close I can get to him.”
Placing a heel in Blossom’s rib he started her off at a trot towards the herd who now only showed slight cause for alarm. Golden Boy and his band were accustomed to having Bob Millard follow them for days at a time and allowed him to get quite close at times. Sometimes too close for comfort, which would result in the herd taking off at a gallop for a few hundred feet then slowing down for Bob to catch up.
Thinking that the rider was Bob, the horses did not stampede. As they got closer, Golden Boy realized he was wrong. The horse was the same for Bob also rode Blossom when he followed the herd. But this time the rider was different. The young stallion reared up and pawed the air, and then started off, first at a trot, then a gallop, straight along the edge of the forest at top speed.
Jim spurred his mount to keep up with the herd. It was a painful ride for him with the rifle half tied to the saddle cinch, causing it to bang constantly against his leg. He forgot the scabbard. But yet he kept on.
The herd skirted the forest for half of a mile then made a right-angle turn into it. The feat seemed impossible. As the last horse disappeared from Jim’s view, there came a terrifying scream from the place that they had entered and simultaneously amidst much squealing and whinnying the herd came thundering back out and straight towards Jim who was taken completely by surprise.
Blossom reared in panic. Jim fell forward clutching for the saddle horn, but missing it grabbed the rifle butt and toppled from the saddle with the rifle that had burst loose from the cinch due to the weight. Blossom started off at a run, leaving Jim to his fate in the path of the oncoming herd. Barely did he escape death beneath the thundering hoofs of the herd as they roared by. In the forest could be heard a series of terrifying screams, whinnying, and snarls. Before the man could get up the effort to move himself to investigate, there came plunging into the field Golden Boy, bucking defiantly, while a big, blazing eyed, long toothed cougar straddled his back with all claws fastened tightly to the stallion’s sides and neck.
“God!” exclaimed Jim, half breathing. He was stunned stiff. Never in his life had he witnessed a spectacle as this. He’d read about such things, but being an eyewitness, it just took him completely. The horse and lion were half way across the field before Jim actually woke up.
“That’s Bob’s horse!” he exclaimed aloud and started after the two retreating figures. Then he pivoted and ran back to the brush. He’d forgotten the rifle. Checking it he then pursued the two across the field.
Golden Boy leaped and whirled and shook, in a mad effort to dislodge the cat, but to no avail. The cat was stuck like glue. As they neared the cliffs the ground changed from soft grass to hard dirt and rocks. Several times the horse almost stumbled. He was weakening and the cat sensing this began working his way up the stout neck. Jim was still a good distance in the rear and gaining pretty strong. The young stallion rammed himself broadside against the cliff face, tearing and scraping his skin to the bone all for a good purpose. Which seemed to have no effect whatever. The horse tripped and went down and as he did he rolled over pinning the cat beneath his heavy weight. As the horse completed his roll and sought to gain his feet the cougar unhooked himself and leaped a few feet away to check his limbs. Before he could renew his assault the young Palomino had already taken him up on it and came crashing down upon the snarling feline with two heavy hoofs equal to the force of powerfully wielded sledgehammers. The cat went down hard, screaming and spitting in rage but not forgetting to wrap himself about the animal’s front legs, clawing and biting them with all his might. Golden Boy reared and crashed the weight upon his feet to the ground for as long as he could. His strength was quickly elapsing.
The lion’s energy was about gone too, but still he came on. Wearily the horse strove to keep the snarling fury down. Neither creature, even though worked to exhaustion, would give in to the other hands down. Golden Boy, from loss of blood in his torn front legs could hardly hold his own weight. He slipped to one knee then the other. The lion clawed his way up to the stallion’s neck. A firm grip upon the jugular vein and it would be all over. All of Bob’s hopes and dreams would suddenly come to an end. Only a skeleton would remain as a symbol of a once beautiful dream. The cat pulled himself closer to the struggling horse’s vital area. His eyes blazed, his teeth glared as he lunged toward the soft neck only four inches away. A lunge that would have fulfilled its goal if only a sharp crack had not rung out followed by a thud in the lion’s skull, followed by an angry scowl of pain.
It was Jim. He had come panting upon the scene just in the nick of time. The situation was taken in at a glance and a nice clean skull shot made at fifteen feet, stopped the cat cold. Golden Boy looked up suddenly as the cat fell limp beneath him. He tried to struggle to his feet and escape the man walking towards him. To him the man was just as dangerous as the mountain lion and he had to get away. As the man drew near the horse became frantic, exerting himself even more until exhaustion got the better of him and he fell over upon his side to accept his fate. Jim stopped at the horse’s head and looked him over. Scars ran up and down his neck and sides. His legs were almost bones and a dim, hollow look came from his large brown eyes. Jim shook his head with sorrow.
“Poor creature,” he muttered, “Poor creature.” He stood there for a while then stooped to administer what aid he could. He spoke in soft soothing tones as he wiped the bloody gashes with his handkerchief. The horse looked up suddenly, renewed alarm in his wide eyes. Something was approaching. Jim turned to see Bob walking toward him. He stood up and shouted to Bob who now came running in reply.
As Bob came to a halt and saw the bloody mangled thing at his feet his face instantaneously switched to a distorted countenance of rage.
“Who did this?” he shouted grabbing the other man. “What happened to Golden Boy? Who did it?”
“Just hold on now Bob,” Jim tried to calm him down. “Hold on and I’ll tell you...”
Bob finally get a hold of himself and sat down beside the horse. He gently stroked his head. Jim began explaining, beginning from when he saw them and followed them along the forest edge until now.
“I caught up just about in time too,” he concluded. “How’d you know where I was though?”
“I didn’t,” replied the man. “I was coming home when I was run off the road by his heard. I got worried when I didn’t see Golden Boy come by so I parked the car and backtracked the herd and here I am.”
“I’m sorry Bob... I...”
“What’s there to be sorry for?” interrupted Bob. “He’ll be alright, I’ll see to that. You wait here, I’m going to get the wagon so we can get them back to the ranch. Hmm, we’ll have to get a trailer for the horse,” he mused in after-thought.
“Them?” quoted Jim.
“I’m sure you’re gonna skin that cat so’s folks would believe you shot the Ghost Cat,” Bob answered as he walked off towards the road.
Jim looked at the cat and suddenly turned pale. “The Ghost Cat,” he whistled.
Bob and Jim ate dinner in the barn right besides Golden Boy. Ronny and Jerry took care of the dishes then went out to the barn and lingered silently in the background, watching from the end of the stall. The two men bathed the horse from head to foot, then went over and began nursing each individual wound.
The men slept right beside the animal for the next three nights. Then he began showing signs of improvement. Within two weeks Golden Boy was back on his feet though he was a little thin from not having eaten much.
Neighbors and other locals were dropping in to see the horse and the mounted figure of the Ghost Cat, which had been recently returned from the taxidermist. One person offered to pay as much as one thousand dollars for it but the answer was always a polite no. Once Jim was almost swayed into selling it when some shrewd reasoning came to his rescue. That cat must be worth a lot if people would pay tremendous sums of money for it. Jim thought on this and finally concluded that he should hold on to his prize.
By the end of a month Golden Boy had fully recovered. His rich gold and cream color returned to his coat and mane. The dancing light returned to his eyes and his lean thin body filled out to the sleek, swift looking horse he really was. But still there was something missing. Bob could sense it no matter how he tried to deny it. He was reminded of it day by day and night by night. As he worked with the horse, which took most of his time before and after chores, he tried to forget, and tried to work away this constantly occurring memory. His wife, being a woman, was slightly appraised of something being amiss, but even she had get no answer.
One morning, on the third day of August, Linda Millard and her sons gathered in the front yard to send Jim off. It was time for him to get back to work in the hustle of the city. Locking the trunk he got in behind the wheel.
“Bye Jim. You be careful in that hot rod now,” she wagged a finger at his 1961 Corvette.
“I will. And you boys take care of your mother.”
“Okay Uncle Jim,” they answered. Jim started the motor just as Bob came around the front, leading Golden Boy and carrying the Winchester rifle.
“You forgot something,” he said, handing him the rifle.
“Thanks,” returned Jim, fingering the gun. “You take care of Golden Boy too, he’s a fine horse. Oh. Keep the Ghost Cat. By rights you should’ve bagged him, you know.”
“Maybe so. But you got’em.”
“I just got lucky,” Jim grinned.
Bob looked at Jim for a long minute and then he spoke, “Golden Boy’s on his own now.” And he took the rope from the horse’s neck and slapped him on the flank. The horse galloped off.
“Bob!” exclaimed Jim, “You...”
“That’s where he belongs,” stated Bob. “It was in his eyes and his heart. To keep him would be worst than fighting that cougar.”
A little ways from the house the horse stopped and turned. He reared high and pawed the sky and then dashed off, kicking a cloud of dust, with his silky mane and tail blowing in the breeze.
“I see what you mean,” sighed Jim.
He started the engine and he pulled off down the driveway in his shiny blue Corvette.
The End
BRUSH THE ORPHAN COYOTE
Cacti, an old male coyote, sat on a small bluff overlooking a small valley before descending into it to hunt. Not far from his descending point a rabbit broke cover. The young cottontail was fast but he could not match the maneuverability of the lean coyote. Within a few minutes the chase was ended and Cacti started towards the hills, the bleeding cottontail dangling from his jaws.
At the base of the hills he dropped the rabbit and howled. It was a signal to his mate. Upon hearing no reply he howled again. Still there was no reply. Without bothering to take his kill, Cacti started up the hill, the hairs on his back standing straight up. As he neared the vicinity of the den he slacked his pace, his steps becoming short and jerky. Something was amiss and he could sense it. Coming to the den’s entrance he bristled and growled, and trotted about sniffing the ground. He entered the den and emerged raging. Cacti was furious. He tore up the trail his nose close to the ground.
Not far up the trail, Sona, Cacti’s mate fought desperately for her life. Two stray hounds had accidentally come upon the den while Sona and her cubs were sleeping. They immediately set upon the cubs, killing all but one. The one Sona had taken in her flight. After finishing off the pups the hounds then took after Sona, and Brush, her remaining cub.
The two worked her into a dead end arroyo where they took turns wearing her down. She was tired and would have given up had it not been for her protective instinct. The life of her pup was at stake and she would defend it to her death.
Like a thunder bolt Cacti shot into the battle, his needle sharp teeth finding their mark in one of the hound’s necks. With a quick snap of his jaws the first hound fell in agony. A quick spin with a horrible roar and he was at the throat of the other hound who was steadily subduing his mate. The two whirlwinds of flashing teeth closed and parted with a mouthful of fur and horrific sounds. The hound, now tired, slipped and Cacti closed in hard on the exposed neck. The hound struggled frantically but futilely and soon fell limp in Cacti’s jaws.
The old coyote worried the carcass for awhile then turned to his mate. She was badly wounded, her life pouring rapidly from her. Young Brush trotted up to his mother’s side, whimpering and demanding attention. He could not understand fully what was taking place but deep inside he felt the pains of it.
Cacti started off down the trail and Brush would have followed had he not been commanded by his father to stay put. Within minutes he returned with the rabbit and placed it at Sona’s nose. She nosed and feebly licked it and weakly whined. Cacti shoved it closer to her and still she did not eat. He then placed it in front of Brush who ate greedily. He was hungry and he tore into the meat like a wolverine.
As night fell Cacti and Brush were still at Sona’s side. She had barely moved during the day and that night she faired no better. Off and on during the long night Brush whimpered longingly for a response from his mother. He dutifully licked her wounds and removed the dried blood from her matted coat. Probably to her detriment. All that Suave could do was breath, and then, only barely.
In the morning only the father and son arose. Sona did not stir, nor would she ever again. Cacti understood and led his off-spring away. He was now the sole support of the pup until he could provide for himself. Until then the weight was upon him. The two traveled far, leaving behind all the misfortunes of the past. And Brush, he was not as much of a burden as was supposed. The pup was responsive and quick to learn. During his first year he had learned the fundamentals of hunting and still progressed in the other ways of nature.
Late one evening after the two had finished eating, there reached their ears the wail of a hunting pack. To Cacti it meant companionship. He’d been away from others of his kind for a year and now the desire to associate was strong within him. To Brush it was something new. Running with a pack and mingling with others of his own kind other than his father. Yes, this would be something worth undertaking.
Cacti rose to his feet and led his son down the beaten trail towards the sounds. The moon was a pale gray orb, offering little light which really wasn’t necessary. The increasing volume of the sounds made the old canine increase his pace. Brush kept up to him purely out of curiosity. In the half light Cacti could see the pack running across a grassy clearing. He voiced a low howl which brought the desired results, and trotted into view with Brush close behind him.
At the sound of Cacti’s voice the pack swung about and halted, straining their ears and eyes in the direction from which the sound had come. Upon seeing Cacti and Brush emerge, the pack moved cautiously towards them, the leader in front. About ten feet from each other the parties halted and Cacti and Saddleback, the latter called thusly because of the saddle like marking on his back, came forth to greet each other.
Both raised themselves upon their toes with their tails stiff and erect, and trotted around each other sniffing and licking. Cacti was slightly larger than Saddleback and that might have been the reason for him being accepted. Saddleback then went over to inspect to Brush who stood as rigid as a statue, following his movements with his eyes. Saddleback whined his approval and the two newcomers were allowed to mingle with the pack. This was an important event in Brush’s life. An experience that would stand in his favor later in life.
After all the formalities were over, Saddleback called his members together and started out to finish the business they had begun. Cacti and Brush followed willingly, howling loudly with the rest. Saddleback led them through the woods to an even larger clearing. At one end were two buildings. A one level house and a weather worn barn. All voices were hushed and the pack skirted along the edge of the forest to get closer to the buildings.
Within the house a coal oil lamp burned, but there was no indication that someone was inside. And there were no dogs either, for they would be on the porch, or somewhere within sight or scent. Saddleback divided his group and started towards the barn. Brush was highly excited. His first hunt with the pack, another big point in his life. Cacti was excited too, but not as much as Brush. He’d hunted with the pack many times, only tonight was different because with this new pack, he was a member and not the leader. But this did not bother him because his main joy was being with others of his own kind. And for now this was all that mattered. Quietly the group stole up to the barn. They crept to the door from both sides. The door was slightly ajar. Saddleback poked his nose in and sniffed. He then pushed on it with his muzzle and it began to open wider, creaking on its rusty hinges. A calf bawled and Saddleback stopped lest he arouse suspicion from some unseen sentinel within. After waiting for a long while he pushed on the door, making an opening large enough for his body to pass through. The pack waited anxiously as their leader disappeared into the barn. All that was needed was the signal. They heard the calf bawl again followed by a whine. That was it! As one body the pack rushed in, growling and bristling. There was the terrified whinnying of a horse, and a moment later it came bursting out into the open, stopping a few yards away to listen to the savage growls and snarls, mingled with the painful cries of the trapped calf. Within a few minutes all was quiet save for a few growls. The mare shifted nervously from one foot to another, all the while casting apprehensive glances about her. But always, her attention returned to the barn.
It seemed that half the night had passed before the pack left. On the way out they made a half-hearted pass at the mare and kept going. In his jaws Brush carried a piece of beef that he would save for later. His father trotted at his side, eyeing him proudly.
Early the next morning, J. Freison, the owner of the small ranch that Saddleback’s band had hit, came riding in. His heavy jacket was buttoned to the neck and the brim of his hat was pulled down over his face to protect his eyes from the glaring sunlight. A quizzical expression came to his face when he noticed his mare grazing near the house. He rode over to the mare and grabbed her by the halter to lead her back to the barn. She resisted.
“Easy Mable. What’re you doing out here? I coulda sworn I had you all tied up and secured. And what’s that door doing opened?”
When he reached the barn, Jake dismounted and started inside with Mable. She planted her feet firmly in the hard ground and lurched backwards, her nostrils flared and her eyes wide with fear.
“Come on, girl,” Jake coaxed her. “What’s the matter with you?”
Mable reared up and pawed the air. She shook her head vigorously and whinnied fearfully. Jake dug his boos into the ground, flipped a loop around a wrist and held her steady. He tugged on the rope gently and slowly the horse began to clam down and eventually allowed herself to be led into the structure.
“Easy girl. Easy now. Whoa,” Jake cooed. “Everything’s alright. You jest settle down now and I’ll get you some oats. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” he stroked her neck.
Mable nickered softly and pitched her head. Both ears pointed towards the man and she lowered her muzzle into his chest. Jake caressed her forehead briefly and scratched the knob between her ears the way she liked. He then turned to leave her stall and came to a sudden halt just outside the gate, his mouth agape. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief as he studied the scene on the floor beyond him that he hadn’t noticed when he led the mare in. Blood and bones of the calf were scattered about while the main part of the carcass lay half-eaten near the middle of the floor.
Jake cursed aloud and turned for the door. He was furious. Snatching up the spare Winchester from the tack wall he leaped upon his mount and took off at a full gallop following the bold trail that the raider had left. His mount dodged and swerved around trees and mesquite with reckless abandon, raising a thick cloud of dust as he hit the open plains. He rode hard and fast, determined to reach the foothills in the direction that the tracks led, before nightfall.
Almost a half an hour later, as he neared the looming foothills, Jake came upon the band. They were at their leisure and were taken completely by surprise when he thundered among them. Like a buffalo hunter he swung his rifle up and fired rapidly at the fleeing brown targets. From one side to another he flung his gun and when it was empty, he shoved it into the boot in one smooth motion and came up with his pistol. And continued the barrage until it was empty.
A good mile he chased them and had to pull his mount up short when they scattered into the rocky hillside. Angry, yet somewhat satisfied, because he had killed one and wounded two others, one of which was Saddleback himself. After watching the crafty little canines disappear into the hills he turned back to claim his prize. It was Cacti who had been shot. Out of contempt he shot the beast again and threw him over the saddle and started for home.
The remainder of the coyote band, and a sad Brush, watched helplessly as one of their own was taken away. He whimpered longingly but there was no one to comfort him. One by one the pack began to leave. Brush sat on his haunches, hesitant and somewhat puzzled. He looked out at the distant figure on the plains departing with his father, and then towards the departing pack. He yipped shrilly and waited. He moaned low and flowed into a long wailing howl. A few of the pack whined and returned a few short barking yips but the horseman did not stop. Brush turned and briskly trotted after the pack. He would go with them. Man was his enemy now and with the little band he would find companionship and a feeling of belonging. Without a backwards glance he trotted off in that typical side-ways coyote gait.
During the rest of that week and the following week, Jake Freison patrolled his land day and night. Not even the coldest mornings nor the windiest nights kept him from protecting what was his, because he was determined that if the band chanced to return he would be ready.
But Saddleback had other ideas. He had moved on so that there would be no chance of them meeting again. It would also allow his burning wound to heal. He led his band south. The winter snows were coming in from the northwest so he continued to go still further south until he was deep within the Mexican Sonora range where the snow rarely, if ever, stuck. Brush saw new and strange places, different game, and more ways to obtain a meal. Sometime after his second birthday he was lucky enough to acquire a mate from a local band that roamed the territory that Saddleback and his band had dared to enter. As long as the two bands stayed apart on their hunts, everything was fine. But when they met, things began to happen. And it was on such an occasion that Brush took Suave for his mate. There were many Mexican legends surrounding the things that took place when the two bands met. Nor were they the nicest of tales either, for the coyote, the trickster, as he is known among the Indians, will go to any lengths to get what he wants.
It was a mild winter and the band survived. When the warm winds and the yellow sun of spring appeared, nature began to spread her new blanket over the land and Saddleback led his band north again. This suited Brush just fine, for he had been longing to return to the land of his birth. For what reasons he was not sure, but the yearning kept knawing at him. Without hesitation, a trusting and loyal Suave followed her confident mate.
The pack split up in West Texas so that the bearing females could find dens to dig to have their litters. Sometime during the later summer they would rejoin to run together and school the new pups.
Brush found a clump of cactus studded hills with several natural impressions that begged to be excavated into a suitable birthing den. The eager young male, now three years old and backed by hard years of experience, went about his tasks as though he had been doing it for a decade.
For many days now Brush had provided food for his mate. Then one evening as he approached the den just like he had done countless times before, he was met half-way by Suave. He dropped the meal at her feet and would have proceeded into the den had she not turned upon him with bared fangs when he moved deliberately towards its entrance. He was rather puzzled by her actions and he sat back as though in thought. Then he tried again and again she repelled him. Brush sat for a moment and then turned and trotted away to his look-out post on the bare knoll above and across from the den. Perhaps somewhere in his primitive, mixed up mind he slowly came to understand the reasons for his mate’s aggressive actions. This being his first mating year, he really wasn’t expected to know that Suave was pregnant and would not allow him near the den until after the pups were born and half-weaned. It was her protective instinct, the reason that binds all mothers to their young, which made her act so. Without a backwards glance, Brush trotted up the gradual incline to his lookout spot overlooking the den.
Came the eventful day when Suave gave birth to five fuzzy young pups. She diligently licked them clean, over and over, until their dryness gave off a warm, pleasant heat, so thorough was her cleaning job. For the first couple of weeks she was always within the den, nursing her young brood. Brush brought her food but she ate none. They lay piled at the entrance of the den where the faithful Brush had placed them. In the meantime Brush was one nervous and excited creature. He would bring his kills to the den but Suave would not even bother to growl, except when he dared to enter. Then her face was distorted in one of ugly rage. Never did she leave the pups, for her growls were menacing enough.
About the middle of the third week Suave began to eat. She was thin and her body needed the protein to replenish her milk supply. The old pile of meat, nearly putrid, was gone. Brush had seen to that. Today he greeted her with the leg of pronghorn antelope. She accepted it and crouched beside him to eat. Brush panted long easy sighs of satisfaction. It seemed as though he was content that his mate was finally eating after such a long period of isolation.
Time passed like the wind and the pups grew fast and strong. Already they were getting restless within the dark enclosure. Suave was having a time of it containing them. Finally the pups were released. They bounded out recklessly, stumbling over each other, getting entangled in one furry mess. The light was startling to them at first. They sat about blinking their eyes and scratching their ears. When they adjusted, everything was fair game as they set about exploring their new world. Suave sat back near the entrance observing her first-born. Her head was held high and a gleam of pride glowed in her pupils.
As the pups played, Suave half dozed, though with one ear cocked in their direction. Suddenly she was all eyes and ears. Something was coming! She growled a low warning and instantly the pups bounded over to her and crowded into the entrance of the den. They sat patiently watching, mimicking the expressions of their mother, whose ears were pricked forward. The nape hairs on her neck stood erect.
Excited, Suave half rose to her feet. Whatever was coming was getting nearer. Now she could see it, vaguely. The protecting mother stood stiff-legged on her toes sniffing the air. Then she went towards the intruder, growling a warning to her pups. Almost immediately they disappeared into the depths of the den. As she moved towards the intruder, Suave’s nape hairs began to relax. A whimper escaped and her tail wagged slowly back and forth, then vigorously as the intruder came closer.
The interloper yowled, his tail lashing back and forth. It was Brush. But why he had approached the den from the opposite side of the hill was quite puzzling. The pair nuzzled and pawed each other and trotted back to the den, whining and bouncing and playfully nipping at each other. Brush was overjoyed. It was the first time in quite awhile that he had been rejoined with his mate. At the den Suave growled and almost immediately five fuzzy brown pups burst from the den. Brush jumped back, half-startled, as his new family leaped and jumped about and on him, yipping and nipping at his legs, tail, and ears. The rest of the evening, Brush, the proud father sat beside his mate, watching his first litter tumble about.
* * *
A TURTLE NAME OSGOOD
aka: THE MONSTER OF CAMP GOODWILL [true story]
This past summer I met one of the wiliest turtles I would ever know. We called him Osgood as sort of a joke. But this subject of our humiliation proved to us that he was quite able to take care of himself.
I was in Prince William Forest Park working at a Summer Camp for girls called Camp Goodwill. Instead of a swimming pool the camp had a small man-made lake. It was a scenic place surrounded by wooded hills on all sides. At one end the bottom was cemented and a dock was built. This stretched the width of the lake at this point. In the middle of the dock was a diving board and a buoy post for the life preservers. The board was a bit stiff but I found it usable, obtaining some spring from it.
The lake was alive with life. But you had to be around at certain hours to see any. I visited the lake often, especially when I went off on my hikes alone. I started from the lake and returned to on the way in.
I remember first seeing Osgood while sunning on the dock. He was floating in the middle of the lake, his large head pointed toward the sky. He never let himself drift more than twelve feet to the shore, except on the side near the water lock where a few trees and shrubbery grew next to and in the water. Here, I later found evidence of him being ashore. But this I presumed to be at night when most turtles are active.
There were several turtles in the lake. Five, I’d seen, excluding Osgood, whom I knew immediately. He was the largest snapping turtle I’d ever seen. I was content with having turtles live in the lake. I didn’t bother them and they didn’t bother me. But it was different with the girls. To some it didn’t matter. But girls, being girls, will fuss. To start, they weren’t too enthusiastic about swimming in the lake, but they really balked about sharing it with turtles and snakes.
Carol, the Lifeguard talked with Al and myself about removing the turtles. Al was the truck driver and maintenance man. We were good friends, me being his part-time assistant. Anyway, the girls received a flat no! There was no reason to remove the reptiles, they weren’t bothering anyone and hadn’t come within the swimming area, so why bother them. Still the girls pleaded and still I refused, though I changed my mind a few weeks later. It was the close-up sight of Osgood that goaded me to it.
At the closing of one of the Sessions, the camp put on a Water Show. All of the Units participated and put on a good showing. There were races and skits on water safety and a greased watermelon floating in the water for the Counselors to grab. You should have seen them trying to hang onto that fruit. And I had the pleasure of greasing it. After that was over there was a special feature. Two of the girls had been taking Red Cross Lifesaving and Canoeing from Bob Wilkie, the Assistant Camp Director. They had a demonstration for the Camp that was quite worthwhile.
The kids were seated around the water’s edge at the shallow end of the lake. I was at the dock near the shore’s edge. It was then that I’d noticed Osgood. Al was watching the performance and didn’t notice him until I poked him and whispered, “Look there, to the left of my foot.”
He glanced down and at first didn’t see anything. Then looking harder he recognized the beast.
“Say. That’s Osgood, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yep,” I answered. “Big isn’t he?”
“Hate to have him hanging onto me,” he answered.
Osgood was sitting there half-submerged, not more than five feet away, watching us. Maybe the crowd had gotten the best of his curiosity and drawn him in. I wondered how long he would stay and was soon answered. He moved. Not back but forward, towards us. His head and the top of his shell broke the surface of the water causing only a few ripples. How large he was I thought. And his color. It wasn’t the greenish black of the rest of the snappers in the lake, but a light brown. Almost like a caramel. His eyes were a solid gray and green color and protruded sharply from his head. They broke into splotches and glittered in the sun. With his body halfway out of the water he stopped and surveyed his surroundings, the long neck craning for height. He was close enough for me and I wondered how much more he’d come. A few of the children sitting next to us noticed him.
“A turtle!” they exclaimed.
If I hadn’t said anything they would have hopped down his neck for a closer look, thus chasing him away. Al and I convinced them to stay put and watch the show unless they distract the other girls. Some one hundred and three in all, discounting the staff.
That old turtle sat there for sometime looking in the direction of the performance. Then he turned to us. His gaze was steady and unblinking. All of his muscles were relaxed except for the neck ones which held his head straight out in our direction.
I then decided I wanted a closer look. Leaning over I got into a crawling position and started the few feet towards him, stopping occasionally to note the effect on Osgood. Once he lifted his head higher for a better view and twitched his tail. His head was large and solid and the neck was meaty. I moved forward again. Al called “What are you going to do Mike, catch him?”
I shook my head “No.” You’d never catch me lunging for a snapping turtle barehanded. Especially when he was facing me. When I shook my head, Osgood retreated. Only his head remained visible above the water. The rest of him was resting on the muddy bottom. I chanced kneeling up on one knee and instantly Osgood floated to the top paddling back and forth and steering with his broad tail.
“Great Scott!” I whispered, “Look at the size of him!” I could see his whole body. His shell if measured from one end to the other would have been a good two and a half feet or more. Together, from nose to the tip of his tail he looked a well over three feet. As large as he was, he looked about twenty to thirty pounds. His weight I only guessed at until I was able to make an estimate after hooking him and catching several of his relatives.
“Al, come here,” I signaled. He crept over just as Osgood submerged and made for deeper water. “Did you see him?” I asked.
“I got a glimpse of him. He’s pretty big. I thought you were going to catch him. That’s why I didn’t follow you.”
“Are you kidding. I ain’t picking up no snapper with my bare hands!” Little did I know that I’d contradict that statement later. “But,” I added, “I’ll get that turtle before the summer’s end.”
At the beginning of the next session, I’d obtained permission from the Park Ranger to set out some baited hooks. The next day he pulled up in the driveway. I was in the Staff house watching “Wagon Train” on Television.
“The Ranger’s here,” called Pam. She was the Secretary.
“Stoney? What’s he going to do?” she asked me.
Stoney Burke is a nickname I was given at Ivakota Farm. “Catch a turtle,” I answered, running out the door.
“Hi,” I greeted.
The Ranger returned the greeting and opened the truck door. I climbed in and we turned around and went down to the lake. On the seat was a cooler of water with sixty little fish. He noticed my interest and told me they were for the lake so that there’d be some fishing next year. On the floor was a board with a long stout line tied to it. One end of the line tied a metal leader that was in turn attached to a large single-pronged hook. It took about two minutes to get to the lake. The girls were just leaving their swimming session. The Ranger took the hook and a paper bag from the glove compartment. Carol met us as we went by the dock.
“We’re going to catch your turtle,” I told her.
“Oh good!” she exclaimed. “Every minute the kids think they’ll come out with a turtle on them.”
I couldn’t help laughing. The Ranger took out a piece of red beef that was still dripping. He impaled it on the hook and wrapped it around and stuck it a few more times until the hook was completely covered.
“Think he’ll bite?” I asked.
“Sure, they love beef. Especially fresh, wet pieces.”
He stuck the stick into the muddy bank and threw out the line.
“There” he said. “Check the line this evening or tomorrow. You should have one by then.”
We stood there looking for awhile then left. I got off at the Staff Office and continued watching television.
Al was back in time for dinner. I told him about the Ranger’s hook. We decided to go down after dinner and check the line. A few of the girls became curious and asked a lot of questions concerning the inhabitants of the lake. I was a little more able to answer these questions since I spend a lot of time in this field.
After I’d finished selling Ice Cream to the kids Al and I hopped into the camp’s Volkswagen bus and went down to the lake. I showed him the stake in the ground.
“The hook’s on the other end of this,” I pointed to the line.
“Think there’s anything on there?” he asked.
“No, I doubt it. But let’s pull it in out of curiosity.”
I knelt down and picked up the line. It was slack and I knew there was nothing on it. I pulled it and it came easy. I watched it at the point where it disappeared in the water.
“See,” I said. “There’s nothing here.”
“Keeping pulling,” said Al. “Lets see how much bait he took.”
The line came freely, then I felt some weight. It did not resist so I thought the hook was dragging through some of the thick grass that covered most of the lake floor. Then I saw a turtle.
“Hey! I got one!”
At first it looked like he was following the bait, until I could see the line in his jaws. I pulled a little faster. Still the reptile offered no resistance until I had him half way on the shore. He dug his claws into the soft soil and started backing off, twisting his head from side to side and hissing loudly. He was no match because of his size. I pulled him farther onto the shore and stood proudly staring at him. He lay there with his head extended, breathing heavily. I stooped down next to him for a better look. He had almost swallowed the hook. It pierced the side of his head near the joint in his jaws. The barb protruded and blood was trickling from the wound.
“Let’s get him on up to the cabin now.”
“In the cabin?” Al wanted to be sure of what I said. “There’s no place to keep him there unless he sleeps with you.”
“There’s a GI can in the upper warehouse. We can fill that with water and put him on the porch.”
He agreed to that and I lifted Too-Shay [after a popular cartoon turtle character on TV] completely off the ground in order to make sure the hook stayed in. Then I dragged him towards the Volkswagen.
“Say, that’ll hurt him won’t it?”
“He’s got a tough hide,” I answered though I stopped to think it over. Shrugging, I stooped down, pulling the line taunt and took the beast by the tail. He hissed and tried to tuck it in but I already had a firm grip on it. I placed him in the back of the truck and we went up to the office to show Steve Johnson, the Camp Director. Steve came out smiling, followed by Pamela who was a bit suspicious.
“Got a present for you Pam,” said Al.
Pam backed into the lodge. “Oh Lord, here you go with those snakes again.”
We assured her it wasn’t a snake and she came back out. You should have seen her jump when I pulled out Too-Shay. She was back inside like a flash. I put him on the ground and Sue, Steve’s Doberman Pinscher walked around it sniffing warily. The hairs on her back rose but she was more curious than anything.
“That’s about the same size as the one I caught last year,” Steve said.
“When did you put the hook out?”
“The Ranger put it out after lunch and dumped in a few fish too.” I answered.
“I’ll tell you Mike, they make pretty good eating.”
“Yeah. You cut off the heads and boil them until they’re soft enough to peel. The shell comes right off. Then you take out the insides and cook the legs and tail. Tastes pretty good.”
“Hmm,” I thought, “Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Well, we got to get a GI can from the warehouse and get the hook out of his mouth,” spoke Al.
“Yeah, let’s get him in some water,” I agreed. On the way I told him he could take the hook out while I watched. A long “Nooo sir!” was his answer. I had to laugh.
We got the can and filled it up and took it to our cabin. After showing the turtle around the camp, that is. Now came the removal of the hook. We hesitated at that task. But it had to come out or else the beast would have bled to death.
Finally I decided to remove it after persuading Al to hold Too-Shay by the tail. I pulled the line just enough so that he couldn’t jerk and stepped on it. I didn’t like the idea of handling the hook because was almost all the way inside his mouth. Don’t believe in giving fingers away free! I twisted and pushed upon the hook trying to force the barb out. The turtle submitted to my actions and not move. I had no intention of taking my foot off the rope, my only margin of safety. Al didn’t particularly like the idea of holding the tail end. But he was a good sport and went through with it. I got a pair of pliers from the toolbox hoping this would work. Taking the stake I tapped the beast on the head and he hissed in defiance. Immediately I forced the stick into one side of his mouth, leaving a big enough gap to use the pliers. Almost half an hour later I succeeded in withdrawing the hook and placed him in his new house. A GI can, three quarters full of water.
That night we took the girls over to Camp Pleasant, the boy’s camp. Usually Al and I didn’t stay. We’d drop the girls off and take off and come back to pick them up later.
There were a few of places to go in tiny Triangle and Dumfries, Virginia. Quantico Marine Base, The Blue Bird bar, Hillbilly Heaven’s honky tonk, and several other places.
The next morning the Ranger pulled in to see about his bait. I showed him the turtle and gave him the hook. He wanted the beast for soup so I let him take it. I wasn’t sure about cooking it anyway. He re-baited the hook and set it out again on the other side of the lake. For the next couple of days I’d only seen one turtle. Once Osgood came into the swimming area while the Units were swimming. Immediately the girls retreated to the dock where they watched and waited.
“Watch me catch him,” I said and dove in. Actually the turtle was curious and would be gone by the time I’d get out there. I was right too. For when I dove I swam underwater to keep the girls in suspense. I came up a few yards from where Osgood had been. He was gone. I turned to the dock and the girls called for me to come back before the turtle came again.
Two days later I caught another one. It just so happened that Carol was clearing the pool also and the girls were a bit reluctant to leave. I held the reptile up and called to her, “Hey Carol. You want an instant pool clearer?” And I dropped the turtle into the shallow pool. The girls moved then.
“Mike, don’t!” Carol called. “You’re scaring them.”
I pulled the beast out by the line. “Cleared the pool didn’t I?” I laughed.
The children had overcome their fear and began gathering around me. I picked the beast up by the tail so they could see him better.
“Oh, you’re hurting him. Put him down,” they began to sympathize.
During the summer I found the kids to be very affectionate and adaptable to all forms of wildlife, including snakes. So I put him down and he immediately went for the water. I allowed him to enter and then pulled him back. He entered the water again and again, and again I pulled him out. The third time he turned and snapped. The line fell from his mouth and he rushed into the water. Al backed off a little.
“He’s getting away,” he said.
I don’t know what I was thinking of, but I found myself on the ground pulling the reptile out by the tail just as he’d started stroking. It was a good thing he was so set on getting away and not fighting me. I quickly stood up and held him out from me, breathing heavily.
“Come on let’s go,” I said.
After that I began hearing rumors about a certain party fighting snapping turtles in the lake, from Counselors who had overheard their children talking in bed.
We checked our hooks daily, each day expecting to haul in Osgood. And each day our luck seemed to get thinner and thinner. We’d bait the hooks and he’d clean’em. For almost two weeks he ate like a king. And we became more disgusted. Gradually we began to neglect the hooks and let them lay where they were tied. Empty too!
One Thursday we decided to cook Too-Shay. We named all of them that we caught Too-Shay. Every one agreed on the cooking part.
We popped him into a huge pot and placed it on the stove. While he boiled we took a box load of food up to the picnic area for the girls. Every Thursday at dinnertime is cookout time provided that the weather is fine. We spent the better part of an hour up there playing football before deciding to return.
When we did get back Too-Shay was good and boiled. Mike and I removed him and began to peel him. His shell and skin came off easy. Mike Shirley, a kitchen helper, split the head and tore off a piece of white meat and chewed it.
“Good,” he said.
I took a piece and chewed it. It was good! Tasted like a crab to me. We were interrupted by the garbage man backing his truck up against the loading dock. We asked him in to sample our meal. He took one look at Too-Shay and backed away.
“No sir! I wouldn’t eat that. You’re suppose to kill’em, divide’em, and then boil’em. You ain’t even removed his glands. They could spoil the meat and poison you! No, I wouldn’t eat that if I were you! That thing belongs in the garbage!” and he backed out the door.
“Well, I guess that settles that,” I said.
Mike began to gather the meat up. Al and Rick came in through the dining hall.
“What’s that I smell,” sniffed Rick.
“Hmm. Smells like Too-Shay,” mused Al.
“Too-Shay’s just been canned,” said Mike. “Garbage man said he wasn’t cooked right.”
Rick and Al broke out laughing. They laughed even harder when we told them what he had said. For the next few days we debated on whether or not to cook the other turtle. He got off lucky. We spared him and let him go free at the end of the session.
There was one more camp session before the end of the season. During those last two weeks I’d seen Osgood about a dozen times. I kept remembering what I’d said some time back. “I’ll get that turtle before the summer’s end.”
As the session came to a close I realized I wouldn’t be able to keep good on my word. Somehow that didn’t seem to bother me. I think he was better off in the lake where he belonged, instead of in my stomach. After all, what would the lake be like without a monster?
The End
THE BUTCHER [a novella]
Chapter 1 * The Wolf Pups
A trail of dust and leaves follows the fleeing rabbit as he runs for his life. Behind that trail in hot pursuit, a great timber wolf. It was Old Howler on the hunt. The forest shook at this thunderous howl. The gap between him and his prey was steadily closing. With a sudden burst of speed and a leap, Old Howler sails through the air and lands on his victim. A flash of teeth, a quick shake, and its over. Another howl filled the air. Old Howler made a kill. Picking up the bloodstained rabbit, the victorious wolf headed towards home.
Over the next ridge was a den in which Queenie, the mate of Old Howler, lay nursing five fuzzy pups. Six weeks ago had marked the birth of this fine litter. It was their fourth and one among them would make history in the years to come.
Queenie heard the booming voice of Old Howler and left her pups to meet him. Old Howler dropped the rabbit ten feet from the den’s entrance and went to rest at his lookout point. Queenie fed with all the time in the world, for she was confident in her alert mate to warn her if danger threatened. Queenie fed until the whimper of her pups called her. They were hungry again and she would have to fulfill their needs before her own.
Chapter 2 * A Day Outside The Den
The months passed rapidly and the pups grew strong and fast. Being weaned the pups had eaten meat several times now. Now was the time when Queenie allowed her pups to leave the den. They were also introduced to their father, who approved of them whole-heartedly.
The pups played and wrestled in front of the den’s entrance. The most aggressive of them were Korak and Snapper. The black pup, Snapper, would later earn the title of The Butcher.
The pups enjoyed themselves and made playthings of their surroundings. Candy and Zar played tag with rocks and bones and other articles. Princess chewed on mama’s tail, while Korak and Snapper staged mock battles.
Queenie and Old Howler sat side by side watching their long-legged pups at play. They were as proud of these as their former litter, and they had every reason to be. As they grew old their young ones would succeed them and carry on their tradition of raising new litters and stronger leaders. However, they could not know that right now they were raising one of the greatest wolves that would ever live.
Chapter 3 * Peril Of The Skies
Days crossed into weeks for the wolf family who spent their leisure time in front of the den. It was one of those lazy days that found the family dozing in the sun. Queenie awoke at intervals to check the pups, then dozed off again. The family slept for hours in the blazing sun. It was a picture of contentment and peace to see the pups cuddled around their great parents. Once in a while they stirred, but that was all.
As they slept, a speck in the sky grew and grew as it approached. It was Ka the golden eagle. A bold and fierce bird with the fighting spirit. He was out on an evening solo, gliding peacefully on the gentle air currents. From his high haunt, hardly a thing escaped his eye. He had seen a rabbit dive for cover, some quail on a stroll, and a bobcat prowling around some pines.
Now he was over Old Howler’s den and saw the family dozing at the entrance. What an easy take. But this was no hunting trip. So on he glided, voicing his cry as he went.
Chapter 4 * First Night Out
Ka’s cry had awakened Queenie with a start. Usually this cry came when Ka was whistling down with the wind towards his prey. But today he was not diving. Queenie watched the body of golden brown feathers, glistening in the sun as he floated away and became a tiny speck in the distance.
Near dusk Old Howler led his family on a stroll. It was a tour for the pups of the area and things around their home. First they visited the creek where the pups explored the new things of Mother Nature. Through the woods they trotted by stately pine trees and up old game trails.
Night had caught up with the evening walk. Old Howler did not turn towards the den for the pups were well able to take care of themselves. Breaking through some underbrush the family was led to a small clearing. There they would sleep. The cool breeze brought the sounds of wolves on the hunt. Queenie and Old Howler longed to be with them and that time was coming soon.
Chapter 5 * Pack Members
Within a year the pups had grown fast and strong in the ways of wild things. In this time they had mastered the art of hunting, eluding man, his dogs, traps, and poison. They knew the law of survival. Kill to eat. Kill to protect.
While roaming the wilds, Old Howler’s band ran into Scarface and his pack. After the wolf leaders got acquainted, the bands joined together to form a bigger pack, with Old Howler as their leader.
The half-grown pups wrestled and tumbled about as they did in their earlier days. The hunt would follow after this happy reunion. Food for the pickings ran, flew, swam, and crawled about the forest throughout the year.
“Crack!” the peaceful melody of the forest was broken by the thunder of a rifle and succeeded by the baying of hounds. Instantly Old Howler was on the alert, for dogs meant man! A second shot rang out and dirt flew between the paws of Brownie. This concluded the decision and Old Howler took the lead to safety.
Chapter 6 * The Pups’ First Battle
Most of the pack followed willingly, but Snapper and several of the other pups were in doubt. Why leave? Here was company. Snapper had smelled the dog scent before and was warned against it. But he never came in contact with dogs. It was evident that the other pups hadn’t or they would have left. The baying of the hounds sounded like some kind of wolf to them. They would join them and off they went.
The same strange sound that made his father leave rang out again but it didn’t bother Snapper. The hounds came into view and the tail wagging pups were set upon with flashing teeth. It was a shock to the pups to be received in such manner. Quickly adjusting themselves, they changed from defensive to offensive. Snapper and Korak’s mock battles came in handy at this time. Together they had downed five hounds and were tackling more. Outnumbered by the hounds, the young pack fought with vigor and enthusiasm.
Chapter 7 * The Butcher
The battle was short and fast, for the sounds of man approaching rapidly on horseback persuaded the youngsters to leave. They broke out with the hounds close on their heels. A roar of thunder came from the guns of man. Once, twice, and the yelp of pain came from the jaws of Candy. She was hit. She dropped unnoticed by the hounds that were blindly following her brothers and companions.
Snapper saw her and he didn’t want to leave. The urge to live was stronger. Presently the hounds slacked off and returned to their master. But the frightened pups kept running. All, except Snapper, that is. He had dropped back and followed the hounds at an undetectable distance. The sound of his sister’s fighting growls, mixed with that of dogs and the voice of man made him hasten his pace.
Snapper arrived on the scene in time to witness the man pulling and chaining the dogs as fast as he could away from his struggling sister. The hounds, upon returning to their master ran into Candy while she dragged herself to cover at the same time Mr. Harper, the hunter arrived, and immediately attacked her. Not wanting a ribbon pelt, Harper kicked, pulled, and chained hounds left and right. Locking the last hound the man pulled his rifle and advanced toward the blood soaked canine that cowered in wild-eyed fear as he approached. Candy struggled to rise as Harper stood before her with the gun barrel pointing between her eyes.
But thirty yards away, the eyes of Snapper, Candy’s brother, flared with anger. Hatred and anger burned in his heart and muscles to tear the man thing apart. The ordeal was insufferable. The watch his sister pleading for the life that was almost gone only to be answered by the bullets of the thunder-stick crashing through her skull. These shots added to the anger of Snapper who was now roaring menacingly as he charged the startled man. So startled was he that he dropped his rifle while seeking an avenue of escape. By the help of fate, the cocked gun went off as it hit the ground. This woke Snapper to his senses and he started off in the other direction. About a half mile away he stopped and rested. At night he would return and avenge the death of his sister to his last breath.
Before nightfall, Harper had set camp, tied the horses and dogs, and fed them. Later that night he sat before his fire, fixing the wolf pelt over a cup of coffee. As he worked, he whistled and even talked to the skin.
“You almost cost me my life today. Wonder if that black pup was related to you? He sure gave me a scare. But if it weren’t for my gun firing, don’t think I’d be skinning you now.”
As it grew late Harper retired to his sleeping bag. On the edge of the camp a silent figure watched as the man skinned another pelt before retiring. Yellowish-green eyes rose as the shadow moved. Closer to the camp, but not enough to be detected, the creature stalked. With the aid of the glowing fire the victims could be seen. Now was the time. The time to let out the hatred and anger that burned revenge in his heart and muscles. Closer to the dozing dogs crept death in the shape of long cruel fangs. Then out of the forest darkness leaped Snapper, wild-eyed and fangs bared, onto the back of the nearest mutt. A grip on the neck, a twist and it was over before the hound could gather his senses. By the time Snapper reached the second victim, the hounds were well aware of his presence. Some growled viciously and strained on their leases in an effort to reach the wolf, while others pulled in the opposite direction trying to get away. Snapper hopped from one to the other until the growling of the dogs and neighing of the horses woke up the sleeping Harper who emerged from his tent in time to witness the execution of one of his mongrels.
“Good Lord!” he shouted as he darted back into his tent in search of his rifle. One shout was enough and Snapper took off right between the two terror-stricken horses. By the time Harper came out again he found only two half-crazed horses and four carcasses of his hounds.
“Why that butcher!” he exclaimed. “Killed half my pack!”
Mumbling and swearing oaths to himself, Harper began the task of digging graves. That he was mad showed, but he also had admiration for the young wolf.
“Sure would like to meet that beast again,” he thought.
The victory howl of Snapper pierced the night air. Half the night was spent calming the horses, while the other was on watching the camp and dozing at intervals. In case Snapper decided to pay another visit.
“Come on Butcher,” mumbled Harper as he waited. “I’m ready for you!”
Chapter 8 * $100 Bounty
First thing after breakfast, Harper packed and headed toward the nearest settlement, almost fifty miles away. He was running short on supplies and in the week that followed, his reason began to change. Many a night he would spend on watch to defend his stock against Snapper, who had rejoined his brother and companions and were now terrorizing the band. The wails of the pack sounded like ghosts on a gloomy evening.
With a blazing fire, the pack could be outlined at the edge of the camp against the gloom of the woods. Occasionally they ventured nearer to the party despite the fire. Knowing that the glowing light would not hurt them unless touched by it the wolves grew bolder. The horses were relatively safe, for the wolves hardly took an interest in them.
For a while, Harper’s flashlight aided him. His gun was of no use after nightfall for the northern predators passed like shadows. Once, when Harper dozed off the Butcher successfully claimed another victim and disappeared into the shadows.
At times when Harper and his band were not being tormented by Snapper’s attacks, other people were. Many people who had witnessed this young wolf in action by himself as well as with his pack, called him a butcher as Harper had done earlier. Snapper and his band had covered many miles of plundering and left a wake of destruction.
Half out of his wits, Harper straggled into Bannersville, where he was helped over to the Doctor’s office and the rest of his animals taken care of at the local livery stable.
Doc Adams patched him up and advised him to stay put awhile. He was suffering from shock and was advised to get some rest. For three days Harper reclined in the doctor’s infirmary and began to put things back into perspective. Now the time had come to finish his task. After writing a check for old Doc Adams, Harper proceeded to the Ranger Station at the end of town.
The town was pleasant and busy. The people were friendly. Reaching the station, he paused to read the posters on the bulletin board outside. In his mind he was thinking of another poster he would like to see hanging there in place of the rest. Upon entering, he caught the remark, “...and I want something done ‘bout them wolves! They’re a menace to our stock!”
“Wolves!” exclaimed Harper. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Yeah. Them long-legged, slanty eyed creatures that look like German Shepherds but ain’t,” answered Grizzly in a sly remark.
“Come on, knock it off,” said the Ranger. “And what can I do for you? My name’s Dan Scott,” he extended a hand. “This is Grizzly, and this is Gill Smith. He’s making a complaint on some wolves.”
“Glad to meet you. My name’s Harper. Greg Harper. Couldn’t help from shoutin’ out like that, but I’ve had enough wolves where I come from!”
“What do you mean?”
“Me and my animals were attacked by them several times on the trail and I was wondering if the ones you mentioned were the ones that pestered me when they weren’t bothering you ranchers. Could you describe them?”
“I sure can! There’s about twelve of’em. No more than two years old I reckon. Their leader was jet black and as powerful looking as any wolf I’ve seen!”
“That’s the one! Your description fits him to the bone!” exclaimed Harper.
“So you seen’em before?” questioned Grizzly.
“Seen him!” barked Harper. “He almost devoured me one night! Plus he killed five of my hounds! Four in one night by himself and another one three nights later. Now does that sound like I’ve seen him or not?”
“That’s a pretty fantastic story. But most of all it’s kind of hard to believe that American wolves attacked you! Not with all the game that’s plentiful around here. And the livestock.”
“Well, they did! They would follow me for several days and then go off somewhere else for awhile.”
“Guess when they left you that’s when they hit us ranchers. The first time I didn’t bother for I thought they were just passing through. Then it started happening in secession and I was sure they meant business. That black one killed my prize bull and cut up one of my ponies. This happened in broad daylight too! That beast is a regular butcher!”
“That’s what I called him too!” interrupted Harper.
“Well darn if he ain’t one!” swore Smith, getting madder by the minute. “He’s gotta be eliminated or our animals will be!”
As Smith and Harper rattled off about Snapper and his band, Grizzly advised the Ranger to start working on some method of extermination of the wolves.
“What you got in mind?” questioned Dan.
“You’re the Ranger,” was the reply.
“Well, let’s see. Have some posters printed and place a fifty-dollar bounty on each member of the pack. And as proof of killing, they gotta bring in the tail. But for that leader, I want a one hundred dollar bounty placed on him, and his whole hide as proof. Have it printed, “The Butcher, $100 Bounty. $50 a head on pack members. I want this ready for tomorrow.”
“Okay Scott, I’ll have Sam print’em tonight.”
Finishing their plans, they broke up the other party’s conversation.
“Well men, I’m placing a bounty on the wolves. $100 on the Butcher and $50 each on the pack members.”
“The Butcher!” both said in amazement.
“Yep, you both described him as such, so that’s what we’ll call him. Not unless you can think of a better name.”
“Nope, that fits fine,” they agreed.
Chapter 9 * Cross The Border
Bright and early the next morning, the town was awakened by the sounds of hammering. Gradually as the townsmen awakened, small groups began to congregate around the new posters that read;
WANTED: THE BUTCHER
$100 Bounty with hide as proof
$ 50 a head on his pack members
Tail as proof
“Hundred smacks! Wow, I could sure use that!”
“What fer Charlie? You can’t count!”
“I can too!”
“Yeah what? Sheep?”
“Over at the Saloon can count the bottles I empty and I’ll count the money!” And the men broke out in laughter.
“Here comes Bradford,” somebody shouted.
“Hi Bradford. You gonna try for the Butcher?” the men greeted.
“Butcher! Haw that’s a laugh. “Why Rangler here could take that name with ease. Couldn’t you boy?” And the dog bared his fangs in answer.
“Me and my dogs are going after him and we’ll be back in a week with his skin,” assured Bradford.
“You’d better go well prepared,” suggested Harper. “That wolf’ll eat a man too.”
“There ain’t a wolf alive that can get the best of me, Spike Bradford!”
Two hours after noon, Bradford left on the trail of the Butcher. With six dogs and two horses, he traveled at good speed. Not until almost the end of the week did more ranchers complain to Ranger Scott about the Butcher. At the end of the week people gathered outside to await the coming of Bradford. But he came not. On the third week, Harper persuaded the men folk to go on a search for he reminded them that the Butcher had tried to personally attack him.
Five miles out of town they came across Bradford and one of his hounds, blood-soaked and crawling towards town. Fear and terror stood out in both pair of eyes. The men that approached looked with wide-eyed horror at the ghastly sight that their eyes beheld.
“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Harper, leaping from his horse to the blood-soaked man.
“Well it’s true,” said Grizzly. “Them there’s wolf slashes all right!”
“Wolves! They, they... Attacked m-m-me,” Bradford stuttered, trying to tell what happened. “K-killed m-m-my dogs. Including Rangler. One… one… one, horse dead. The other b-b-broke away,” he continued.
“Easy man. Save your breath for later. We’ve got to get you to the Doc’s. Harry, shoot that dog, he won’t live long anyway.”
“Okay Scott.”
The Butcher and his band were hot with the fighting lust. They ransacked the countryside, hamstringing horses, cattle, sheep, hounds, and anything connected with man. Their natural prey was relatively safe when they were in the vicinity of a farm or a ranch. For Snapper’s want of never-ending revenge led him to the ranches. The pack rampaged until man got firm in fighting back. Everywhere they moved, man was there shooting at him and sending his hounds. Snapper pointed his nose toward the border and followed it in that direction. As always, a wake of destruction was left if they encountered any ranch or farm on the way.
During his wanderings near the U.S. and Canadian border, Snapper came in contact with his parents and their pack. Across the border on several occasions during the year, the northern killers left destruction wherever they went. During one year, Snapper claimed La as his mate, after a vicious battle with the Cruiser, a notorious Canadian wolf. Rangers and Trappers were hired left and right but failed to stop him.
Again the pack crossed into Canada and traveled northeast. People here had heard of the Butcher and some had seen him. Farmers and trappers from the states told the Canadian people of this great creature when they discussed the productions of their farms and such. The Butcher’s pack could be identified when they hunted, for their voices shook the trees.
Sometimes the Butcher and his band ran into minor outlaw wolves. If there was any disagreement, it was a fight to the finish. The battles could be heard for miles, especially the roar of the Butcher. This attracted the nearby hunters who, after the battles, collected the dead wolves and skinned them for their pelts.
Chapter 10 * On The Trail
A bloody year had rolled by as the Butcher and his band stormed the ranches and farms. The game was ever increasing while the domestic animals struggled for survival. The ranchers were in a fit of rage as the Butcher left his reputation on each ranch he passed. Many set out traps, poison baits, and shot on sight. Some were lucky to get home with their lives, for Snapper was no ordinary wolf, and would attack man in an instant.
Grizzly, Ranger Scott, and Slim Pickens were hired by the Canadian border ranchers on the Canadian side, to put an end to the wolf pack. The three talked to the people to get information on when and where things happened. In two days they were supplied and ready to leave. Their supply included two Winchesters apiece, three forty-five revolvers, three hand axes, and five horses. Two for pack animals and the others for mounts. They carried basic provisions for a month, and seventeen hounds of different breeds. And a large wall tent.
Travel was easy, considering the number they had with them. They had covered thirty miles and on the third day they set up camp near a freely flowing stream. That night they gathered before the fire with a pot of coffee. The men talked about the days that would follow. As Grizzly spoke, he was stopped by the wail of a lone wolf floating on the night breeze.
“The Butcher,” muttered the Ranger. “Know that howl anywhere.”
A second howl came, but in a broader voice. It was answered by the barking and baying of the hounds tugging and pulling at their thin leases in an effort to accept the challenge. One by one the lines began to snap.
“Git them dogs!” yelled Slim, hopping forward. “Before they get themselves massacred!”
The men worked fast and succeeded in recapturing little over half of their hounds.
“Ain’t no use going after the rest of’em,” said Slim, sorrowfully. “We can bury’em tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Just listen to’em,” said Grizzly, referring to the sounds of the wolves in battle and the yelping of pain from the dogs. “They don’t have a chance.”
“Be a miracle if one survived,” answered Slim.
“It’s no use. Let’s check the dogs and horses and turn in for the night,” suggested Scott.
“Guess you’re right,” they agreed.
The men slept the night through hoping the Butcher had had enough blood for the night.
Snapper did visit the camp later that night. And for the first time in his life he did not attack an unguarded place. The horses and hounds were nervous, for they caught his scent faintly. Snapper circled round the camp several times occasionally stopping at different spots. After surveying the grounds to suit himself Snapper left as silently as he approached.
Early the next morning the three men and the dogs set out on the trail of the gray killers. They followed the trail made by the hounds that escaped last night. In a while the party arrived at the battlefield of the wild against the tame. Silently they observed the remains until one spoke.
“The Butcher’s done it again.”
“Looks that way. But why?” questioned Slim.
“The closest story to the truth is the one told by that fella named Harper. He said he remembered seeing that wolf when he was finishing off one. It charged him and he was so frightened he said that he dropped his gun and fled. As the gun hit the ground it went off and scared the wolf. But that same night the devil came back and slaughtered four of his hounds by himself.”
“Must’ve been some sight,” exclaimed Slim.
“Probably was,” answered Grizzly, “Harper thinks that wolf he killed was related to the Butcher.”
“And so this is his way of showing revenge,” answered Scott.
“But he’s quite a wolf though,” remarked Slim.
The men moved on and soon came across the carcass of a freshly killed elk. The dogs sniffed the carcass and the wolf scent around it.
“They fed here not long ago.”
“How far behind are we?”
“Not far.”
Grizzly was close to right, for not more than two miles away the pack had stopped to rest. From the top of the valley wall the pack had a bird’s eye view of the woods below. They were lounging on a full stomach with not a care in the world. Several hours later a faint disturbing sound reached the ears of the adventurous leader. Then it became clear. Dogs! That meant man also. By now the whole pack was alerted. They could also see the hounds and men racing along the floor of the forest. As the hunters climbed the side of the valley, La showed her anxiety. Slowly the men and dogs climbed and closer to Snapper La cuddled. She was worried. Snapper sensed it. Rising, Snapper trotted off with the pack at his heels.
Chapter 11 * The Wind Brings A Message
Instead of using the game trail Snapper cut through the underbrush. This would help throw the pursuers off, especially those who were not use to trampling through bushes and vines. Patiently and cautiously Snapper led the way through the dense foliage. Why exert energy when that would come in handy later? By the time the hounds and men reached the top he and his band would be well away. Around the top of the valley the pack loped, but kept away from the edge to avoid detection. Soon they were out of hearing of the baying hounds and kept going to keep it that way.
Presently the hounds reached the top. At first they were puzzled at the loss of the scent, but picked it up several yards away. It led straight to the spot where Snapper’s pack had rested. The dogs waited, growling and sniffing at the hated wolf scent. About three minutes later, Grizzly, Slim, and Ranger Scott arrived on the scene.
“Look here,” pointed Grizzly. “This is where them killers rested. By now they’re probably long gone.”
“What makes you think so?” replied Slim.
“Common sense would tell you man. See that spot over by the edge where the grass is chewed and flattened a lot?”
“Yea.”
“One of them wolves was laying there. Most likely the leader. From there he has a view of the whole valley below and the trail we used on the way up. So naturally they took off without waiting to see if we were coming this way or thrown off the scent.”
“We can still follow them, can’t we Grizzly?”
“Sure Dan, but by now the Butcher and his band are probably on the other side of this valley. I tell you what. Chain the dogs and let’s pitch camp over that way. We can pick up the trail in the morning.”
Snapper and his band had followed the top edge of the valley long enough. Now was the time to shake the pursuers for good. Away from the valley he turned and headed through the surrounding forest. Feeling high-spirited, a howl poured forth from Snapper’s throat. The pack joined in. The forest shook and shivered at the howls and wails of the passing gray shadows. All of nature’s creatures parted from their path. Even the majestic moose stepped aside when at other times he would have stood his ground. It was fortunate for him, for this pack was not like others. Four days the pack raced through the wilderness stopping only for food, water, and rest. They had covered nearly a hundred miles. Coming to the edge of the forest, the pack came upon a broad plain of grass and a large lake. Faintly scattered was the scent of man! Mingled with beef, horses, and Canada’s natural wildlife.
The pack moved over by the lake. The majority dozed while some of the pups played near-by. That evening the pack feasted on several rabbits that were unfortunate enough to have been in the neighborhood. At night with the full moon shining on the tranquil lake, the pack decided to romp along the shore singing gleefully as they went. As they raced along flushing out game on the way Korak, the brother of Snapper, began to slow down so that the rear caught up with him. For a while he tailed them and then dropped out completely unnoticed and headed off in another direction. Not once did he look back for he cared not if the pack followed.
Recklessly the pack raced on, not caring who or what heard or saw them. The howling carried on the wind. Soon they reached the ears of one who was concerned. The sounds came clearly for on a night as calm as this, the chirp of a cricket can drift for miles on a floating breeze.
Chapter 12 * Close Call
About seven miles from the lake was the large and prosperous Boone Ranch. On the porch rested that someone who could hear Snapper’s band by the lake as their sounds drifted in on the air currents. It was Butch, the ranch’s faithful watchdog. When he had finished his nightly stroll around the ranch and reclined on the porch, it was then that he noticed the howls of the wolves. He knew what animals made the noises for he had come in contact with them in his early years. In truth, he was almost one of them, for his father was a coyote and his mother was a German Shepherd.
The sounds seemed to draw nearer as they increased in volume. Within him Butch felt the pull of the wilderness pulling him towards the sounds. He wanted to go at times when wolves and coyotes passed by, but love of and devotion to his master kept him. Here was the life for him, with food and shelter and companionship. The sounds were coming nearer and growing fainter as the pack went back and forth. Butch listened with much interest for the wolves would sooner or later discover the ranch.
In his youth he had fought a wolf and barely escaped with his life. And around a farm, wolves meant destruction. The opening of the door diverted Butch’s attention. Out into view stepped Randy, his master. Butch whimpered and jumped up and down about the man as he came to the railing.
“Down boy,” spoke the man, and he was immediately obeyed. “Hear the howling over yonder?”
Butch whined in answer.
“Wolves. And I hope it’s not the Butcher’s bunch. Nothing like having a slaughter out of season. Things could be awfully bloody around here.”
“Randy? Who in land sakes are you talking too at this hour? We got visitors?” interrupted another voice. This was Irene, Randy’s wife. She had heard Randy talking when she came to shut the door he had left open.
“Nobody but me and Butch here,” was the reply. “We were just discussing those wolves between here and the lake.”
“Wolves!” she exclaimed. “The Butcher?”
“Don’t really know. But I sure hope not”
“If it is, do you think they’ll come to the ranch tonight?”
“From what I’d heard, if it’s the Butcher, they’ll get here sometime soon. Just give him time.”
“It’s getting chilly. Now that the kids are sleep, I think I’ll turn in myself Randy.”
“Go ahead Honey. I’ll be in shortly.”
As Mrs. Boone went in Randy patted the dog on his head.
“Well Butch, let’s take another stroll and see if everything’s okay.”
The two headed towards the barn first. By this time the howling had died down also. Randy could not interpret this, but Butch knew they had found something and were investigating it. Except for the hooting of owls and chirping of crickets, everything was quiet.
“Pretty spooky now that the howling stopped, huh?” spoke Randy. “I feel as though we are being watched too.”
Randy couldn’t have guessed any closer, for a pair of yellow eyes glared at him and Butch as they passed silently by. Butch couldn’t catch the scent of the watcher for the wind was in the others favor. But should it change, Korak would be in no real danger except for Butch, since Randy had brought no weapon with him.
When the two figures passed Korak began an inspection of the ranch! From the barn poured the scent of beef, a few sheep, and several horses. In wire fenced pens were chickens, ducks, and geese. In the corrals were more horses, bulls, hogs, and a mule. The last building Korak came to was the ranch house itself. There he circled the house sniffing the new smells. With the scents came that of another do. This made him uneasy for two dogs could mean trouble. As he left he did not check the wind for his own advantage. Slowly but surely his scent drifted through an open window into the nostrils of Nan, Butch’s mother. The first whiff shook her. She knew this wild thing was about the farm and that it was dangerous. There was no doubt. But where was her son? Why hadn’t he alarmed the house? Or was he already slain? Nan could not understand this so she would settle the matter herself. Out of the window she hopped and immediately picked up the trail Korak left.
Korak, unaware of the trailing peril, took his time in order to avoid Butch and Randy. Every two steps he took meant five gained by the trailing Shepherd. Then the howl of a wolf from the nearby woods pierced the air. Korak stopped to listen, but did not answer.
When Korak stopped, this gave Nan a chance to get within forty feet of him. There she stopped and uttered a low growl. A half surprised Korak turned to face the growling dog. This old veteran of many battles gave Korak a snarl that only wild things knew. Korak showed no chivalry and growled back for he was fighting for his life. The challenge was accepted. The two advanced slowly and stiff legged, with nape hairs on edge and teeth flashing. A little closer and then they charged. Leaping into the air both clashed fang to fang seeking the other’s throat. They broke and clashed again. Nan rushed in only to receive a blow in the chest followed by slashing teeth ripping into her left shoulder. She yelped in pain as Korak torn her flesh from her body. She was a veteran but Korak was younger and stronger. Once she succeeded in gripping his back but could not hang on. She was losing and going down like a heroine to her last.
But the sounds of the battle were heard by others who were coming to the rescue.
“That’s Nan! Let’s go Butch!” shouted Randy. He snatched up a pole along the way. Butch ran ahead and was shook into rage as he heard the death cry of his mother and the savage growls of the wolf. Randy knew what had happened and wondered if he would get there in time to save Butch?
Butch had just reached his mother’s side when he was met by the flashing fangs of Korak, who bowled him over in an effort to escape. As Randy came upon the scene, he saw Butch sprawled on the ground and the wild-eyed, bare fanged Korak heading in his direction. Fear grasped him at first, then remembering the pole in his hand he propped it like a spear. On came Korak. He leaped. Three, five, ten feet passed beneath him. Randy launched his slender missile. It grazed the wolf’s shoulder but did not stop from landing full force on the man’s chest and knocking him to the ground. When they landed Korak did not bother to bite him but lit out towards the woods where the pack was waiting. Uncovering his face, Randy got up and raced to the side of the unconscious Butch whom he thought dead.
“Whew!” he said with a sigh of relief, “I thought you were a goner!” And then turning towards Nan.
“Neck’s broke. Poor girl. I know she went bravely.”
Picking up the half-conscious dog, Randy trotted down the path toward the house where he was met by Irene, who had been awakened by the commotion.
Reaching the woods and the pack Korak felt much safer. He was overwhelmed with anxiety. The pack crowded around bristling and growling at the dog scent that covered him. Korak was not hurt bad, he only limped a little from the blow of the pole. Other than that he was afraid. He found a spot to rest so his shoulder would heal. For a long time the pack watched in the direction of the ranch, then convinced that the man was not following, they reclined. Though Korak was the first to sleep he would never forget a night such as this.
Chapter 13 * Hunted Again
Sunrise the next morning Boone made several calls. Two hours later nearly a score of men with yapping hounds waited outside.
“Well boys you all set?” asked Randy while coming out of the house.
“Yeah, we’re ready!”
“Okay lets go.”
“Can I go Pa? I can shoot,” pleaded Jerry, Randy’s son.
“No son. This might be the Butcher’s bunch. If so, you might get hurt.”
“Aw Pa! Please?”
“Really Jerry. You’re needed here at the ranch to take care of mother and the kids. Maybe next time son.”
“Irene. You and the kids don’t wander too far. I’ll leave Butch here to help out in case a couple of them come back. See you in a day or two.”
“Bye dear. Do be careful,” was her answer.
“So long Pa. I’ll take good care of the ranch till you get back. Good luck,” shouted Jerry proudly as his father and the men rode off.
Snapper and his band were passing the morning away in play. Chasing rabbits and quail and anything that moved. Above their noise they failed to notice the occasional bark of the approaching hounds. A minute later dogs seemed to come from everywhere as they rushed into the pack with the speed of an express train. The wolves were startled at first, then with wits recovered they met the hounds and dealt them a deadly blow. Now man was approaching and bullets threw dirt here and there around the wolves. They must run for it. The hounds followed and were slashed by wicked teeth if they ventured too close.
“Look! We’ve got’em on the run!” shouted Randy. “And there’s that one that killed Nan!”
“Give’em all the lead they can hold!” shouted another man.
“It’s in the bag now! All the hounds got to do is bring them to bay!”
The bullets whizzed here and there about the heads and shoulders of the wolves. Spot caught a bullet in the shoulder and that slowed him down to the tail end of the pack. Next Zagor got hit and went down. He was immediately set upon by several of the hounds. Before he died he successfully claimed two victims. For eleven miles they raced and soon the worn out dogs gave in. They flopped on the ground and awaited the arrival of their masters.
“Look at’em lounging there with their tongues hanging out!” remarked one of the men as they approached.
“Well, let’em be. They earned it. Even though they only downed four.”
“Let’s pitch camp here and stay the night,” advised Boone.
“Aye,” agreed another man. “Them wolves can run forever! We best chain up them dogs too. ‘Fore they decide to continue the chase without us!”
“That would be kind of bad wouldn’t it, seeing how that the Butcher waiting out there.”
Snapper kept the pack going for another mile or so and then slowed down to rest. That night hunger began pulling at their stomachs. They set out on the trail of elk. With the help of the cool gentle breeze, the hunters heard the hunted, hunting.
Chapter 14 * Life or Death
Time marched three weeks and found the wolves still on the lam. Wolf and hound engaged in a running battle. They seldom stopped for a better advantage for the hunters on horseback were in close pursuit. The toll was heaviest among the hounds, for the wolves though outnumbered, were fighting for something very precious to them. Their lives. Twelve unlucky hounds fell at the jaws of the fleeing wolves, while with them only four wolves of eighteen. Towards evening, the men brought the dogs and dead wolves in and set up camp.
“Man! That was some chase! Just imagine! Three weeks and we’ve hardly touched them!”
“Yeah! Them beasts jest got charmed lives that’s all!”
“Well,” entered Jeff. “If you eliminate the leader the rest’s like taking candy from a baby.”
“But first you just tell us how to get the Butcher and we’ll take that candy from the baby,” argued a fourth man.
“Okay, I will. Just simmer down a bit and I will.”
The men ate as Jeff began his plan.
“Can’t you see? Look. Here we are almost five miles from Old Pine Ridge and below it ‘bout twenty feet is Small River.”
“What’s that got to do with them wolves?” interrupted one getting bored already.
“Just shut up and let me finish and you’ll know. If we split up into three groups on the morn we might be able to drive those wolves up Pine Ridge. They couldn’t go no where’s except possibly over the side. And no animal except possibly a deer could survive the jump. What do you think boys? If we get them up there we got’em all!”
“Say, that’s a right good idea,” congratulated Randy. “Men, we leave first thing in the morning.”
The crack of dawn found the wolves on the lam again. But something was different this time. The dogs were not closing in on their heels nor were they in one bunch as before. They were surrounded on all sides and being driven in a certain direction. Something else was sensed. The dogs were still chained to their leases. Onward, the wolves ran until they reached the bottom of Pine Ridge. To one side the strong scent of water came. On the other side was woods and more woods. An idea seemed to form in Snapper’s brain. He paced back and forth in thought then acted. Turning towards the pack he drove them to the water’s direction, holding back only five.
Snapper waited until the pack left his eyesight and led the rest to the top. The top was mostly bare dirt with patches of grass here and there, and two lone pines swaying on the edge. Over the side Snapper heard La calling from the riverbank. Trotting to the side, Snapper growled and barked commands to her and the pack. At first she was puzzled, but when she waded into the water, Snapper growled with approval. The pack followed in La’s wake as she swam for the opposite shore. Howling once more, Snapper turned to rejoin his fellows while the baying hounds could be heard drawing nearer to the top. The hoof beats of the mounts ceased but the dogs were coming on. There crouched the valiant six, Snapper, Korak, Three Toes, Zar, Reddy and Grayback, prepared to battle to the death, in which the case might be.
Bolting over the rise like spooked colts, the seventeen hounds were met with six pairs of flashing teeth. The attack was so effective that seven hounds met their fate immediately. Each wolf picked a victim and clung to it though being submerged under the frenzied horde. The hounds quickly regained their wits and struck back at their vicious foes. Actually they were on the defensive side for the wolves were far superior to them in fighting.
Snapper reared into the air to clear himself of the clinging mass. Grayback was at bay over three dead ones and injured all that came near. The big wolfhound Dale stopped to catch his breath. It was his last. Zar had seen to that. Korak and Three Toes darted in and out crippling hounds as they went.
Man was quickly approaching as was told by the sounds, and they were a greater danger than the dogs. Snapper turned on Three Toes. Was he attacking him? No, he was telling him to make for the cliff. In the midst of the fighting he caught on. Reddy was doing good until he tripped over the dodging Airedale hound and was immediately set upon by the other close pressing hounds. Snapper and the rest held the dogs to give Three Toes a chance to jump. He reached the edge and over he went. Snapper roared and growled at the rest of his fighters and one by one they broke for the cliff.
It was a running battle and the wolves fought every inch of the way. Fifteen feet from the edge the Butcher turned and rushed among the hounds, grabbing one by the throat he dropped it lifeless on the ground. The dogs now turned to Snapper for he had given his band a chance to escape. Down went Snapper under the horde of growling hounds, and up he rose, shaking them like flies and chopping with wicked teeth. Down and up he went, slashing his foes left and right as they tried desperately to conquer his massive form. Snapper fought as he had never done before.
The odds were seven to one, now six. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of man. It was Hammer, who upon reaching the top dropped his rifle in stunned amazement as he witnessed the young wolf in action. For the first time he witnessed the method, the Butcher used on large numbers of hounds.
Snapper sensed this man could do no harm, but the others were drawing closer. With a booming roar the Butcher charged into the hounds and rose like a demon possessed, clearing the clinging horde with fangs slashing here and there. Upon landing he darted through his new opening towards Pine Ridge’s edge. As he leaped he could hear the scraping of the paws as the dogs skidded to a stop and the shouting men as they reached the top.
“Shoot! Shoot! You darn fool you! Shoot Hammer! Shoot that critter!”
Several of the men raised their rifles and fired rapidly but to no avail for Snapper had disappeared from sight. Their direction changed to that of Hammer. Randy, first reaching him grabbed him by the collar and started to belt him when he noticed his expression.
“The man’s in a state of shock!” he exclaimed. “Guess that fight was too much for’em. Hey Andy! Git them dogs before they fall over the edge so we can get this man home!”
“Okay Boone. I wonder what they’re barking at over there?”
“All I know is that the whole pack wasn’t up here when this took place. Look at there, only one wolf!”
“That’s okay as long as the Butcher’s dead. His pack will split up soon and we can get’em later.”
Unknown to them the Butcher lived. He growled a threat to the hounds on the cliff before Andy came to the edge and departed with the pride of a king. In the woods he was met by his loyal pack who knew he would come. They were overjoyed at the presence of their leader, especially La, his mate. Snapper was glad to be back, he whined and whimpered and wagged his tail joyously. So happy was he that the cut upon his shoulder was all but forgotten. He was free again. He had fought man and his beasts and bested them. Once more he had the forests to roam. In his high and wild spirit he led the pack down the trail and drowned the earth with his victorious roar. The chorus was joined in by his pack members, but the voice of the Butcher was heard above all the rest.
At the same time, the losers of the hunt were departing. Sad-eyed unshaven men slumped in the saddles of their sore-footed mounts, while the slashed, blood dripping mutts staggered wearily beside them. As they left the battlefield, the cry of the departing wolf pack reached their ears. But eyes were opened with wonder and amazement when the roar of The Butcher rang heavily in their ears. Into every mind the same thought broke.
“Is that the Butcher... or his ghost?”
The End
EPILOGUE
So there you have it, and odd collection of wild outrageous stories written by a restless kid with a wild and outrageous imagination. Though a good deal of these stories are pure fiction they could not have been written without a little bit of truth to start the ball rolling.
“A FEW HOURS AT THE LAKE” and “A TURTLE NAME OSGOOD” are completely true. The others sprang from my mind’s eye following camping, hunting and fishing trips, summer camps, farm work and other outdoor activities that I could get into that allowed my imagination and alter-ego to soar. As you can see by some of the stories the Disney-like human characteristics I gave some of the animals go beyond the ridiculous.
“CLOSE CALL” was originally entitled “Uninvited Guest.” I stuck it into “Kazar the Leopard Boy” a new novel I was working on at the time. Then I removed it, rewrote it and named it “Close Call.” Incidentally, “Kazar the Leopard Boy” became “THE LEOPARD’S CUB” and I self-published it in 1979.
“KING AND THE STRANGE DEER” also came from a novel in progress called “King The Red Buck,” which after three re-writes is still incomplete and collecting dust in the closet.
“WAZI WARRIOR” was originally “Waziri Warrior.” Talk about Poetic License! I used my share and a few others on that one. I changed the title and names of the characters in the story because they came from characters in Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Tarzan novels.
I still have the spiral notebooks containing my original handwritten [complete & incomplete] manuscripts. As well as some of those first drafts and re-writes that I did on a manual typewriter. Who knows? I might just end up with a sequel to this called “The Rest Of Them!”
Mike Johnson
Copyright 2008 MAJJ Productions * All Rights Reserved