The Voodoo Queen Chapter #5

. . .
Tim rose before sunrise and got the coffee started, then went outside and sat on the front porch of the old homestead. He watched as the sun came over the Kiamichi Mountains and gave a new start to the world and everything in it, well almost everything in it. Tim was thinking about the bloody scene at the top of the mountains and wondered how much the child had seen, and if he would be haunted with these memories for the rest of his life. Tim observed a scorpion inching its way from underneath a large, flat rock and grabbing a cricket for breakfast. Fast and swift, the scorpion made its kill and drug it under the rock. None of the deaths, Tim saw yesterday, appeared to be quick. It may not have taken them long to die, but it was not swift and painless. He pondered his own death and the hereafter. He had not always made fair and honest decisions in life, especially in his business. He was thinking maybe he needed to make some moral changes in his life and some spiritual ones, too.
Shotgun came bursting out the front door with a cup of coffee. “Sure, glad you’re an early riser. I like having coffee ready, when I get up,” he said.
Ray joined them on the porch and fired up his pipe. He sat on the porch swing, looking at the mountains and puffing his pipe. All three were more quiet than normal due to the events of the previous day weighing heavily on their minds.
“I’m still full of last night’s supper—how about ya’ll?” Shotgun asked. A nod of affirmation from his companions meant they would skip breakfast and get back to work, scouting the mountains.

. . .
At Miss Cherie’s riverside shack, a rooster was crowing, but Miss Cherie was already up. She stepped off her porch, barefoot and walked across the cool grass as she headed toward the barn to get feed for Rambler. The grass was beginning to die, and the leaves were starting their Fall routine of changing colors.
A murder of crows darted and jumped from limb to limb in the treetops around her shack. The owl was just returning to its roost in the barn’s hayloft after a night of hunting. As she poured grain into Rambler’s trough and brushed his neck, the owl lit on the corral rail next to her.
“How are you, my friend?” Miss Cherie asked as the owl moved closer to her. “You have something you want me to see?” she asked.
The owl moved even closer, until he was only about a foot away. Miss Cherie stopped brushing Rambler and looked into the huge eyes of the owl. As she looked deep into his eyes, she could see what news he had brought, but it was not good. She saw the carnage and death that humans can inflict upon one another. She saw the scene at the cabin as Tim, Shotgun and Ray arrived. She saw Ray holding the little boy. The images appeared like those of an old movie reel with blurred spots and unclear images, sometimes bouncing and jumping from scene to scene. But she saw enough. She put her hand over her mouth and shook her head in disbelief.
“Are my friends ok?” she asked the owl. The owl closed both eyes and spread his wings. “Good, thank you. I suppose you want a reward for your information?” she asked. The owl closed his eyes and spread his wings again. “Ok, go to your roost,” she told the owl. He spread his wings and wind swept around Miss Cherie as he ascended to his usual perch in the loft.
Miss Cherie walked over to the chicken pen and gathered a red hen. She took her to the front yard and scattered cracked corn and meal worms on the ground for her. She walked past the owl sitting in the hay loft doorway and said, “You know the rules.” Then she walked back to Rambler and began to brush him again. After about five minutes, the hen had eaten all the corn and meal worms. As she started to look around the yard and scratch for bugs, the Angel of Death swooped from above and instantaneously snatched and killed all in one blow, then retreated to a hollow tree down the river to devour his bloody reward.
A few hours later, the sound of Harold’s pickup got her attention as it pulled up to the signs and parked. As Harold entered her yard, she could see he was carrying an armload of boxes. “What are you up to Harold?” Miss Cherie asked.
“I brought your pastries that you ordered from Mrs. Williams,” he said
“Oh, good! Thank you so much! I wasn’t expecting them. I would have picked them up myself, if I had known they were ready,” Miss Cherie informed Harold. “I gave Mrs. Williams my cell number, but I know our service is terrible, and she probably doesn’t text. Thank you for bringing them, let’s eat one. I’ll make some coffee,” Miss Cherie told him.
“I thought these were for someone special?” Harold asked.
“Well, you and I are special, and besides I ordered extras,” Miss Cherie smiled and winked. Harold was very bashful and shy, even a wink made him uncomfortable.
With coffee ground and brewed, Miss Cherie set out two, fine china cups and saucers for herself and Harold. “Cream and sugar?” she asked.
“Nope, just black,” Harold said. “Yum, this is really good coffee!” Harold exclaimed as he sipped from his fancy cup.
“Thank you,” Miss Cherie said.
“Is this some kind of special Louisiana coffee or chickory that I ‘ve heard about?” Harold inquired as he drank more coffee and neglected his pastries.
“One hundred percent, Columbian coffee beans. I order it from Amazon and grind it myself,” Miss Cherie informed her guest.
“You get it from the Amazon?! WOW! I’ve never drank any jungle coffee before,” Harold said excitedly.
“No, not the Amazon. Amazon.com, on the internet, silly,” Miss Cherie corrected Harold.
“Oh! Ok, gotcha. Satellite internet out here—I forget about that,” Harold said. Harold tried to cover his misunderstanding because he didn’t know she had anything except kerosene lamps, candles, woodstove for heat and gas stove for cooking. He had no idea she was so knowledgeable on technology, for she kept it well-hidden by the appearance of her place.
“Did you hear about Shotgun and Ray finding that baby on K-Trail?” Harold asked
“Yes, I’ve heard some chatter about it. Wasn’t someone else with them?” she asked.
“Yeah, some fellow named, Tim.” Harold said
“You talked to Shotgun, I suppose, since you’re friends?” Miss Cherie probed for information.
“Yes, it was terrible,” Harold explained. He continued eating his pastries and drinking coffee while telling her what he knew about the whole thing, including the trio of rescuers, who were now suspects of the murders.
Harold finished his story and his snack, then stood to leave. “Thank you again, Miss Cherie for helping me with Cali Ann. We’re getting along great and her parents like me. I’ve known them all my life, but we really didn’t know a lot about each other. I’ve got to be goin’. Call me if you need anything at all. That is, if you can get a signal, my landline is hit and miss, too,” Harold said and then left through the doorway that he was once apprehensive about entering.
Miss Cherie went to her front yard and added some stones to her medicine wheel. She rearranged some cedar limbs that were part of the outer circle, and when she heard Harold crank up his truck and leave, she called out to her old friend, “Claude, oh, Claude, if you can hear me, I have the pastries for your cousins.” She continued to woo Claude without saying a word, it was all spoken in her mind.
“I’m not far away. I will be there soon.” Claude’s voice resounded in her head. Within a few minutes, Claude was peeking from behind the chicken house like a small child playing hide and seek.
“I see you Claude,” Miss Cherie said aloud as she looked out her kitchen window. Claude glided across the backyard in a smooth, fluid stride which is characteristic of the Sasquatch people. He gracefully placed one foot in front of the other, like a tight rope walker. He met her at the back door as she exited with several boxes of pastries.
“Claude, I haven’t seen you in several days. It seems like the time between our visits is getting longer and longer. I have the pastries for your cousins,” Miss Cherie said excitedly. “They are really good! I tried one of them, and now I understand why you and your cousins like them so much.” Miss Cherie sat the boxes on a table under a hug oak tree. “I use this table for everything from scaling fish to butchering deer and washing vegetables from the garden. But I never thought I would have some of Mrs. Williams pastries setting on it to be delivered to the Sasquatch people!” she chuckled and smiled.
Claude opened a box and his face lit up almost as much as when he received some of Miss Cherie’s special pie. “My cousins will be happy,” Claude said in his Sasquatch voice.
“I hope no one sees you carrying these boxes. I can see the headlines now…”Big Foot Spotted Carrying Boxes in the Kiamichi Mountains,” Miss Cherie smiled and shook her head.
Claude did not understand her amusement with the idea as the Sasquatch people have a different sense of humor than humans.
“Would you like some pie, Claude? Or are you in a hurry to get these pastries to your cousins?” Miss Cherie asked. She was becoming concerned that her pie spell was losing its effect.
“Pie, please,” Claude said as he took his seat beside the Hickory stump.
Miss Cherie brought Claude his pie and the usual, dining utensils, a fine china saucer, silver tableware and a linen napkin. She climbed the rickety steps and returned with a cup of hot coffee and what appeared to be a glass of dark red wine.
She sat on the stump and sipped her coffee, swapping every few sips to the glass of wine.
“I’m told of some very bad things that have happened on K-Trail. Some people were killed, and a little boy was found wandering around alone. You be careful in your travels, there are a lot of bad people out there, and you never know where they might show up or who they are,” Miss Cherie told Claude. “I have some good news though; Shotgun still has the green crystal, but he no longer wants to capture or kill you or any of your relatives,” she said with a positive tone.
“I know,” Claude answered.
“You know? You know what Claude?” Miss Cherie wasn’t sure to which part of her information he was referring.
“I know the short human and the little, hairy human no longer hunts me and my people. They saved my nephew, Chuckchulli, from the bear. Chuck and his family took food to the short human and the hairy human to thank them. I know about the bad things that the humans did at the cabin in the mountains where the child was left alone. Chuckchulli and his sister used to hide and watch the human child play. Sometimes, they would show themselves and leave their hiding place to wave at the child. He would wave back and smile. He was always alone; his parents were there, but he was left outside to play alone all day. One day, not long ago, my niece and nephew brought the child to our clan and told us a terrible story. We kept him for several days. We fed him, and he played with our children like he was one of us. He didn’t cry or try to leave. He slept with my cousins, and they kept him warm since he has no hair. After several days, one of the elders named, Shawa, ordered us to return him to his people or to his kind of people. My cousins wanted to keep him with us. They pleaded and told the terrible story again. Two strangers, they had never seen at the little boy’s house, showed up. They went inside without knocking. The little boy was playing in the backyard. They heard shouting in the house and then gunshots. One man, who lives there, ran out the front door, but he was shot in the back by the stranger with a long gun. More shots and screams came from inside the house, and the little boy’s mother fell out the back door onto the steps. As all this was happening, the little boy’s father was returning from hunting. He ran to the edge of the woods and shot the man on the porch twice with his bow and arrows. Then he turned and ran to the backyard where the little boy was crying. As he came around the house, he saw the other stranger standing in the doorway over his wife’s body and shot him with an arrow. As the stranger fell, he shot twice, hitting the little boy’s father. The father grabbed his stomach as he fell, and then crawled away down the mountain dragging his bow. The stranger, who shot the woman, moved around on the floor of the house then got up with an arrow sticking out of him and bleeding from his stomach and chest. He pointed the gun at the child crying in the backyard. We know we are not supposed to get involved in human conflict or human ways; it is our law. But my nephew could not let this happen. He picked up a rock the size of a luksi (tortoise) and threw it as hard as he could, striking the stranger in the head. They stayed hidden and watched the child. He sat by his mother and cried all day, pulling her lifeless arms until night came, then he lay down beside her and rubbed her head and played with her hair. He finally went inside the house and went to sleep in his bed. That’s when Chuckchulli went in the house (also against our laws) and got the child. The father had crawled a long way down the mountain, but he died, also. After telling the story again, my cousins waited for the elders to decide if the child could stay. They said, ‘No’, and told me to take the child where humans could find him. I went to the house where he came from. It was terrible, I could not leave him there. I was going to the hard road with the lines on it, you call ‘highway’. I heard a vehicle, but before that I felt the pulse of the green crystal. I waited until the humans were close, and I sat the child in the middle of the trail. He cried and watched as I walked into the woods. He stretched out his arms to me and cried. I hid and watched until the three humans had him. He liked the little hairy human the best and stopped crying for him. The short human is good now, he has experienced ‘Fatema’. He has opened his eyes like an infant to a new world of understanding my people,” Claude explained.
“Claude, I’ve never heard you say so many words. That’s a sad tragedy. I feel so sorry for that little boy. I feel so sad now. It grieves my heart to hear of this. But there’s another body that hasn’t been found. I can’t tell anyone, and you can’t tell anyone. I certainly can’t tell anyone that a Bigfoot told me. Claude, thank you for telling me this. It made me sad to hear about it, but it might be helpful. I’m sorry your cousins had to witness the ugly side of us humans,” Miss Cherie said with a touch of anxiety in her voice that Claude had never heard before.
“There are other things that happen in these mountains that you may need to know,” Claude confessed.
“You may be right, Claude. But right now, I need to find my friends and let them know about the other man who died, dragging the bow,” Miss Cherie said as she sipped her wine and studied on a way to contact Tim and his crew. “Claude could you contact or find my friends, and let them know about the other man with the bow?” Miss Cherie asked.
“No, we only communicate with certain humans, not many. Some we only exchange gifts with to show respect to each other and to let us both know that we know they are there, and we are here. We live in these mountains without bothering one another. The humans acknowledge us and leave us alone and we do the same for them. Except sometimes our young ones play tricks on them. You must have a kind heart, good intentions and an open mind to contact my people more than once. A chance sighting of us is not like communication,” Claude told her as he finished his pie. “I’d do anything you ask of me, but I cannot do this. Your spell is strong, but my people’s laws are stronger,” Claude said.
Surprised, Miss Cherie looked up from her wine glass at Claude. She had been outfoxed, or so it would seem. “My spell?” she asked innocently.
“Yes, I allow you to cast your spell through your pie. The first time I ate it, I did not know about your spell until it was too late. After that, I ate it because it is good, and you have a good heart and open mind. You have not forced me to do anything that I did not want to do for you,” Claude replied.
“Well, who would have thought a Voodoo Queen would get outsmarted by a Sasquatch. The truth is Claude, I enjoy your company and you help me with things that would take longer to accomplish without your help. I was afraid you wouldn’t come and visit if I didn’t give you that special pie,” Miss Cherie confessed.
“I would come to see you without the pie, but I like it. Please keep making it,” Claude had confessions of his own. “I will go now.” Claude huge form rose up and gathered his boxes.
“See you soon Claude. Be safe in your journey,” Miss Cherie felt a relief as if she no longer needed to keep a secret from a friend. A weight was lifted from her conscience.
She went back to her medicine wheel and stood in the center of it. The murder of crows that hung around the tree tops gathered around her on the ground as she stretched out her arms and closed her eyes. “Fala, yobota, abinanoli, afanali, illi. Fala, yobota, abinanoli, afanali, illi. Fala, yobota, abinanoli, afanali, illi,” she chanted three times. The crows took flight in an explosion of wings, wind, and dust as Miss Cherie stood with outstretched arms looking up into the midday sun and blue sky.
. . .
Tim and company had made their way back to base camp and began their search once again. “Guys as bad as I hate to tell you this, we need to be searching to the north of the cabin where the bodies were,” Tim said slowly.
“I know—I saw it too. I just didn’t say anything. I thought it might be my imagination, but there is a rock formation that looks like a big cat’s head right before you get to the cabin’s driveway,” Shotgun begrudgingly agreed.
Ray flipped open the cylinder on his pistol and made sure it was loaded. He pulled out his flask and took a small sip.
“I don’t know if this is a good idea since were suspects. It might look funny to a lawman who shows up and finds your truck parked close to the crime scene,” Shotgun interjected.
“I agree, but I don’t know what else to do. That’s a lot of gold we’re looking for and looking anywhere else would be wasting time. We’ll drive off K-Trail onto the old driveway of the first cabin we looked at. That’s the best I can do,” Tim said.
Tim parked the truck in the overgrown driveway and pulled as deep into the brush as possible, all the while clinching his teeth as brush and limbs gave his pretty, blue Raptor some Oklahoma pinstripes. They dropped down below the ridge on the north side of the mountain and began their slow, methodical hike along the mountain’s sharp sloping north side. All the sudden, the trees above them were full of crows, squawking and screaming. It was so loud they couldn’t hear one another talk. Then as quickly as the crows arrived, they were gone.
“What was that all about?” Tim asked as he looked at Shotgun.
“I don’t know. I’ve never experienced anything like that. At least, not that many and not that loud,” Shotgun replied. Ray had stopped searching and covered his ears. After about two more hours, they had made their way directly below the “cabin of death.”
“That damn cabin is less than a half-mile above us according to my navigational skill,” Tim said. Within a few seconds of this comment, the trees in front of them exploded with crows again, same as before except this time they were about eighty feet directly in front of them and a short way down the mountain slope. Squawking! Crowing! Screaming! Fluttering! Hopping from limb to limb! It was an annoying, eardrum-splitting cacophony!
“What the hell are those crows doing?” Tim asked.
“It’s like they’re attacking something or trying to get our attention!” Shotgun proposed as he made his way around the steep ridge toward the melee of crows. Tim and Ray followed as they inched their way around the ridge riddled with loose rocks, slippery foliage and red dirt washout. As they neared the crows, the noise was almost unbearable. They were all three focusing on the crows, when they stopped at a boulder the size of a Volkswagen which was surrounded by tall pine trees. When they looked down to decide their next move to traverse around the treacherous obstacle, they almost stepped upon a body laying halfway under the huge boulder. They all three jumped and cocked their weapons with their hearts pounding in their throats. At that moment, the crows exploded from the tree tops and disappeared. The trio stood there in complete silence, staring at the buttocks and legs of a body projecting from the boulder.
Ray sniffed the air and then uncocked his pistol. He grabbed a stick and made his way past his companions to poke the body. After several cautious pokes, Ray looked at Shotgun and Tim and shook his head. The group cautiously made their way around the body and peeked under the boulder. There was a hollow space under the boulder big enough for a large bear to have plenty of room to sleep. The dead man’s arms were stretched in front of him, holding his recurved bow in one hand.
“Oh! Wow! This poor guy must have fallen down the ridge and was hurt. I guess he was trying to get under this rock for shelter, or something drug him under here,” Shotgun deduced.
“I guess we should pull him out of there,” Tim suggested. They grabbed his legs and pulled the corpse from the would-be tomb. His bow was still under the boulder. Shotgun crawled in to retrieve the hunter’s bow when a loud, metallic snap occurred, and dust filled the hollow cavern. Tim and Ray immediately fell to their knees and looked in as they fanned the dirt and dust that came boiling outward.
“Are you okay?” Tim asked, coughing heartily. Ray was fanning the dust with a pine bough as he looked worriedly into the small cave.
“I’m ok,” Shotgun said as he fanned, coughed and spit. “Not sure what in the world that was!” Shotgun said. When the dust settled, they could see the bow had been snapped into two pieces by a bear trap that had been buried in the dirt under the boulder. The trap had also disturbed a large canvas sack.
“Get out of there, Shotgun!” Tim shouted. “There could be other traps.”
Shotgun scurried out and then spun around to peer back under the boulder. “What the hell is going on here?” Shotgun asked as he searched for a long stick with which to probe the cavern floor. After punching the ground and probing all around in the hole for several minutes, Shotgun was satisfied that he could safely reenter the small cave. He hurried in and out, dragging a US Army duffle bag behind him. “What in the world could this be?” Shotgun asked as he dumped the duffle bag’s contents on the ground. A small fireproof safe fell from the bag, measuring about two feet by two feet with a ten-inch thick handle for carrying.
“Don’t touch it!” Tim shouted as they all stood around staring at the strange-looking box.
“What’s up? You act like you know what’s in it?” Shotgun questioned Tim.
“I don’t know what’s in it, but I have seen one of those before,” Tim answered.
“Everybody has seen a portable safe—they sell ‘em at Walmart!” Shotgun was getting annoyed again.
“No, this is not a Walmart safe, look close. Four rolling combinations locks and two key locks. There’s a number engraved on the brass plate on each side and one on the bottom. Plus, a card scanner in the handle,” Tim pointed out.
Shotgun and Ray gazed at the safe and searched all over it, without touching it.
“Ok… I see what you’re saying. Now, what is it?” Shotgun asked slowly and in a calmer tone.
“I’ve only seen one. Now, this makes two. I was working a security detail and we had to transport one. It was the same size, only twice as thick. We were heavily armed and on high alert, with a decoy detail carrying an empty case,” Tim explained.
“And what kind of work did you say you were doing…who were you working for?” Shotgun became quite interested in the details regarding Tim’s history.
“The U.S. Government, C.I.A. Black Ops. That was another life, anther time. I wouldn’t have told you this much if I didn’t think you should know how serious this has just gotten,” Tim was gazing at the box unblinking.
“What was in the box that you transported?” Shotgun asked.
“The head of Osama Bin Laden,” Tim said calmly, still staring at the box.
Shotgun looked at Ray, Ray looked back, and they stood there in silence, not sure what to say next. After several silent and uncomfortable minutes, Shotgun spoke up, “What do you think could be in this one?”
“Who knows, could be the cure for cancer, Kennedy’s brain that was removed and lost, Clintons emails, names of double agents, or deep cover intel. You can be certain of one thing…it’s very valuable and people will either kill to get it or kill to keep it hidden,” Tim continued explaining.
Their attention finally turned to the corpse beside them. Tim noticed an arrow was under the body. It had rolled out when they turned him over. It looked like the ones at the cabin.
“Well, I guess it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this is the guy that launched the arrows at the cabin shoot out. He has his boots on, so I’m still not sure about the footprints in the kitchen. There may still be someone roaming around this mountain, looking for this safe. Now we must decide what to do. Call the Sheriff again and be even more of a suspect? Walk away like we’ve never been here? Take the box and risk getting killed or thrown in prison for the rest of our lives? Well, what do you boys wanna’ do? We’re all in this together, now,” Tim offered in a solemn tone that didn’t sound very encouraging.
“Darn! You don’t paint a very good picture any way we choose. Don’t you have connections with the government that you can call?” Shotgun was reaching for other options.
“No, not when it comes to things like this. This is some very serious shit. And I’m not happy to have stumbled onto it!” Tim’s answer was not very promising.
“You’d think there’d be some kind of tracking device on these things,” Shotgun mused.
“There is,” Tim replied. “It appears someone has figured out how to disable it or knew how to disable it. If not, these mountains would be covered up in black Hawk helicopters and military units.”
Tim dug into the inside pocket of his Carhart jacket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes and a USMC Zippo lighter. He opened the smokes and lit one. He propped against one of the towering pines which shadowed the booby-trapped boulder. Ray packed his pipe with Captain Black pipe tobacco and fired it up. It calmed his nerves and the pleasant aroma blanketed the scent of death which lingered in the crisp, Fall air. Ray reached into his overall pockets and retrieved a dime-size can of Garrett’s sweet snuff and tossed it to Shotgun. Shotgun took a dip of the sweet, powdered tobacco and tossed it back. The trio had been circling around the cursed U.S. Government safe, but now they turned their backs to it and the corpse as they looked off the rugged mountain ridge onto the majestic beauty of the mountains. Tim gazed into the clear, blue Oklahoma sky and felt the crisp, Fall breeze blow across his face as he took a long, hard drag off the unfiltered cigarette. He was leaning against the pine tree, looking as though he was at peace with the world. Actually, he was contemplating all the options that he had previously offered as well as the personal revelations he had experienced while watching the scorpion and the cricket.
Shotgun spit down the ridge and looked at Tim, “I didn’t know you smoked.” Shotgun couldn’t stand silence for very long.
“I don’t,” Tim replied. “This isn’t me; this is someone I used to be. I quit smoking several years ago, but every now and then something triggers the craving,” he explained.
Ray continued to puff his pipe and enjoy the evening breeze on his fuzzy face. As they sat looking down the ridge and across the mountains, they heard movement in the forest below. There was the rustling of leaves and brush and the thunder of hooves. On the game trail below them, the sounds moved closer until a herd of wild horses broke into a small clearing at the bottom of the ridge. The herd came into view, emerging from the forest trail in a fast trot. They formed a ragged, single file herd until they all entered the clearing; then they stopped and began to disperse and browse on the green grass which was giving way to the Fall temperatures and beginning to die and turn brown. The lead stallion circled the clearing with his head held high as the others grazed and nibbled. From one hundred and twenty feet above, concealed in the shadows of the tall pines, Tim, Shotgun, and Ray continued with their tobacco break and enjoyed the opportunity to view an Oklahoma legend in its natural habitat. After several minutes, the lead stallion either smelled or sensed their presence and snorted the alarm as he pushed his herd back into the forest and down the game trail in a flurry of bucks and kicks. The dozen, wild horses disappeared as quickly as they appeared.
“That was really impressive. I have read about the wild, Choctaw ponies that still roam these mountains, but I never thought I would get to see any of them,” Tim said as though nothing else was pressing on his mind.
“Yep, they are really something…truly wild and free. They have never felt the weight of a saddle or the pull of a bit,” Shotgun shared.
“Shotgun, you have just spoken some words of relevance. You may be on your way to becoming a philosopher. ‘They’ve never felt the weight of a saddle or the pull of a bit.’ That’s really profound thinking!” Tim exclaimed, as if he had just discovered fire.
“I think it’s common sense and observation,” Shotgun replied as he spit again.
Tim took a final drag off his Lucky Strike and pinched out the fire on his snipe, then put it in his jacket pocket. “Leave no sign,” Tim said. “You see those Indian ponies very often?” Tim asked.
“Oh…about four or five times a year, I run across them here and there,” Shotgun replied. “The range runs from here and goes across Middle mountain to the Little River Valley and beyond.”
“Boys, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll open up that duffle bag, and you two find you some strong sticks and shove that safe into the bag like it was. I’ll carry it, and we’ll head back to the truck and go make another phone call to the Sheriff,” Tim instructed confidently.
“You sure that’s what we should do?” Shotgun asked with some resistance in his voice.
“Yes! Yes I am. I’m sure that’s what we should do. If we do anything other than that, we will always ‘feel the weight of that saddle and the pull of that bit’ associated with the wrong decision concerning that safe,” Tim explained. “There was a time that I would have taken it and ran. I would have tried to find the highest bidder to sell it to—good or bad, it wouldn’t have mattered as long as it wasn’t a foreign country. But for some reason, I have the urge to do what’s right. I can’t explain something that I don’t even understand. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but that’s what we’re doing.” Tim was certain about what they were going to do. He was more confident regarding this, than he had been about himself in a long time.
They started their hike back to the truck. Tim slung the duffle bag of strange cargo over his shoulder and led the way, looking back over his shoulder to make sure his companions were following closely behind. As they walked and sometimes inched their way around the mountain, Tim slowly and covertly unholstered the .45 that was on loan from Shotgun and quietly cocked it. Halfway back to the truck, he stopped and allowed Shotgun and Ray to catch up to him. As Shotgun came up behind, Tim turned to face him. Tim held the cocked .45 with his right hand under his unbuttoned jacket. Shotgun was five feet away when Tim pulled his right hand from under his jacket to expose the cocked .45. Shotgun was a bit startled and pointed his .20 gauge at Tim and cocked it. Tim silently shook his head and motioned toward the mountain with his head. Tim spoke in a whisper, “We’re being flanked by someone. For about the last twenty minutes, I could hear bipedal steps above us, sometimes they were even with us, sometimes they fell back behind us a little. Try not to act like you notice—don’t look around,” Tim instructed him.
“What are we going to do?” Shotgun asked.
“I’m going to set this thing down here—you and Ray stay here. I’m going toward the truck, but then I’m going to circle above and try to outflank whoever it is,” Tim instructed. Tim laid the duffle bag down and moved ahead as Shotgun and Ray propped themselves behind a big, pine tree and tried to act as if they were resting. In about forty-five minutes, Tim returned, roaming up behind them, his pistol still cocked and in hand.
“Well?” Shotgun waited for a report.
“Nothing! I saw someone moving through the brush and vines, but the foliage is so damn thick up here, I couldn’t see thirty to forty yards clearly. Whoever it was, they were quick and quiet. I tried to follow them, but lost them. They headed back the way we came from and down the mountain. I don’t know what to make of it. It could have been that Indian I saw a few days ago, or someone looking for what we have here,” Tim pointed at the duffle bag. “Let’s get out of here,” Tim said as he shouldered the bag and holstered his pistol.
They made it to the truck and started the rough trip down K-Trail once again. As they headed down the highway, a flock of turkeys crossed the road in front of them.
“Lots of game in these mountains,” Tim noted “I guess a man could live off the land up here pretty easily, if he had the skills and knew how to do so. He could just disappear from the outside world.” Tim sounded as if he were contemplating this for himself.
“Yep, a man could—some do,” Shotgun agreed.
As they pulled into the store parking lot, there were two pickups parked there with the tailgates down. A small crowd of eight or ten people gathered around to check out the eight-point buck in the back of one truck and the black bear in the other.
“Looks like these folks had a little luck today,” Shotgun said as he rubbernecked the scene. “You boys sit tight; I’ll call the Sheriff and have him meet us on the mountain. I don’t care for an audience today,” Tim said.
Tim entered the store and the lady behind the counter gave him a sideways glance. “Hi, how you doing today? I hate to ask, but can I borrow your phone again?” Tim asked very politely. The lady sat the rotary dial phone on the counter again and stood close in order to overhear what the call was all about. Tim pulled out the Sheriff’s business card and dialed the number.
“Okpulo County Sheriff’s Department” the voice on the other end stated.
“Yes, I need to speak to the Sheriff, please,” Tim stated.
“Sheriff McCloud isn’t in right now; can I take a message,” The voice queried.
“Tell him this is Tim McRay, and I have found another body on K-Trail,” Tim tried to whisper, but by the expression on the lady’s face behind the counter, he knew he had given up his secret.
“Hold please,” the voice instructed. Within seconds, the Sheriff was on the phone.
“Hello, this is Sheriff McCloud,” a stern commanding voice stated on the other end of the line.
“This is Tim McRay. Sheriff, I’ve found another body about a half-mile below the cabin where the others were. I found something else, too. I’d rather show it to you than talk about it. It’s valuable and government related. Why don’t we meet on the trail instead of at the store?” Tim informed the Sheriff.
“We’ll be there in about an hour,” the Sheriff said and then Tim was left listening to a dial tone.
Tim looked at the receiver, then hung it up. “Thank you, ma’am,” Tim said as he pushed the phone across the counter. The lady nodded and waited for Tim to clear the door, then she immediately started dialing. Tim jumped into the truck and fired it up.
“I’d like to check out that deer and bear,” Shotgun said, and Ray nodded.
“Boys, I’m sorry, I don’t think we have time for that. I’d like to get rid of our cargo as quickly as possible. We need to head back to the trail and wait on the Sheriff,” Tim told them, breaking the news.
“You’re right—let’s go!” Shotgun conceded. They parked on the trail beside the driveway which led to the cabin, exited the truck and waited for the Sheriff. The day had warmed up nicely, and the crisp, Fall day gave way to some afternoon warmth which felt more like early, summer weather.
“They’d better hurry up. That body is getting’ ripe with these unusually, warm temperatures today,” Shotgun grumbled.
Tim pulled out his pack of Lucky Strikes and the Zippo lighter. He looked at both as he held them in his hands. He shook out one and fired it up. Shotgun and Ray sat on the tailgate as Tim squatted beside the truck and took a long drag off an old habit that he thought he had left behind. They watched a large black tarantula cross the red dirt trail as a hawk soared above them. An occasional breeze brought reprieve to the encroaching heat.
A convoy of the Sheriff’s SUV’s, Game Wardens, and Tribal Police SUVs crept along the rugged trail and finally pulled into the driveway leading to the cabin. The trio reluctantly walked behind the line of emergency vehicles. The Sheriff climbed from the first SUV and starting walking toward Tim and company. He stopped at the first Tribal Police SUV and talked to the Officer exiting the vehicle. Then they both headed toward Tim.
“Mr. McRay, this is Police Chief Hatak Takchi. He’s in charge of the Choctaw Tribal Police,” the Sheriff introduced the men as they shook hands.
“One of the men killed here was a member of the Choctaw nation. We’ll be working together on this case.” The Sheriff seemed to have a friendlier demeanor today.
“Lead the way to the body,” the Sheriff instructed.
“Before we do that, I need to give you something we found,” Tim said as he laid the duffle bag down and carefully dumped its contents.
“A safe? You found this with the body?” the Sheriff asked.
“Yes, Sir. This is not just any safe. Look at it closely. We haven’t touched it, we shoved it back into this bag with some sticks. Maybe there are fingerprints, maybe not,” Tim told them as he explained what kind of box it was and to what it belonged, as well as what it could contain. He also gave a very brief explanation of how he knew these things.
“Well, Mr. McRay, I checked you out before I knew anything about the victims at this scene. I discovered a lot about you; twelve years spent in the Marine Corps, mostly in the Middle East. Then I hit a brick wall, and the more I dug for information, the more resistance I got. Then I got a phone call from the White House informing me, that if I needed any more information, or if you were in trouble, that I should contact the FBI and they would handle it from there. I don’t like the Feds, I run Okpulo County, and I don’t need them boys snooping around here. From one Marine to another, you and I are ok…sorry for the first impression I gave, but I’m sure you understand,” the Sheriff confided to Tim and shook his hand.
“Yes, Sir. I understand. Shall we head toward the body now?” Tim felt a little better about the Sheriff right up to the point when the Sheriff fastened his eyes on Tim’s .45 and asked, “Where’d you get that pistol?”
Tim had meant to stash the pistol in the truck, but it felt so natural on his hip, he forgot. “I borrowed it from a friend,” Tim replied.
“You better let me have it. I’m not in the habit of walking around in the woods with armed civilians,” the Sheriff said, as he held out his hand. Tim quickly spun around and headed to his truck.
“I’ll just lock it up in the truck,” Tim said. He felt sure if there had not been so many witnesses the Sheriff would have made a bigger stink over taking the pistol from him.
The Sheriff had not even acknowledged Shotgun and Ray. He basically ignored them. The Sheriff left two deputies with the box and the remainder followed Tim, Shotgun and Ray on the treacherous hike to the body. They arrived at the boulder where the bear trap was still gripping the crushed bow, but the body wasn’t there.
“It’s not here!” Tim shouted as he looked all around scouting for any sign of a body.
“This better not be your idea of a joke, boy!” the Sheriff said in an aggravated, gruff tone.
“No, I’m telling you, it was right here,” Tim replied.
“No drag marks, it’s like it was picked up and carried off!” Tim continued to talk and look in every direction.
Shotgun and Ray had managed to climb up on the boulder to get a better view of their surroundings.
“All right, everybody spread out! Remember the body is wearing camouflage, so look close,” the Sheriff barked orders to everyone.
In about five minutes, a shout came from up the mountain and to the east about a hundred yards. “Here it is, I found it,” the Deputy called.
Everyone scrambled to the spot where the body was located, except Shotgun and Ray. They remained perched on their rock.
As everyone gathered round the corpse, Tim said, “It wasn’t like this when we left. It was down there by the boulder and it still had its head!”
“You mean to tell me, that after ya’ll left, someone came along and carried this body uphill about a hundred yards, cut his head off and then took the head?” the Sheriff asked as he removed his Stetson and wiped the sweat from his head with a handkerchief.
“I’m telling you the truth; someone has been here after us. We were being followed; we could hear them when we headed back to the truck,” Tim told the officers as he dug for another Lucky Strike.
“Well, hell, this shit just gets worse and worse!” the Sheriff said, as he pulled out a pouch of Redman Chewing tobacco and stuffed a big chew into his jaw. “You boys get to work, take pictures, document everything, and then take pictures of where the body was and the distance it was carried. Retrieve the bear trap and the bow, too. And watch for more booby traps,” the Sheriff’s voice echoed through the mountains.
Tim and Shotgun answered questions and described what they found to the deputies taking notes. Ray remained perched on top of the boulder. The body was bagged, and the hike back to the truck began. The two deputies carrying the body, slipped on loose rocks and dropped the body bag, sending it sliding down the steep ridge for about fifty yards.
“Damn it! Can’t ya’ll hang on to the body bag? Good grief!” the Sheriff complained. The Sheriff was winded and fanning himself with his Stetson by the time they broke over the mountain and stepped onto K-Trail. “It’s sure as hell strange that you show up in these mountains at the same time this damn government box did!” the Sheriff said, while fanning himself and looking at Tim.

 “Sheriff, if I was here for the box, I sure as hell wouldn’t bother giving it to you!” Tim shot back.

 “I suppose you’re right---this shit is costing me a lot of time and man hours not to mention county money,” the Sheriff interjected.

 Shotgun did not mind being ignored by the sheriff, but he finally had to ask a question that had been gnawing at him. “Sheriff, did you find out who the little boy was, or if he has any family to take care of him?”
 “I’m not at liberty to give out information about an investigation, but no, not yet,” the Sheriff replied in a civil tone for a change.
 “I can tell you this; the child was examined by a doctor, and he is in excellent health. It’s amazing after several days alone in these mountains that he wasn’t dehydrated or hungry. He was barefoot but didn’t look like he had walked for miles through these mountains and forests. No, scratches, no bruises, it was like he had been carried and placed on the trail for you to find him. Just look at us, we have scratches and scrapes on our hands, and those of us wearing short sleeves have scratched up arms from all the thorny vines and blackjack branches, and we’ve only been out and about in these mountains for only a few hours. This whole case is strange. I can usually figure out a crime scene fairly quick. This one is going to take some time,” the Sheriff confided.
 “I really would like to see that .45 you had on your hip,” the Sheriff said, looking at Tim. Shotgun kept a straight face and slowly nodded to Tim to follow the Sheriff’s request. Tim opened his truck door, reached under the seat and grabbed the bone handled .45. He ejected the magazine and locked the slide back, then handed it, butt first to the Sheriff.
 The Sheriff held the pistol like it was a lost lover. He stared at it and turned it over from side to side and stroked the bone grips and the worn, blued barrel. The he pulled out his sidearm and held them together. He unlocked the slide on Uncle Fred’s .45 and held one in each hand. He pointed and aimed at the top of the tall, pine tree. He was an intimidating figure and even more so with these two .45’s. Then he finally spoke. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this gun. Fred and I bought these over in Mena, Arkansas right before we left for Korea. We dispatched as many of those yellow s.o.b.s with our pistols as we did with our rifles,” he said as though he was talking to himself and no one was around. He swapped hands with each gun, weighing each one with a motion that looked like he was juggling them. “A perfect match,” he said, then he handed one back to Tim. 
 Tim turned to walk back to his truck and then spun around. “Uh...Sheriff, you handed me your gun, Sir,” Tim told him as he held the Sheriff’s .45 by the barrel toward him. The Sheriff had already holstered Fred’s gun and started toward his vehicle. He stopped and slowly turned around, unholstering the pistol as he turned.
  “Well, so I did. Must have got caught up in some old memories and accidently handed you the wrong one,” he said and grinned as he exchanged weapons with Tim. “You boys are free to go,” the Sheriff said as he walked away.
 Tim inserted the magazine, holstered the pistol and strapped it back on his hip. They all three loaded up and headed toward camp once again. 

“Wow, that was strange. I don’t think he did that on an accident. Any man who handles a pistol on a daily basis knows the difference in the weight of a .45 loaded and unloaded. There’s a big difference. Why would he want your Uncle Fred’s pistol bad enough to give me his?” Tim asked as he laid out the obvious observation.
“I think I know, but I can’t really explain it right now. Maybe, someday, I will let you in on a few things that will clarify what just happened,” Shotgun said.
“Well as soon as you can, tell me. Because I’d really like to know. The deal with the pistol confuses me more than the government safe,” Tim said holding on tightly to the steering wheel as they crossed a rough, jagged stretch of solid rock on the trail.
“Well, here we are again, what’s next?” Shotgun asked.
“Let’s look at these maps again and study them a little. Give the Sheriff and his crew time to clear out and get off the mountain,” Tim advised.
“The Sheriff seemed concerned about all the time and money this investigation is costing the county. Is this an election year?” Tim asked.
“Yep, it’s an election year. He has run unopposed for over forty years. This year I hear he has an opponent,” Shotgun informed Tim.
“He must be doing something right or everyone is scared of him. That’s a pretty impressive record, whether you like him or not,” Tim conceded.
. . .
After the Sheriff and all the law enforcement exited the mountains, Tim, Shotgun and Ray continued their search in the areas of interest. They searched to no avail. All they got for their efforts were scenic views of the mountains, sore feet and conversations. Not all bad, but not what they were looking for.
“One thing about treasure hunting, you have got to be patient,” Tim told his companions.
“If you could tell me more about why we’re looking for this cat head rock formation, I might be more help in pointing us in the right direction,” Shotgun informed Tim.
“Well, that’s kinda like your Uncle Fred’s pistol mystery. Maybe, someday, I can explain it to you, but not right now,” Tim explained as he studied a topographical map on the camp table. “All I can say is it comes from some very, very old clues—ancient clues you might say.”
“Ancient you say?” Shotgun rubbed his chin and looked up at the white clouds slowly rolling through the sky. “The trail on middle mountain is more ancient than K-Trail,” Shotgun said nonchalantly.
“The trail on Middle Mountain?” Tim inquired. Shotgun had Tim’s attention. “Ok, go ahead, tell me about this ancient trail and how we get to it!” Tim was all ears.
“That’s the string of mountains between here on K-Trail and the Little River Valley. About half-way between, more or less. We’re about twelve miles from the river by the way the crow flies. Middle mountain is about six miles from the river, but it’s one of the most difficult areas to get to. You can drive off the Indian Highway for about a mile or so. Then it’s either walk or horseback the rest of the way. To get to the top of the Middle Mountain and pick up the Middle Mountain Trail, it would take about a two-day hike or maybe one day on horseback. It’s very rough and rugged compared to everywhere you have already been around here,” Shotgun explained.
“You know the area well?” Tim inquired.
“Been up there a few times, but not as much as Harold Watson. Harold has spent weeks up there hunting and training his hounds. He has an extra horse and a mule you could use. I have Bill, my burrow, he can carry me and Ray, no problem if you want to go check it out,” Shotgun informed Tim.
“I don’t really want to get another person involved in this search. I’d rather no one else know what we’re looking for. Besides I’m on a budget, I’m not sure I can afford another guide with horses,” Tim said, explaining his uncertainty about Shotgun’s suggestions.
“Most folks avoid Middle Mountain. There’s good huntin’ and virgin timber up there. People think the Middle Mountain trail is haunted. They hear screams and howls when they hunt or hike into Middle Mountain or even close to it. Out of the blue, something throws rocks and pinecones. Shadows in the forest are often seen darting around behind trees and boulders. You can hear muttering and talking from the forest and brushy areas, but you’re never able to understand what their sayin’. Creatures walk into your camp at night and rummage through your stuff and walk around your tent growling and breathing heavy. Loggin’ crews won’t work anywhere close to Middle Mountain. Big rocks, limbs and sometimes small trees get thrown at the loggers, hitting their equipment and all around them, but never hurting anybody. All that along with howls and growls make most logging companies keep their distance from the area,” Shotgun stated, giving Tim a rundown of the history of Middle Mountain to make sure that he knew what he was getting into if he decided to go.
“All of this strange stuff going on and you’re still willing to go? Have you been there overnight before?” Tim needed a little more information.
“I have, and I will again if you wanna’ go,” Shotgun bragged.
“What’s the deal with Harold that he’s not afraid to go stay in the Middle Mountain?” Tim didn’t want to hire another guide and then have him run off.
“Harold is a special kinda’ guy. He said he had gotten a little nervous a few times up there, but no one has ever been hurt or killed by whatever it is, whether it’s a spirit or a beast. He can’t resist going up there three or four times a year and camping and hunting for a week at a time. Just him and his hounds and mule. Every year there is a half dozen hunters or hikers who think they are brave enough to go to Middle Mountain, but they always turn around and leave before they ever get to the top where the trail starts,” Shotgun explained, as he was full of information.
“Ok…ok, you’ve talked me into it. I don’t know whether I believe that it’s a good place to look, or if maybe you’ve made this such a challenge for me that I’ve got to investigate. Where do we find Harold?” Tim asked as he was ready for some new scenery. The shadow of death that hung over the one area of K-Trail around the cabin had worn on Tim’s mind and memories.
“Let’s pack up and break camp here, and we’ll find Harold and see when he can start this expedition,” Shotgun said as he started unloading his tent, and Ray started pouring water on the fire.