Chapter Thirteen

 

One morning after breakfast, Rae and I decided to take Buzz and Jax down to the Big Muddy and see if my old catfish wanted to go another round. He had claimed three fishing poles from me, having swiped them, taking them with him and into the drink as he fled. It had been a while since we took the time to enjoy a day to ourselves and it was well overdue. We also decided that Jax, although only three months old, was due for his first catch. We grabbed our poles and a handful of night crawlers from a breeding box we had started in the greenhouse and headed out.

Once we arrived, Buzz dove into the water and pounced around as he did on each of our outings. After he got his swim out of the way, we continued downstream and set up. A flicker of motion caught my eye from the far side of the creek as I hooked a worm and prepared my line.

“Don’t look over babe, I think I just seen someone across the creek,” I said quietly. “I’m not sure, but if there is I don’t want them to know I seen ‘em yet.”

I cast my line out and carefully watched the far bank. Buzz, wore out from his swim, sat quietly, unaware of anything out of the ordinary. I had my Winchester rifle on hand and slowly placed it on the ground where Rae or I could get to it quickly and proceeded to hook a worm on Rae’s line as well. As I cast out the second line, I caught a faint outline of a man tucked behind a tree.

“Ah fuck,” I whispered. “There is a man over there behind that spruce. Just stay calm, he doesn’t know we seen him. Besides, he ain’t done nothing yet. If he was gonna, he woulda.”

“What about Bear? And Buzz?” she asked.

“Bear’ll be fine,” I spoke softly, looking down at my sleeping son. “Doubt anyone gonna do anything to a baby. Buzz, on the other hand. Can you get a hold of him?”

Rae reached over and began stroking his wet fur. If he had seen the man and decided to go after him, Rae stood little chance of stopping him. She could hang on with all she had and would likely just tag along for a hell of a ride. Buzz was solid muscle and had a good ten pounds on her. We sat silently, watching and waiting.

All of a sudden, my line jerked, I lunged forward, barely catching the pole before it was out of reach.

“Well, guess they’re gonna get a show,” I gasped, fighting the pole.

I fought for several minutes as the fish jerked and pulled. The large fish had taken over my attention and it was not until I had him up on shore that I spotted the old Indian man. He stood out in the open on the opposite shore, fishing pole in hand and a huge smile filling his face.

Buzz, having been startled by the fish, was even more startled by the sight of the man and jumped up with a deep loud growl.

“Whoa buddy, it’s alright,” I said to Buzz.

“Hello there,” the man offered.

“Hello. I wondered who was over there.”

“You finally caught that ole bastard I see. That damned old fish has been stealing my bait for years.”

Remembering the fish, I looked down to a three-foot channel cat. “He’s claimed a good bit of mine, and a few poles too.”

“You mind if I come take a look at him?”

“Not as long as you don’t aim to cause any trouble.”

“Oh no, I am much too old for trouble. It doesn’t look like your dog would have any of it even if I tried.”

The old man followed the bank to a large log from a tree that had uprooted and fallen. He then crossed with the ease and skill of a young outdoorsman. To my surprise, Buzz seemed very much at ease with him as he approached and studied the fish.

“That is a very fine fish. An old man of the river. Like me,” he laughed, “an old man of the mountain. My name is Runs with Smoking Stick, but you can call me Charlie.”

“Runs with Smoking Stick? Mind if I ask?” I asked.

“It was given to me when I was young. I took the chief’s peace pipe and then I ran away from him when I got caught.”

“I’m Budd, my wife Rae and our son Jax. And this ole boy here is Buzz,” I offered, patting Buzz on the head.

“It is an honor to meet you. Your son,” he said, looking at my wide-eyed son, who had awoken with curiosity. “He has the eye of the bear.”

“We actually call him Bear. We were trapped in a shack with a bear attacking when he was born,” Rae added.

He reached out and took my necklace into his hand, studying the claws from the wolf and bear.

“Our elders told stories when I was young of a child born from a bear. The child would learn the ways of the mountain from the fox. The wolf would guide him and the bear would protect him. The boy would grow to become one with the land, a master of the wilderness. He would know great strength and wisdom and be the greatest of warriors. They told many stories of the child, the boy with the eye of the bear.”

We didn’t quite know what to make of the old man and his story. We asked him to accompany us back to Stronghold but he denied, stating his home was in the mountains. Intrigued by the story, I offered him the fish, which he gladly accepted. He carried with him a buckskin pouch and reaching inside it, he removed a rattle cut from the tail of a rattlesnake, and then handed it to Jax.

As he walked away, he looked back and said. “Have you seen my knife?” He turned and walked back across the log, disappearing into the forest.

The next morning Ethan sat in contemplation, as he watched the shadows of the trees dance in the twilight. His dreams had come again, this time of an old man. He thought of the ghost in Montana and the eerie feeling that accompanied it. The same creepy feeling swept through him again as he recalled the dream.

He pulled his bone-handled blade from its sheath and studied it. He had grown fond of the old knife, having carried it daily since the day he met the Boones. A drunken fool had pulled the knife on Eric. After stepping in and stopping the cowardly attack, he took the knife, claiming it as his own. He thought of the drunken fool and of the fight as he recalled his face. It was a face that he would never forget. They would eventually battle again, only their next battle would claim the lives of Kevin and J.J.

His thoughts returned to the dream. The old man was sitting alongside a fire, skinning a snake, preparing it to cook over the fire. In the darkness behind the old man, a face appeared in the flicker of the firelight. It was that face, that same drunken fool, which had been with the group that had killed his brothers. The old man then turned and saw him, knife in hand. Five others then came at him from behind, swarming him in a vicious attack. The fire then lit the old man’s face as well. He was an old Indian man, leather faced and hardened by the years and harsh winters of the mountains.

The six men attacked him. He crouched down and grabbed the head of the snake in one hand, his knife in the other. He swayed and swooped, slicing at one, then another. He fought hard, stabbing and slicing, hooking the teeth of the snake into one and slicing the throat of another with a smooth glide of his knife. He killed two and injured several others before they finally overtook him.

They held him down as they sliced into him. He fought with everything he had, falling only when a final lunge sent a knife deep into his heart. He had died at the hands of cowards. It was a hard death, but a good one. The faint glow of the fire showed the head of the rattlesnake latched into the throat of one man and a second slumped over the fire. The old Indian man lay on his back, a bone-handled knife of his own creation, embedded in his chest.

The cowardly face flickered in the firelight as he leaned over the Indian man. He pulled the knife from his chest. He then reached down and picked up the remains of the snake. He sliced off the rattle and dropped it onto his chest.

“Nice knife, thanks for dinner,” the coward said with a smile, as he took the knife and the snake, before disappearing into the darkness.

The dream appeared with flawless vividness, as many had before. Could it be? He wondered. The men that had killed Kevin and J.J. had also killed the old Indian. He looked down at the knife, still grasped tightly in his hand. He thumbed the knife, scraping skin with the razor-sharp edge. He slowly turned the blade, studying it once more and a strong current of energy rolled down his spine. As he looked down at the blade, he saw the reflection of the old Indian man staring back at him.

The sunlight stretched across the mountaintops as we gathered for breakfast. Ethan shared the story of his dream and the Indian’s last stand. We sat back in disbelief for several moments as the realization set in. We then followed with the story of our own encounter. We studied Ethan’s knife in astonishment as Bear played with his rattle.