Chapter # 4 – The Voodoo Queen –

 Shotgun and Ray’s next trip was to see Miss Cherie. They drove down the driveway and stopped at the road signs. Shotgun looked at the signs and then looked at Ray. “I’m not sure what to tell her, Ray,” Shotgun confessed. Ray shrugged his shoulders and lit his pipe. As they walked down the wagon road, Ray began nervously puffing his pipe. After the last few days, his nerves were shot, and he really didn’t want to visit Miss Cherie.
 When they emerged from the wagon road into Miss Cherie’s yard, they saw her walking toward the corral with a bucket of feed. “Hello, boys,” she greeted as she walked. “I hear ya’ll are big celebrities now,” she continued. “No Bigfoot, but it’s going to make you famous for a little while,” she said with a smile. She noticed that Shotgun was looking a little worried and nervous. “What’s wrong? You look like something is bothering you,” she asked.
 Shotgun looked at the ground and kicked the dirt. “Well, I don’t know how to say this but, I’m going to give your crystal back and somehow repay whatever I owe you for your help. I’m not going to try and catch a Bigfoot anymore. I’ve changed my mind. I always follow through on a deal or agreement, but this time I can’t. I promised you half of the one million if I caught one. I don’t think I’ll live long enough to repay that. But if I could make monthly payments, I will try,” Shotgun confessed while looking at the ground and holding out the medicine bag toward her. 
 “Well, what brought this on?” Miss Cherie questioned. 
 Shotgun told her the whole story. “We didn’t tell Jack or any of the other folks around here about the Sasquatch part of the story. Just me and Ray, you and Harold know that part of the story. Some people around here don’t believe and that would cause folks to make comments that I wouldn’t like. We cut straight to the part about me and Ray being cornered on the ridge by the bear and left it at that,” he explained.
 “So, you’re not going to try to catch a Sasquatch, anymore?” Miss Cherie wanted to be clear.
 “No, it would be like taking someone’s family member away from them. They have families, and feelings and they can communicate. I wouldn’t want to forever separate someone from their family. I know how that feels. I couldn’t do it,” Shotgun said as a tear formed in the corner of one eye.
 “I understand, Shotgun. You don’t owe me anything. Keep the crystal and the medicine bag. Maybe it helped you come to this understanding,” Miss Cherie said and placed the medicine bag back around Shotgun’s neck. His face lit up with relief. “I was afraid you were going to be mad. Half a million dollars is a lot of money to give up!” Shotgun said with a smile.
“No! No problem at all! Some things are worth more than money in this life,” she affirmed to him as she poured Rambler some feed. Ray was looking at the bear hide on the barn door again and comparing it to the one they killed. It was half the size of theirs, and it was only a few weeks ago he had thought this one was huge. “There is one thing you could do for me,” Miss Cherie said when she finished pouring the feed. She put the bucket down and leaned on the corral fence with her  arm slung over the top rail. She surveyed the October sky and then looked at Shotgun. “I have a client, a customer that may require a guide. He will pay you. Sometimes he’s not very likeable, but I need you to help him. His name is Timothy McRay. I will tell him to come and see you in a few days.
 “Sure thing, Miss Cherie. Anything you need me to do. I’m at your service. I appreciate you forgiving my debt,” Shotgun graciously said.
 “No need for all of that, we’re even. Please, don’t feel like you owe me anything. Someday, I may owe you something. Someday, I may be able to explain,” Miss Cherie said and then picked up the feed bucket and started walking to the barn. “Would you boys like some pie?” she asked.
 Shotgun looked at Ray who had climbed up onto the corral fence and was petting Rambler. Miss Cherie couldn’t see Ray’s answer because she had her back to him. He was shaking his head “no” in a very strong manner. “We’d love some pie, that sounds great,” Shotgun answered. Ray put his hands over his eyes and continued to shake his head.
 “Go sit down on the front porch, and I’ll be right there,” she instructed as she put the feed bucket in the barn and headed toward the chicken pen.
 Shotgun and Ray sat on the front porch in the big swing and waited patiently for the pie. “That wasn’t a very polite thing you did about the pie!” Shotgun whispered. Ray shrugged his shoulders and pulled out his flask of Fireball and took a swig. He recapped the flask and then pointed at the medicine wheel and all the strange things that decorated the yard.
 “I know, I know, she’s not your average woman, and she is a bit scary at times, but it would have been rude not to accept her offer,” Shotgun explained in a hushed tone. Ray shook his head and covered his mouth. “You are too gonna’ eat the pie. I won’t have you being rude to people,” Shotgun insisted in a firm tone this time. Ray just rolled his eyes and started to light his pipe and then remembered the story that had aroused Miss Cherie’s displeasure of his pipe the last time. He quickly blew out the match and hid the pipe behind his back as Miss Cherie entered with two, fine china saucers with large slices of pie and a linen napkin for each one of them.
 “Wow, this looks and smells delicious!” Shotgun stated. Ray’s eyes were big and wide as he began to inhale the intoxicating aroma of a freshly baked apple pie. 
 “Dig in boys, eat it while it’s still warm,” Miss Cherie gave the go ahead as she left to retrieve her slice of pie. Shotgun and Ray were “oohing” and “aahing” with every bite. It was almost obscene. “Dang boys, are ya’ll okay? I know you’ve had pie before,” Miss Cherie chuckled.
 “This is so wonderful! I’ve never tasted anything like it!” Shotgun said. Ray had laid down his fork and was licking the saucer, while holding it with both hands. 
 Miss Cherie stopped eating her pie to watch the spectacle. “The apples came from my great Aunt who lives in Taos, New Mexico. They came from her apple tree. They were picked only a few days ago. She sent them to me by one of her customers. She owns an antique studio, or so she calls it. It looks more like a junk store to me,” Miss Cherie told them. 
 “Is she in the Voodoo business, too?” asked Shotgun. 
 “Well, I guess you could call it that. She is part Pueblo Indian. She practices her ‘spiritual craft’ she calls it,” Miss Cherie explained as she calmly ate her pie. 
 Ray stopped in mid-lick and laid the saucer in his lap with his tongue was still hanging out and looked at Shotgun. Shotgun was squinting his eyes and shaking his head. “Stop doing that!” he told Ray in an aggravated tone. Ray’s mind kept thinking of Miss Cherie as the Voodoo Indian Woman and her apple tree. All he could think about was Snow White and the poison apple. Ray sat there with his tongue out, staring straight ahead, thinking he had been poisoned. 
 “Is he okay?” Miss Cherie asked in a concerned voice.
 Shotgun handed her their saucers and napkins and said, “Yes, he’s fine. He’s just tired and stressed out. It’s been a grueling last couple of days. I’m taking him home to get some rest. Thank you for everything, Miss Cherie. Send your client by to see me whenever you wanna’. I’ll help him out,” Shotgun said as he drug Ray off the swing and pushed him ahead as he made his way across the yard.

. . .
Three days passed and Shotgun and Ray were rested and back to their regular routines. Shotgun was working on an expensive clock when he heard a knock on the door. He peeked through the living room window and did not recognize the stranger at the door. His sawed-off .20-guage was propped next to the front door, so he opened the door and thumb cocked the shotgun. “Hello, and what do you want? If you’re selling Bibles, I have at least six. If you’re selling Jesus, I already know him. If you’re selling vacuum cleaners, I have hardwood floors. If you’re from the government, you best be saying a prayer,” Shotgun rattled off this liturgy as if he had said it a hundred times.
Tim raised his hands and replied, “Does everyone around here greet visitors in this fashion?”
“Explain yourself stranger, or I’m going to fill you full of lead. If you don’t know Jesus, you’re fixing to meet him,” Shotgun told him.
“Miss Cherie WonFontaine sent me here to find a gentleman named, ‘Shotgun’,” he explained and then swallowed hard. “Is your father home, young man?” Tim asked, trying to not sound nervous.
“My father’s been dead for ten years,” Shotgun replied with aggravation in his voice.
“Oh, I…I am sorry. I thought I was at the right place. I might have misunderstood her directions. I’m sorry, I bothered you,” Tim replied, and then started backing off the porch with his hands held high.
“Hold it right there, stranger!” Shotgun commanded.
Tim stopped in his tracks, not knowing what to expect next. “You’re at the right place. My name is Shotgun. Come on in and let’s talk,” Shotgun said as he lowered his gun and turned to head toward the kitchen. Tim cautiously looked around and then entered the house. He was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
“Pull up a chair. Miss Cherie told me that you need a guide. What are you hunting?” Shotgun inquired as he climbed up onto his chair at the kitchen table where he had been working on the clock.
“Miss Cherie didn’t tell you why I need a hunting guide?” Tim quizzed.
“No, she only told me that you needed a guide,” Shotgun tinkered with his clock as he talked.
“Well, I’m looking for lost treasure and I have some clues, but I need someone who knows these mountains. Not just the roads, logging roads and significant landmarks, but also the history of the area and some locations of things not known to the average person of this area. I’ve been told that would be you,” Tim confided.
“Hmmm…well, I’ve never guided someone looking for treasure, but ok.” Shotgun continued his tinkering with the clock.
“So rough terrain, overnight or several nights camping, and hiking parts unknown is ok with you? You’re up to the challenge?” Tim probed Shotgun’s demeanor.
“Listen here, buddy, don’t let my size fool you. I may not be as tall and quick as you, but I can go anywhere you can and probably some places you can’t go. I could take you places, you don’t wanna’ to go. When Ray comes in, we will talk some more. He’s out back, feeding Bill.” Shotgun was annoyed by Tim’s condescending tone, but he had promised Miss Cherie he would take care of her client.
Ray came in the back door and stopped and stared at Tim. Tim stared back. He had not expected to run into a chimpanzee in these mountains. Much less a chimp named Ray, wearing overalls, smoking a pipe, and carrying a gun!
“Ray, this is Timothy McRay, Miss Cherie’s client. He needs us to guide him around in these mountains as he looks for lost treasure. Say, ‘hi’ to him,” Shotgun explained their guest’s request to Ray. Ray pulled his pipe from his mouth and raised it in the air as he nodded his head in greeting. Tim nodded back with a very confused look on his face. Ray stuck his pipe back in his mouth and joined them at the table.
“This…uh…this…this is Ray?” Tim asked.
“Yep, this is Ray. He’s my partner, and we do everything together. He’s like a brother to me,” Shotgun explained.
“Well, for the last two days, I’ve been up and down a small part of K-Trail. I drove about ten miles east after getting on the trail off the Indian Highway. I came across a recently abandoned campsite. So, I made camp there. Nothing there except a fire circle made of rocks and trampled grass. Looked like a couple of tents may have been set-up there before. I followed-up on some clues that lead me to the river. But recently, I have some more information that points to a trail on a high mountain range. I believe the center passage of K-Trail holds the key to the treasure, somewhere between the Indian Highway and Three Sticks. I need someone who knows the mountains, trails, ridges, and anything else that lies off K-Trail throughout the mountains north or south of the trail. Maybe, not on the trail but in the middle of the forest. Maybe in a deep ravine or crevice in the earth; one you can’t see until you walk right up on it. A rock formation that looks like a cougar’s head might be a helpful sign. Any of this sound familiar to you?” Tim asked in a glowing, almost devilish tone.
“Well, it might, but I guess you won’t ever know until we start looking, now will you?” Shotgun shot back.
“This could be a dangerous job,” Tim warned.
Shotgun jumped down from his chair and went to the other room and returned, dragging the huge bear skin. Tim jumped up from his chair when Shotgun entered the room with the hide. “My goodness that’s a huge bear!” Tim exclaimed.
“This was a dangerous bear!” Shotgun said as he tossed it at Tim’s feet
“You killed this?” Tim asked.
“Me and Ray,” Shotgun answered as he stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “You didn’t hear about this bear?” Shotgun asked.
“No, I’ve been busy, and haven’t talked to anyone except Miss Cherie,” Tim told him as he picked up the heavy fur. “Ok, I see you fellers are up for the job,” Tim agreed.
“What kind of pay are you willing to give us?” Shotgun still stood with arms crossed.
“I can pay by the day or cut you in on part of the treasure,” Tim quickly offered.
“We’d rather get paid by the day. You may never find the treasure. A hundred fifty dollars a day for me and Ray, and we pack our own supplies,” Shotgun laid out his proposal, then waited.
Tim stroked the bear hide and examined the holes in the skin where the head had been split to the tip of the nose. “Buckshot to the face it looks like,” Tim pointed out.
“Yep, one shot, five feet away,” Shotgun said, still waiting for an answer. “Well, I guess I could do a hundred dollars a day, maybe,” Tim suggested in an attempt to haggle Shotgun down.
“Well, I reckon you can go alone then,” Shotgun rebutted.
“That pistol the monkey carries—does he know how to use it?” Tim asked.
Shotgun looked at Ray and nodded. Ray grabbed his pistol with his right hand, cocked it and threw his skinning knife with his left, sticking it in the wall beside Tim’s head, quick as lightening. Tim hadn’t seen that coming!
“Ok, boys…ok, a hundred fifty a day, and you pack your own supplies,” Tim conceded.
“Most of the stuff we need is still packed. We were camped in the middle of the mountain off K-Trail until about three days ago,” Shotgun informed Tim as he made a final adjustment to his clock.
“That’s a nice lookin’ Ford Raptor you’re drivin’,” Shotgun complimented.
“Thanks! It’s a little big for some trails, but I do most of my searchin’ on foot. You miss a lot of details driving, and there are some places I go—most places I go—you can only get there on foot.” Tim was a little more relaxed now that the deal-making was out of the way.
“We’ll load my scooter and our supplies in the back and get going, right after I box up this clock and drop it off with Harold, so he can mail it for me while we’re gone,” Shotgun informed Tim.
“Mail your clock?” Tim puzzled.
“I repair clocks. That’s my trade or one of my trades,” Shotgun explained. As Shotgun packaged the clock, he began to quiz Tim further. “So, you just walk around the mountains, hoping to find treasure. You think you’ll just stumble upon it?” Shotgun inquired with a sarcastic tone.
“Well, let me explain.” Tim began to tell the story about the Choctaw gold but omitted the part about his other worldly adventure and interaction with Lusa and Skookum. It seemed to him that Shotgun was concerned about what the skeptics thought. He had no idea about Shotgun’s secrets.
“That makes a little more sense now,” Shotgun declared as he became more receptive to Tim’s plight.
They packed the supplies into Tim’s truck and loaded the scooter with a ramp that Shotgun had for just such occasions. They stopped by Harold’s house and handed off the clock. Shotgun explained he was going to be gone for a few days, guiding this fellow, Tim, but didn’t give him the details of the search. Harold said, “Howdy” to Tim and politely shook his hand. They looked at each other and remembered meeting at the store when Harold gave Tim directions to Miss Cherie’s house, but both acted as though they had never met before.
Ten miles traveling on K-Tail was a rough, slow drive even a good four-wheel vehicle. They made it to Tim’s camp and began unloading. “This is where we were camped until about three days ago,” Shotgun told Tim as he unloaded the supplies.
“Oh, really, is this where you killed that huge bear?” Tim eyes were big as he asked the question that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“We camped here; we killed the bear about a six-hour hike that way,” Shotgun pointed toward Dead Mule Creek. “He came through our camp and headed that way,” Shotgun added.
“Well boys…uh…I need to tell you something. I think I’m being followed. This treasure I found, could be worth several hundred million dollars. People will do a lot of bad things to get their hands on that kind of money. Killing is no problem for some folks when this kind of wealth is on the line. But I have only told a few people…my friend who owns the cabin where I’ve been staying, Miss Cherie, and you two. So, I don’t quite know who could be following me. Yesterday, I hiked as far as I could go and still make it back here before dark. I hiked east, staying about three hundred yards below the top of the mountain range. The going was rough in several places, but I could hear something above me, just out of sight, always parallel with me. At first, I thought it was a squirrels or deer, then may be a bear or a cougar. When I turned to come back, it still followed. It would stop when I stopped, walk when I walked. It sounds like it’s on two feet not four, always out of sight, but I would catch a glimpse of a figure every now and then through the brush. It stopped about eighty yards from camp when the brush thinned, and I could see through the trees. I didn’t hear anything else the rest of the evening. The wind was calm, and the stars were bright. I could hear every sound for miles around. Coyotes were howling about 9:30 that night, and several owls hooted below and above camp, but nothing else. I went to bed, zipped up my tent, chambered a round in my 1911 .45, and pulled my pump .12-guage up close to me, and went to sleep. Around two. that morning, I woke up to the sound of my coffeepot being knocked off the table onto the ground. I thought it was a coon. I hit the lock button on my pickup remote, and the horn blared, and lights flashed. Whatever was out there ran off into the woods. Finally, I went back to sleep and there were no other disturbances for the rest of the night. I got up as it was breakin’ day. I walked over to the camp table to pick up my coffee pot and get it going. My coffee pot was back on the table, lid on it, just like someone had placed it there. I know I heard it hit the ground, there’s no mistaking the sound, and nothing else was disturbed. I found a handprint on my driver’s window and a smudge that looked like a face had been pressed against it, trying to see inside. Maybe they thought I was sleeping in the truck because the lights flashed. I guess it could be some hermit or hillbilly living up here somewhere. I know there are some people living in these remote areas. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I want you boys to be aware of the dangers that could come with this job.” Tim felt compelled to fully disclose what he suspected. Shotgun and Ray had stopped unloading to listen to Tim’s story, and then looked at each other with knowing glances. It was like they could read each other’s minds.
Tim still didn’t mention his journey into the other world, but he did tell Shotgun about the rock formation that looked like a cougar head and the crevices into the earth that were hidden by the forest. He told them that these clues were from a long time ago and the geographical structure of the mountains may have changed. If they could find what was left of the old, vertical shaft, then maybe somewhere around it, there was a way to find a natural entrance into the vein of gold. The rest of the evening was filled with camp food and discussion about the mountains, along with tales of Tim’s other adventures and some of Shotgun and Ray’s. Ray just listened and puffed his pipe, stopping occasionally to take a sip from his flask.
“What’s he drinking outta’ that flask?” Tim asked.
“That’s Fireball whiskey, it helps keep him warm and calm,” Shotgun told Tim as he motioned for Ray to pass the flask. Shotgun took a drink and held the flask up toward Tim.
“Oh, no, thank you. I need to keep a clear head while I’m doing this,” Tim said as he held up both hands in front of him.
“Suit yourself,” Shotgun replied, and then returned the flask to Ray. “We’re going to turn in and get an early start in the morning,” Shotgun told Tim as he crawled into his tent and chambered a round into his .20. “If you hear something, don’t shoot, it might be me or Ray,” Shotgun explained.
“No problem, I don’t shoot unless I’m certain of what I’m shooting at,” Tim said, and then zipped his tent.
Ray pointed at Shotgun’s .20 and shook his head. “I know, I know,” said Shotgun. “You and I know who is probably following Tim, but he doesn’t. If we want to get paid, we must look like we’re ready for anything. Don’t worry—I’m not going to shoot a Sasquatch. But what if it’s someone else following him, someone who does want the gold. We have got to be prepared.” Then he crawled into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. Ray followed suit.
. . .
The next morning, low clouds were rolling across the top of the mountain range. They wisped through the trees and around the boulders like phantoms searching for something as the breeze pushed them along. Tim stood outside his tent as the day brightened to a beautiful glow due to the clouds. It reminded him of his journey with Skookum and Lusa. He looked above camp along the tree line where a huge pine had fallen months before. These mountains looked different at every hour of the day. They cast shadows that tricked your eyesight and your imagination. The sunlight on the gray and green stones that had been exposed to the elements for hundreds of years made them look as though they were illuminated. While Tim stood pondering these natural, visual delights, he saw movement behind the big pine log. The top of a head maybe, he wasn’t sure. The ghostly clouds and fog were still playing tricks with his eyesight. He walked toward the log, picking up his 1911 off the camp table as he stepped slowly up the ridge. Suddenly, a figure darted from the log to the tree line and disappeared into the fog and scrub oak. Tim froze in his tracks, he rubbed his eyes and looked around, then backed toward camp. About the time he got near the campfire, Shotgun and Ray were unzipping their tent and venturing out to meet the day. Tim stood frozen, holding his pistol, looking up the ridge. Shotgun walked over to the coffee pot and carried it over to the Coleman stove to start it brewing. Once the fire was blazing under the pot, he turned around and looked at Tim, who was still staring up the mountain. Shotgun walked over and stood beside him looking in the same direction.
“I’m not sure, I should tell you this, but I just saw an Indian,” Tim stated.
“Well, this is Oklahoma—there are lots of Indians living here,” Shotgun replied smugly.
“No! I mean like an Indian, Indian!” Tim exclaimed as he held up two fingers behind his head to represent feathers. “He was wearing a loin cloth, war paint, feathers in his hair, and was carrying a primitive-looking bow,” Tim said with big, wide eyes.
“Are you sure you didn’t get into Ray’s Fireball last night?” Shotgun asked.
“No…No, I’m serious! I know what I saw!” Tim stammered.
“Well, it is bow season. Lots of hunters in these mountains huntin’ deer and bear right now. Could be that one of the Choctaws wanted to get back to his ancestral roots and hunt the way his forefathers did. He was probably just checking us out to see if we had killed anything. He probably thinks we’re hunting,” Shotgun surmised in a carefree manner.
“You think so?” Tim asked in confused tone as he continued to stare up the mountain. “It just seemed terribly strange to me,” Tim insisted.
“I’ve heard tell of a secret warrior society. It has only about two dozen members, led by a war chief. They practice the old ways of their ancestors. The ways before they came here; the ways before the Europeans came. They spend one or two weeks at a time, living off the land with primitive weapons, bows, arrows, spears, war clubs, clothing, you name it, they do it the old way. The war chief wants to reclaim these mountains for the Choctaw and drive out all white men. He says they must keep in touch with the old ways to stay connected to their ancestors in order to regain the strength and power to accomplish their goals. But that’s just a rumor,” Shotgun proclaimed. He was trying to make Tim feel at ease about what he saw or thought he saw.
“A warrior society? I haven’t heard of this before. What I saw moved very fast, almost like a ghost. He disappeared into the fog and scrub oak really, really fast,” Tim was talking and still staring up the mountain.
Shotgun threw some bacon in a skillet and started cracking eggs, as Ray packed his pipe and fired it up for a morning smoke. “Let’s have some breakfast and get going,” Shotgun shouted, trying to get Tim from his trancelike stare.
Tim strapped on his 1911 and poured a cup of coffee in silence, still puzzling over the early morning encounter. After breakfast, it was decided to slowly drive east on K-Trail, trying to watch for any sign of a rock structure or boulders that could have once looked like a cougar’s head. Tim would drive, Shotgun would ride shotgun and Ray would ride in the back and observe in all directions in case anything was overlooked. After about two hours of driving and looking, Tim stopped and killed the truck. He got out and grabbed a thermos bottle. “Let’s have a coffee break, boys,” he said. They all stood in the bed of the truck, sipping their coffee and looking in every direction. The day had given way to sunshine and clear, blue skies. A cool, Autumn breeze was blowing across the mountains. It was a beautiful, Fall day. A road runner crossed the trail ahead of them, paused to look at the intruders and then zipped into the forest to pursue his daily deeds. Overhead, a murder of crows squawked and cawed, warning of the presence of a man in the woods. A cat squirrel whistled on the ridge below, and a buzzard soared overhead along with a red-tailed hawk. It seemed like a perfect day. “What a great day to be alive,” they thought. Each one breathed in the clean, crisp, mountain air and then finished their coffee.
“Well, let’s get back at it,” Tim instructed.
About the time that Tim opened his door, a scream and crying came from the trail ahead of them. “What the…?” Tim stopped in midsentence as the crying got louder. They all stood and listened to determine for sure which direction it was coming from.
“Straight ahead, let’s go!” Shotgun ordered.
They jumped in the truck and drove as quickly as rough, rugged terrain would allow. They rounded a corner of the trail, and on the other side of the washed-out trail, was a small child crying to high heaven! They all jumped from the truck and ran toward the child, who was looking into the woods. When he turned and saw the trio, he stopped crying for just a second, then started up again. Shotgun grabbed the little boy and hugged him, “You’re ok…you’re ok…everything is going to be alright,” he told the child.
The boy looked to be two or three years old, wearing blue jeans, a striped tee-shirt, barefoot with brown hair that had some sun-bleached, blonde streaks. He continued to cry and scream no matter what they did or said, until he saw Ray. He stopped crying and reached his arms toward Ray. Ray held him in his arms, and the baby rubbed Ray’s hairy cheeks and smiled. Ray smiled back and then looked at Shotgun and Tim as if to say, “Now what do I do?”
“We have got to find his parents; they can’t be too far away. How could anyone lose a child up here in these mountains?” Tim stated and questioned all in one breath.
They all started yelling, “Hello, anybody around? We found your little boy! Hello…hello…anybody?”
No answer—only silence and the sounds of the mountains. “Shotgun, you know these mountains, does anyone live anywhere close to here?” Tim questioned.
“There’s four or five huntin’ cabins up here, but no full-time folks. No water, no electric, it’s very primitive living, although there are two or three people up here who just want to be left alone. I know them, they don’t have any children,” Shotgun went on to explain. “On ahead of us is two cabins. About another two or three miles, there’s one small cabin and one bigger one. Me and Harold were up here eight months ago and saw smoke coming from below the ridge where the bigger cabin sets. Four months later, me and Ray saw smoke again. Somebody might be living in that cabin. Both times, it was the wrong time of year for hunters to be there. Someone was keeping warm in February, but in June they had to be cooking on a woodstove.”
“Let’s go see if we can find someone and get this child back to where he belongs,” Tim urged in an aggravated voice.
Ray sat in the back seat and held the child as they bounced along the rough, rutted trail. The first small cabin just off the trail about sixty yards was empty and showed no sign that occupants had been there for months. The second cabin was about two-hundred yards off the trail and under the ridge. The would-be driveway looked like it had fresh, tire tracks, and as they neared the cabin, they could see a four-door Jeep Wrangler parked behind an old, blue and rust-colored Jeep Cherokee. The driveway was narrow, so they parked behind the four-door Jeep and got out.
“Better make our presence known; don’t want to sneak up on anyone—might get us shot,” Shotgun said as he began to shout through his hands cupped around his mouth. “Hello…anybody home? Hello…anybody home?”
As they stepped around the old Jeep Cherokee, they froze in their tracks, then slowly backed to the truck. Shotgun quickly grabbed his .20 gauge, Tim chambered a round in his 1911, Ray jumped into the back seat holding the child and thumb cocked his pistol.
“Did you see, what I saw?” Shotgun whispered.
“Yeah,” Tim whispered back.
“What are we gonna do?” Shotgun asked.
“You stay here, I’ll check it out,” Tim whispered again.
“Like hell, ‘stay here’—I’m going with you,” Shotgun argued.
Ray nodded his head and gave a thumbs up. Tim and Shotgun crouched down and slowly made their way to the front of the old Jeep Cherokee. Laying on the ground, face down was a young man with a shotgun blast to the back. On the porch, pinned to the post with an arrow through his neck and chest was another man. Beside him on the porch was a .12-gauge pump shotgun and three spent shells. The guy on the ground in front of the Jeep had a Glock .9mm in his hand. By the look and the smell, it was evident they had been this way a few days.
Tim and Shotgun cautiously made their way into the house. There was blood on the living room floor and wall. In the kitchen area, they found another body. A man in his late thirties or forties lay on the kitchen floor on his back with several, bullet holes in his abdomen and chest. A rock, the size of a grapefruit, was on the floor beside him, and there was a big gash on his forehead. He also had an arrow sticking out of his chest. Laying halfway out the back door with her head laying down the steps was a woman with two gunshots wounds to the back. The man in the kitchen was holding a 1911 .45 ACP. They backed out of the house without touching anything and went to the backyard. There they found a few children’s toys and a pair of shoes that would fit the little boy in the truck.
“Looks like a drug deal gone bad,” Tim said.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Shotgun answered in a low tone. “I guess this is where he came from,” Shotgun sadly stated.
“I guess so—we’ve got to notify the Sheriff,” Tim looked at Shotgun as though he wished he had some other choice.
“Let’s get!” Shotgun said. “I don’t like this place. This makes me sick; I feel so sorry for that little baby.”
Tim stepped to the back door and again looked into the kitchen. The woman’s body was holding open the screen door. Tim examined the walls, floor, door opening and the ground outside. “Damn, I wish we hadn’t come around here. I think we walked on some evidence…some footprints,” Tim explained. “There is a barefoot, footprint where it looks like someone stepped in blood and came out the back door. About size ten, looks like. Let’s backtrack around the house and get out of here,” Tim said as he carefully retraced his own steps to the truck.
“It’s not good Ray—just as bad in the house as it is outside,” Shogun said in a muffled voice.
The little boy was looking toward the cabin and pointing as they backed out of the driveway. Ray pulled the boy onto his lap and looked around for something to amuse him. All he had was a pipe, a pistol and a skinning knife. Shotgun knew what Ray was looking for, so he took off his medicine bag and removed the green crystal. As he held it up to the sunlight, he handed it to the child and said, “Look, see how pretty it is!” The boy took the crystal and began to examine it; then he held it up to his ear as though he was listening to it. He held it up to Ray’s ear. Ray listened, nodded his head and smiled.
“Drive to the store and make the call,” Shotgun said. “It’s the easiest place for them to find us. I don’t want the sheriff at my house—don’t care for them, and I like the game wardens even less. We don’t have cell phone service in these mountains. I guess you’ve figured that out already,” Shotgun told Tim.
“Yes, I figured that out. I can get a little service in the valley, but its sketchy and undependable,” Tim answered. “You don’t care for the law in general, or you just don’t care for these particular sheriffs?” Tim inquired.
“The law in general, but more especially this sheriff. He arrested my Uncle and sent him to McAlester prison for sixteen years, that was six years ago. Uncle Fred was my only living relative—I sure miss him,” Shotgun explained.
“What did your Uncle do?” Tim asked.
“Nothing really…just makin’ a little shine and growin’ some weed for his personal use. He had cancer, and the treatments made him sick, and he couldn’t eat. He discovered that he could smoke a little weed, and then he felt like eating. He was selling the shine of course. That’s part of how he made a livin’,” Shotgun relayed the story to Tim in a nonchalant fashion.
“Wow! Seems kind of extreme for a little moonshine and some personal, medicinal marijuana,” Tim stated.
“Well, he had five hundred gallons of shine and twenty, AK47 rifles along with forty thousand rounds of ammunition. It seems they kinda’ rolled this all together in the charges. It’s not illegal to have guns and ammo, but it is if illegal drugs and shine are involved. Not to mention, Uncle Fred ran off with the Sheriff’s wife about fifty years ago. The Sheriff still has hard feelings,” Shotgun continued with his story.
“Fifty years ago!” Tim repeated.
“How old is your Uncle Fred?” Tim asked.
“Oh, let’s see, I guess he would be about eighty-six now,” Shotgun calculated.
“How old is the Sheriff?” Tim was very curious.
“Same age as Uncle Fred eighty-six…eighty-seven, something like that. They went to school together.” Shotgun was a wellspring of information.
“Man! This place just gets stranger and stranger,” Tim said.
. . .
After a long, rough, silent ride, the trio with the newly found child rolled up to the store. Tim got out to make the call. Shotgun, Ray, and the little boy got out and sat on the bench outside the store on the front porch.
“I need to use your phone, please,” Tim told the lady behind the counter. “It’s an emergency, and my cell phone is not getting a signal. She sat the rotary dial phone on the counter in front of him and stood close to overhear what the call was about. Tim stared at the old, rotary phone for a second, then dialed 911. It seemed like it took forever for the 9 to roll back to its place on the dial.
“911 what’s your emergency?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.
“Yes, my name is Timothy McRay. I found a child up on K-Trail. We’re at the store in Little River. Yes, I found a child wandering alone. He looks to be two or three years old. The closest cabin was a few miles away from where we found him. There are four people there…they’re all dead. Yes, dead! We’re not going anywhere; we’ll be right here, waiting. I’m driving a blue, Ford Raptor.”
Ray thanked the lady for the use of the phone and went back outside. The screen door slammed behind him and startled Shotgun and Ray, who were focused on entertaining the child. They looked up and Shotgun asked, “Are they on their way?”
“Yes, they’re coming. Ya’ll want a coke or candy bar?” Tim asked as he pulled some cash from his wallet.
“Me and Ray will take a Mountain Dew and a Mounds bar. Get this kid a chocolate milk,” Shotgun requested, putting in the order for everyone. “It takes a while for anyone to get here as these mountains roads are treacherous, even the paved ones. It’ll probably be at least an hour or two,” Shotgun told Tim as he counted his cash.
“That’s what I figured,” said Tim.
It only took about an hour for the Sheriff to arrive, along with five, other sheriff vehicles, three Game Wardens, each with four-wheel drive pickups, six Oklahoma State Trooper cars, four Choctaw Tribal police vehicles and one helicopter that landed in the pasture across the road from the store. The Sheriff got out of his 1985 Lincoln Town Car as all other vehicles were zipping into the parking lot and stopping along the road ditch. He stopped to spit and then approached the porch bench where Tim, Shotgun, Ray, and the child sat. Tim noticed that the Sheriff had a big chew of tobacco in his jaw. He had a Colt 1911, .45 with bone grips on his hip, black shiny bull hide cowboy boots, a starched white button-up long-sleeve shirt tucked inside a pair of starched and ironed Wrangler jeans and a short brimmed, gray Stetson hat. His hair was cut high and tight, and he wore a big, handle bar mustache. His hair was greying, but he stood tall and straight. He walked with the gait of a man half his age. He gave the appearance of a Confederate General. His very presence commanded respect. When he approached, Tim stood to greet him, but the Sheriff’s attention turned straight to Shotgun as soon as he got close to the trio.
“Hello, Willard. Are you involved in all this mess that I’m hearing about?” the Sheriff asked Shotgun.
“Willard?” Tim asked.
“Yes, Willard Frank Scott, that’s his real name,” the Sheriff replied with a smile. “I see you’re still hanging out with that monkey,” the Sheriff said, then spit again.
“I’ll tell you what, Sheriff—I don’t have too much to say to you. You need to talk to Tim there,” Shotgun was trying to hold his temper.
Tim told the whole story to the Sherriff and other law enforcement who had gathered around. The little boy was examined by paramedics who had also showed up. By now, there were several local folks gathered around the store trying to hear the details of what was happening.
The little boy handed Shotgun his green crystal as a female deputy put him in her car after his exam. He waved at Shotgun and Ray as they drove him away.
“You boys are gonna have to take us to the bodies, since ya’ll know where they are,” The Sheriff told them as he climbed into a pickup with a Game Warden. A convoy of 4×4 emergency vehicles snaked their way up the mountain highway, then turned onto K-Trail. They arrived at the cabin, and everyone spread out and began their police work, while Tim, Shotgun and Ray sat on the tailgate of Tim’s truck. After about an hour and a half, the Sheriff retuned to Tim’s truck. “You boys got some guns on you or in that truck?” the Sheriff asked.
“Yep,” Tim answered but wasn’t sure where this was going.
“I need all your weapons,” the Sheriff ordered.
“Why?” Shotgun snapped.
“Because you’re all suspects,” said the Sheriff.
“Have you lost your mind?” Shotgun asked.
“Far from it, Willard. One victim shot with a shotgun for sure. The other victims will have to be examined and ballistics done,” the Sheriff informed them.
Tim handed a deputy his .45 and .12-gauge pump. Shotgun handed him his sawed-off .20-gauge. The Sheriff took the .20-gauge from the deputy and examined it. “Well, we might have an illegal weapon here,” the Sheriff said.
Tim spoke up, “No sir, all legal, eighteen-inch barrel and twenty-eight inches overall.”
“I don’t think you told me what ya’ll were doing up here when you found the child,” the Sheriff pointed out.
Tim thought fast, no one had a hunting license, and no one had a bow. “I’m a geologist, and I hired these guys to help guide me to some rock structures,” Tim quickly popped back.
“Get that monkey’s pistol,” the Sheriff ordered a Deputy. Ray took the pistol from around his neck and handed it to the Deputy.
“Give him his ammo back,” Shotgun shouted at the Deputy. The Deputy looked at the Sheriff, who gave a nod. The Deputy opened the cylinder and dumped the .22 ammo into Ray’s outstretched hand.
“Never thought I would disarm a monkey, much less disarm a monkey and give his ammo back,” the Deputy grumbled.
“Do we need a lawyer?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know—do you?” the Sheriff retorted.
“I do have a good one, who has represented me from Florida to the Congo and international waters in-between. He can be here quickly, if I need him,” Tim informed the Sheriff.
“Well…I tell you what boy, this is Oklahoma, and you ain’t had no trouble until you had trouble with me. Your fancy lawyer may not know what to do here in these mountains. He may not be able to find his way out of these mountains, so don’t threaten me with some damn lawyer!” the Sheriff informed Tim and then spit tobacco juice between Tim’s feet.
“Can we leave now?” Tim asked in a subdued tone.
“You can leave for now, just don’t leave the county,” the Sheriff ordered them.
The Sheriff looked at one of his deputies and commanded, “Get their information before they leave— phone numbers, addresses, dates of birth, drivers’ license numbers, social security numbers, blood type, mother’s maiden name and anything else you can think of that might be pertinent.”
The Deputy pulled out a pen and notepad and looked at the trio lined up on the tailgate. “What about the monkey?” the Deputy asked.
“The monkey! Why hell, don’t worry about the monkey! I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have any of that information, you dumb ass!” the Sheriff yelled. “If the monkey gives you any trouble, throw his ass in the back seat of one of the Tribal Patrol SUV’s and take him to the county animal shelter,” the Sheriff instructed.
Ray glared at the Sheriff and growled, showing his fangs.
“And if he does that again, I’ll have him euthanized in forty-eight hours for having rabies!” the Sheriff threatened, pointing his left index finger at Ray and placing his right hand on his .45.
Shotgun grabbed Ray by the shoulder and pulled him close. “Calm down buddy, I know how you feel. He will get what’s coming to him some day, but today’s not that day.”
After all the information was given, the trio loaded up in Tim’s truck and headed back down K-Trail the way they came in. “Well boys, I guess we’ll go back to camp and start over in the morning. It’s getting late in the day and it’ll be dark soon.”
Shotgun spoke up with another plan. “No, don’t go back to camp. That helicopter is still circling around. He can’t land anywhere. I’d rather he not discover where we’re camped. Let’s go back to our house. We need some more guns and I’m getting hungry.”
“Sounds good,” Tim said, and Ray nodded in agreement.
They pulled up at Shotgun’s house and Harold was there sitting on his tailgate. “Howdy, Harold, what’s up?” Shotgun greeted.
“Been working all day and just heard about ya’lls excitement,” Harold said.
“Yea, it’s been quite a day, and not in a good way,” Shotgun told him.
“Wow! sounds like a bad deal all the way around,” Harold sympathized.
“What you heard ain’t the half of it. The Sheriff told us that we were suspects and took our guns. He threatened to put Ray down like a mad dog!” Shotgun was waving his arms around and kicking dirt.
“Dang, he’s a mean old cuss and got lots of power and influence in three counties. It won’t do for you to cross him or give him problems,” Harold reminded Shotgun.
“I know, I know. That’s just it—I haven’t done anything. He doesn’t like me, because I’m kin to Uncle Fred.” Shotgun was still kicking dirt and chucking rocks into the woods.
“Well, what’s ya’lls next move?” Harold inquired.
Shotgun stepped up onto the porch and headed into the house. “Ya’ll follow me,” he said. They followed Shotgun into his bedroom. He crawled under his bed and then came squirming out with a suitcase that was bigger than him. He popped it open, reached in and retrieved a sawed-off, .20-guage shotgun identical to the one that was just confiscated by the Sheriff. He laid it down and pulled out a .22-caliber pistol for Ray. “My dad always said one gun is none, and two guns are one. If one breaks, you got a club, if two identical guns break, you can take two and make one. He made two shotguns for me just in case something happened to one of them,” Shotgun explained to his audience. Then he reached in and pulled out a Springfield 1911 .45 ACP with bone grips. He gingerly handed it to Tim.
“This was…is Uncle Fred’s gun. You can use it but take good care of it—he loves this gun,” Shotgun told him as he shut the suitcase.
Tim inspected the gun and jacked the slide back after he removed the magazine. “Nice gun, thanks! I’ll take good care of it. It looks strangely, just like the one the Sheriff was carrying,” Tim pointed out.
“That’s because it is just like the Sheriff’s. Uncle Fred and the Sheriff used to be best friends. They bought a matched pair before they went off to war, when they were young men. They used them in the Korean War. The Sheriff would love to get his hands on it, but he doesn’t know where it is,” Shotgun chuckled and then winked at Tim.
Tim was still admiring the pistol when he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a pump .12 under that bed would you?” he joked.
“Let me see,” Shotgun said as he dug around amongst boxes, tools and a couple of number two, wolf traps. He pulled out a hard-sided, rifle case and opened it, “No .12, but I have this Bulgarian-made, Mac .90. It was Uncle Fred’s “go to” gun when the S.H.T.F. (shit-hit-the-fan). Here’s a couple .30-round mags for it,” Shotgun told him and smiled with self-approval.
“Nice! I guess we’re back in business. You saved the day, Shotgun!” Tim praised.
Shotgun rubbed his pudgy, little hands together and said, “Good! Now that we have that taken care of, let’s eat!”
“What are we gonna have?” Tim asked.
“I think we should go to the El Nino Supper Club and have a special. You want to join us, Harold?” Shotgun suggested.
“No, can’t make it. Thank you though. Me and Cali Ann are meetin’ at the store for cheeseburgers and fries. I’ve got to go get cleaned up. I’ll see ya’ll later,” Harold told them as he eased the screen door shut behind him.
“Ok, just us three then,” Shotgun said.
“The El Nino Supper Club, sounds fancy. I don’t know if I have the proper wardrobe with me for this kind of dining. Do I need a jacket and tie?” Tim seemed a bit concerned about their supper destination.
“Nah, just wash your hands and face, comb your hair and wear whacha’ got on,” Shotgun said. “Me and Ray are goin’ like we are,” Shotgun further explained.
“They let Ray in?” Tim questioned.
“Of course, they let Ray in—he’s one of their favorite customers. Shotgun was starting to sound aggravated.
“Oh, ok…well, let’s go. Lead the way or tell me how we get there,” Tim said.
“Go down the Indian Highway to 144, take a left. After a few miles, you’ll see a big rock with an arrow painted on it and the word “BAR”. Follow the arrow down Cline Road. About four miles down Cline Road, on the left, you’ll see a small white sign for the club, turn there, go down the hill to the wood line and there it’ll be,” Shotgun instructed.
Sure enough, exactly as Shotgun had said, there it was…The El Nino Supper Club. It was an eighteen-foot by twenty-foot shack, remiss of paint and care with a tin roof and a neon sign in the window that let customers know they were open for business. A three-foot, hog wire fence separated the parking lot from the club. A wooden walkway led from an opening in the fence to the front porch. A fair-size pile of beer cans was to the right of the gate opening and the gate lay to the left. A dog was sleeping next to the pile of beer cans.
“Dang! Looks like Jake has already had too much to drink,” Shotgun said. Tim began to look around but didn’t see anyone outside the club or in the parking lot.
“Who’s Jake?” Tim asked.
“Jake’s right there,” Shotgun pointed at the dog.
“Jake drink beer or whiskey?” Tim asked sarcastically.
“Beer of course, you bonehead! Jake sits at the bar and drinks beer out of a bowl, if you buy him one,” Shotgun informed Tim as they trod up the walkway.
Shotgun opened the door, and they stepped into the smallest, club—bar—beer joint or whatever it was, that Tim had ever seen. There were two other vehicles in the parking lot. Tim noticed one had not been inspected or registered in four years. Five people were in the bar, and of course, all of them knew Shotgun and Ray. Shotgun took a seat at the bar that boasted five stools. Tim sat down beside him, and Ray jumped up on the bar and gave the old, red-haired woman running the place, a big hug.
The old lady hugged Ray tightly and said, “Well, I haven’t seen you boys in a while. Whacha’ been up to? And who’s this handsome fellow, you got with you?”
“Miss Lilly, meet Tim,” Shotgun introduced them.
Miss Lilly was eighty-six years young and still going strong. She had been a singer and dancer back in the Lawrence Welk Show days. She would still sing for her customers. Miss Lilly leaned in close to Tim and grabbed the bandana tied around his neck.
“Tell me Tim, do you like older women?” She looked into his eyes and smiled, while he stammered his answer.
“Why…I…uh…I…I might, I’m not sure, I’ll think about it,” Tim stammered.
“You’ll have to excuse him; he’s had a rough day today Miss Lilly,” Shotgun stepped in to save Tim before he was coaxed into an answer he might regret.
“Oh, we heard all about ya’lls excitement. News travels fast in these here mountains. It’s a shame such things happen. I hope that little boy is okay,” Miss Lilly said as she loosened her grip on Tim. “What’ll you fellows be havin’ this evening?” Miss Lilly asked.
“Give us three specials, please,” Shotgun made their order.
“Three specials coming up,” Miss Lilly confirmed.
Miss Lilly disappeared into the small kitchen as Tim leaned down and said, “Man alive! She’s a live wire. What’s a special?”
“You’ll like it, don’t worry. And yes, she is something special herself. You better stay out of arms reach,” Shotgun told him.
Within minutes, Miss Lilly returned with three plates piled with fried catfish fillets, fried okra, and yellow squash.
“What you boys want to drink?” Miss Lilly asked.
“Sweet Tea and a Coors for me, just sweet tea for Ray,” Shotgun answered.
“What about you, handsome?” Miss Lilly asked Tim as she fluttered her eyelashes and applied fresh, bright red lipstick to match her hair.
“Uh…uh…how about a Corona,” Tim finally answered.
“Sorry honey, this ain’t Mexico—ain’t got no Corona. Coors, Coors light, Bud, Bud Light, sweet tea and well water; those are your choices,” Miss Lilly informed Tim.
“I’ll take a Coors light, please,” Tim answered.
Miss Lilly set them up and leaned over the bar toward Shotgun and whispered, “I know you had to talk to the Sheriff today. You watch that ole’ cuss. He’s got it in for you, just as bad as he did for your Uncle Fred.”
“I know, thank you. I just don’t know what to do about it. I hadn’t seen him in a long time, until today. This was unavoidable. We had to call, and he had to be the one to come because of the severity of the crime and the media attention it will probably get. It wouldn’t be good P.R. if the sheriff wasn’t on the scene,” Shotgun answered.
After an evening of laughs, good food, a few cold beers and a song or two, the strange-looking trio made their way back to Shotgun’s house and called it a night with the intention of getting an early start in the morning.