The ferns rustled, and a lean shadow of a man clad in worn buckskins slid into the glen. His face was hawk-like, intense. A faded kepi cap adorned with a buck tail sat atop his head. Cradled in his arm was a Kentucky rifle that was as much a part of him as the hand that held it. He sniffed the air like a beast, alert to every scent, sound, and movement.
The ferns rustled again to reveal a second, smaller hunter. The boy had a loose gait to his walk, and a watchfulness pivoted his dark eyes. Like his father he wore buckskins and was armed with a long rifle. He, too, knew every path and grove and thicket of the forested hollow the hunters frequented every fall.
Bucky gestured to his son, Fred, with hand signals that would go undetected by the creatures they stalked. A glance, a few motions were all they needed to communicate. They had hunted together often.
Falling leaves made more noise than did the hunters slinking through the open woods. They came to a laurel-infested jumble of rocks that cut their visibility to a few feet ahead. Here, they inched along peering through the leathery-leaved shrubs that grew higher than a man’s head. Fred edged closer to his father as the shadows grew deeper near a towering block of granite.
Suddenly, the lean man stopped and motioned toward a patch of mushrooms that grew between two growths of laurel. He grinned at his boy, laid down his rifle, and bent to gather the delicacy into a sack he produced from his hunting bag.
The hunter had no sooner crouched down to begin his mushroom picking when an agitated roar emitted from the brush just ahead. The laurel shook violently, and the growls intensified until Fred yanked back the hammer of the flintlock to protect his father from the rampaging beast. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed coolly down the barrel. He had just begun a slow, steady squeeze on the trigger when Boone Crossmire rose from hiding with a gap-toothed grin splitting his weathered face.
“Dang it, Uncle Boone,” said the boy, lowering his flintlock with now shaking hands. “Do you know how close I came to shooting you? If Father hadn’t taught me to be sure of my target, you’d be in a world of hurt.”
“That’s right, Fred, give it ta ’im good,” urged Bucky. “I swear you’re more growed up than he is.”
“Hey, ain’t a fella allowed ta have a little fun?” croaked Crossmire. “After all the battles we fought tagether, Bucky, you’d think you’d give me a little slack.”
“I’m sorry. You jess surprised us is all. I thought you was out scoutin’ fer turkeys.”
“An’ I found ’em right here!”
“Well, why don’t ya go out an’ look some more ’cause we still need game fer supper. Without Hosea here ta do our foragin’ fer us, we’s gonna have ta git our meals the old-fashioned way.”
“Is that why we carry these muskets, too, Father, when we got better guns at the cabin?”
“Yes, Fred, I wanted ya ta see firsthand how me an’ yer Grandpa Iroquois had ta scrape out a livin’. That’s also why we trap some. Back at our farm we got it mighty easy com-pared ta when I was a boy.”
“It’s too bad Uncle Hosea couldn’t come this year,” sighed Fred. “I guess he just got too busy running our place for us, even though the harvest is long over.”
“Er too busy samplin’ yer Grandpa Pfaff’s new batch o’ blackberry wine,” chortled Crossmire knowingly.
“Well, Boone, me an’ Fred’s gonna re-turn ta the cabin now. I fergot my canteen, an’ I worked up a powerful thirst in this heat.”
“This late in November there’s usually plenty o’ snow ta munch on,” answered Crossmire. “I pre-fer them wint’ry conditions fer all my huntin’ an’ fishin’.”
“Why fishing?” asked Fred with a puzzled look.
“Snow makes it easier ta track them brook trout!”
“Oh, Uncle Boone, you’ve got more crap than our cow pasture,” laughed the lad. “That’s what I like best about you.”
“Well, I’ll see you fellas later. I’ll bring ya a nice passel o’ squirrels, all headshot o’ course.”
“I know,” groaned Bucky, “’cause you’re the best shot in these here parts. See ya, Boone.”
Bucky and his son made their way down a faint trail through a forest of towering hemlocks. Their gait slowed as they trudged up a steep grade toward the sweet water spring that bubbled ice cold near their cabin. Bucky dropped to all fours to lap thirstily at the water. When he had finished drinking, he said, “I’m sorry we had ta come all the way back here, but my throat was dryer than a hunk o’ old salt pork.”
“That’s okay, Father. I’m always happy to go with you, even if it does include backtracking.”
“Now, you’re talkin’ jess like yer Uncle Jimmy,” laughed Bucky, rising to box his son playfully on the shoulder. “I’m sure glad we got ya inta that school in Sharpsburg like he wanted.”
“Why doesn’t Uncle Jimmy ever come hunting with us?”
“He’s too busy settin’ in his law office showin’ off all them war trophies he brung from the Antietam Battlefield. I swear he’s got every fella in Smethport believin’ he drove Bobby Lee back ’cross the Potomac all by hisself. You best git yerself a drink, Fred, so we kin git a move on.”
The two hunters again started off down the shadowy woodland path beat into the ground by the hooves of deer. When they had gone around a sharp bend in the trail, they saw ahead of them the outline of their cabin. It was actually little more than a windowless shack built of notched logs chinked with mud. It had a dirt floor and a crudely mortared fireplace where embers glowed all hours of the day and night.
Creaking open the heavy door, Bucky saw his canteen laying just where he had left it on a table made of rudely-hewn lumber. Stumps serving for chairs, sat all around the table, while in front of the fireplace were three pine bough beds. When Fred’s eyes strayed in that direction, he said, “Boy, I sure miss the nice feather mattress I got at home. You mean you and Grandfather Iroquois slept on that cold, hard floor all winter?”
“Yep. It weren’t that bad with the big fire we always had roarin’. Our biggest problem was that food got mighty scarce. The deer yarded up in the deep snow that made huntin’ nigh onto impossible. Every other critter hibernated, an’ the apples an’ such in our root cellar run out by February. A couple o’ times we come real close ta eatin’ our spare moccasins jess ta stay alive.”
“What did you do all winter if you didn’t hunt much?”
“Molded bullets, stitched our buckskins, an’ such. Mostly we slept.”
“Didn’t you have books to read?”
“No, Pa weren’t big on the white men’s ways, an’ I never knew much ’bout readin’ ’til after I met yer ma. We had yer Uncle Jimmy learn us ta read an’ write so we could stay in touch after I left her behind ta go off fightin’ ag’in.”
“What was Mother like?” asked Fred with round, quizzical eyes.
“She was a mighty fine woman. Beautiful an’ strong. You look powerful like her ’cept fer the Culps’ hawk nose. ’Though I only knowed her a short time be-fore the Lord called her, the love ’tween us is ferever. I joined the church so I’ll sees her in heaven someday. I ain’t bitter ’bout losin’ her ’cause she give me you ta love ’til we’s tagether ag’in. I ain’t gonna waste away like Pa done after he lost my ma. There’s too much ta live fer, sure as shootin’!”
“C-c-can we go back hunting now?” sniffed Fred, blinking back a sudden river of tears.
“Sure,” replied Bucky, giving his son a rough hug. “There’s a twelve point lurkin’ in the woods on the back ridge. We best hunt that big boy down be-fore Boone gits ’im. Otherwise, we won’t hear the end o’ it ’til gray streaks runs in my hair an’ I’m hobblin’ ’round the woods with a cane.”