Deep in the Dakota Woods

 

Brandon Barr

 

I was there the day it all went down. A hundred or so Bigfoot Hunters were meeting at a convention in Ridge City, just down the mountain from all of us livin' in Lonetown; population thirty-one. The worst kind of trash from all over the States would flood our woods, break in their new hiking boots and trample our private property. Most were armed with no more than a pocket knife and a camera slung over their shoulder, but we knew there were fanatics packing assault rifles.

It was two days into the Bigfoot convention when Ted Kitterson's wife and son were murdered. I was in the kitchen pouring myself a cup of coffee when I spotted Ted through the window. He was staggering as he came running out of the woods.

I ran out to meet him. He was hysterical. A bullet wound ran with blood from a hole in his shoulder. I couldn't understand most of what he said, but I got the gist of it. One phone call to old Regina Rawls and in minutes every man in town had his best gun, and was zeroing in on Ted Kitterson's ranch.

We were a small town, no stop signs, no traffic, and no policeman. We liked it that way--kept it that way--and we took care of our own.

Red Ferguson and I were among the first to reach Ted's ranch. A handful of men entered Ted's house as Red and I crept up the side of the barn. Gingerly, I unfastened the bent nail lock on the side door and Red followed me inside.

Through the haze of dust and shadow I saw the men. Two of 'em. They were in camouflaged jumpsuits--the kind hunters wore. Ted's wife was slung over the back of one of his own mules. The taller of the two was hefting up Ted's son, trying to lay him over the mule beside his mother's body. The second man, short and portly, was kicking dirt over the blood stained floorboards.

Red fired his shotgun. The tall man dropped his load and sagged to the ground. The fat man spun, hands in the air, face pale.

"Please! You can have them!"

I cracked six shots off. He was dead before he hit the floor.

A half-hour later the entire town, men, women, children, stood around the four bodies, inspecting them. Ted's wife and son had bullet holes dotting their chest, arms and thighs, front and back, as if they had tried to run from their killers. The two dead men had identification on them. Drivers license, credit cards. Red Ferguson's cousin was a police officer in Little Eagle. He'd done stuff for us before and knew how to keep his mouth shut. He traced the men's IDs back to Sedona, Arizona. Neither man had anything more than a speeding ticket on their records. Rummaging through their jackets did produce some telling literature. A military surplus brochure, Ultimate Sniper Magazine, and a half dozen amateur Sasquatch leaflets.

We buried the four bodies under the barn. It was a quick, cheerless funeral for Ted's wife and son. Ted buried the bodies himself. He did it quietly, without tears. We all watched him, trying to imagine what it would feel like.

When it was done, we told him to lie low, then everyone hurried off. With more Bigfoot nutcases still roaming around, each of us had to get back to his home or business. It wouldn't be long before the two men were reported missing and we all needed our alibis. Besides the day's grizzly events, we all had our own secrets to keep tabs on. Most folks don't live a hundred miles deep in the Dakota back country for no good reason. We all had a past, and we looked out for each other--even Ted's kind, no matter how ugly and hairy they were.

That's how we survived.