The Voodoo Queen Chapter # 6

. . .
Two days prior to Tim and company making new search plans Miss Cherie had a visitor whom she had not seen in several years.
The sun had set in the Kiamichi Mountains and the stars were bright in the Oklahoma sky along with a crescent moon. This October night was calm and cold; there would be a frost before morning and probably an early Fall in more ways than one.
The Sheriff had borrowed one of his deputies’ cruisers and turned down Miss Cherie’s driveway, stopped at the signs and exited his vehicle. The old Sheriff stood and looked at the signs with his hands on his hips and shook his head. He made the trek down the wagon road and approached the yard with a quick look around before he stepped onto the rickety porch. He rapped very loudly on the door three times and yelled, “Open up, Sheriff’s Department.”
The door creaked open, and Miss Cherie stood there with her hand on her hip. “Well, hello Big Don, it’s been a while. I was starting to think you didn’t like me anymore,” she said with an acquiescing look on her face. The Sheriff ducked under the doorway and removed his hat. He was a towering presence in the small shack.
“Miss Cherie, you’re as beautiful and as sexy as ever. Sorry I haven’t come by in a while, been kinda’ busy. I should have my tail end kicked for neglecting a flower as beautiful as you,” the old Sheriff said in a sweet voice.
“Your sweet talk and flattery don’t make up for five years of no visits!” Miss Cherie was brusque and to the point.
“I know darlin’—I’m sorry—have pity on an old man,” the Sheriff begged with a pitiful tone, his hat in his hands.
“Aww…give me your hat and shut up with that old man bullshit,” Miss Cherie said as she grabbed his hat and hung it on a rack beside Clarence’s cage.
“Sit down and I’ll make some coffee. Tell me what brings you out tonight. I know this is more than a social visit—remember, I know things—don’t lie to me unless I ask you to.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled.
The Sheriff took a seat at the kitchen table. As the coffee began to brew, the Sheriff came clean about the nature of his visit. “The last time I was here, you were a little upset about what I had done to Fred. So, I have avoided you. I don’t like it when you disapprove of things I do.”
Miss Cherie gathered cups and saucers for the coffee and listened closely as the Sheriff continued with his confession.
“You know this is an election year, and I have an opponent this year. I suppose the help you gave me over forty years ago has worn off. Do you think there is anything you can do to help me win just one more time? I want one more term, just four more years, and then I’ll retire,” the Sheriff said with one arm slung over the back of the old, wooden chair in which he sat.
Miss Cherie sat the cups and saucers in place and paused to look at the Sheriff with her hands on her perfect hips and her brown eyes staring into his soul. She reminded him of the stipulations that were placed on her “special help” he received so many years ago. “Do you remember when I set the spell in motion, you were told that same day it would run its course, and when it was done, and its power had worn off, you would once again face an opponent? You were elected the first two times without any help. I’m sure you can do it again,” she told him and then gently rubbed his shoulders as the coffee brewed.
“I’m sure I can, but my ordeal with Fred left a lot of people pretty sore about my way of doing things, and he has a lot of friends…friends who vote. I can’t blame them for feeling that way, I just didn’t expect the spell to end this year. I’m greedy for power I suppose, and I want to keep my status and position a little longer.” The Sheriff was being honest with Miss Cherie. She was one of a very few old friends in whom he could confide.
“It wasn’t right what you did to Fred, even though he hurt you very badly. Why don’t you retire and enjoy doing things you haven’t had time to do? Become a P.I. or travel, do what you want to do instead of constantly dealing with county bullshit.” Miss Cherie was reasoning out the situation.
“I know, I know. As bad as Fred hurt me when he and Ann Marie ran away together, I probably shouldn’t have had him thrown in prison for as long as I did. Become a P.I.? Wouldn’t that be some bullshit! I hate P.I.’s! Travel!? Why hell, I don’t care to travel! I’ve been everywhere that I care to go already. I like being Sheriff! I like dealing with county bullshit! I like my office that was built in the 1920’s! I like being Sheriff McCloud of Okpulo County! There’s nothing else I’d rather do or be!” The Sheriff was dead set on keeping his title and position.
Miss Cherie poured the coffee and took her seat across the table from the Sheriff. She dropped two sugar cubes into his cup and stirred it for him. “I suppose you still take your coffee this way?” she asked as she stirred.
The Sheriff took her hand in between his two big hands and looked into her eyes. “I’d retire and travel anywhere you would like to go if you would marry me, Cherie.” He paused and held his breath waiting for an answer.
Miss Cherie pulled her hand away and laughed. “You silly, old coot, wouldn’t that make some headlines, ‘Sheriff Marries Voodoo Queen, They Set Sail for London!’ Ahh, ha, ha, ha.” She had a wicked, cackled of a laugh that raised the hairs on the Sheriff’s neck. “I’m sorry, I can see that you are serious. We’re both too old to get married. No, I like it the way it is for me. Someday my spell will wear off too, death will knock at my door, and I must answer, like it or not.” She hinted at her ability to stay young in an adverse way, but the Sheriff understood what she meant.
“You and Fred were like brothers at one time. You can make amends and fix this. Enjoy each other’s friendship and company again. How’s Conrado?” She knew more about the Sheriff than anyone in the county except for Fred and the Sheriff knew it.
“Conrado is good, still working for me as a Deputy. He’s as silent as ever,” the Sheriff said.
“That’s good, tell him that he could come and visit also.” Miss Cherie sipped her coffee and held the Sheriff’s hand as they talked.
“Yea, I’ll tell him. You know he wouldn’t have anything to do with arresting Fred. He left the day before it went down, and I didn’t see him for over a week. He went off into the mountains alone. Once a month, he gets dressed up in his Sunday meetin’ clothes and goes to McAlester to visit Fred. Black boots, jeans, white shirt, black frock coat and a black Stetson hat. He looks like an Indian preacher with that long black hair that’s almost blue, it’s so dark. He has three Choctaw blood brothers who work in the prison. He has them make sure that Fred has everything he needs,” the Sheriff told Cherie.
They talked and drank coffee into the night. Sometimes laughing, sometimes somber. Their conversations reminisced and revived their relationship and of course there was pie. Before the dawn’s early light, while the moon and stars were still shining the way, the Sheriff exited the old shack and made his way down the wagon road back to his car. A light breeze made the trees sway, and the shadows danced in the dim moonlight, a light frost was on the ground, and above the Sheriff’s head, the owl soared down the wagon road, casting a huge, winged shadow as he headed toward his favorite perch in the yard. If anyone had come to see Miss Cherie, they saw the Sheriff’s county cruiser, turned around and left.
. . .
The Sheriff was hell bent for leather, and nothing was going to stop him from getting elected again. As he drove back to his office at the county courthouse, the sun rose behind him. It came up slowly over the mountains and brought a variety of color to the sky and shadows to the land. All these things are pure beauty and joy to a real country boy. These are things that can’t be bought, sold or possessed, and it made the Sheriff think of a happier, simpler time in his life when power and position were not important. After a few hours of paperwork, more coffee, and a healthy breakfast of donuts, the Sheriff made his way down to the local barber shop for a trim and a shoe shine. He entered the century old establishment with the rotating barber’s pole and took a seat in the second chair, leaned back and said, “Floyd, how ya’ doin’ today. Give me a shave and a trim, please, Sir.”
“Sure, thing Sheriff. How’s the campaign goin’? I hear ya’ got competition for the first time in forty years,” Floyd said.
“Yeah, I got competition. Some damn Yankee from New York City. He come down here after he retired from the N.Y.P.D. about two years ago. He’s sixty years old, so that makes him a young guy compared to me. I guess he got tired of being retired and decided he could show us how things are done up in New York City. I’m not too worried about that city slicker,” the Sheriff replied as Floyd lathered his face with a camel hair brush and shaving cream.
Floyd whipped out a straight razor and gave it a couple of strokes on a leather strap. As he began to carefully shave the Sheriff, he brought up a sore subject, “I’m voting for ya’ Sheriff, but you know there’s a lot of people over in Little River that are still upset about you arrestin’ Fred and havin’ him thrown in prison. I think you’ll still win the election regardless of all the negative attitudes in the river valley.”
“Thanks for the vote and the confidence there, Floyd,” the Sheriff said with jaws clenched trying not to move as Floyd continued to shave.
“That fellow runnin’ against you was in here yesterday. I think he said his name was Bernie Maxwell. He got a haircut, talked about fishin’. Said he was going fishin’ at a good spot he found over on Hugo Lake, next Saturday. He asked if he could put up a campaign poster, but I told him that I’d been cuttin’ your hair for sixty years, and that I planned on voting for ya’, so sorry, but ‘no’. It didn’t seem to bother him. He told me that I was bettin’ on the wrong horse. Said my horse needed to be ‘put out to pasture.’ He said that the next time I cut his hair; he might be Sheriff.” Floyd finished up the shave and took a steaming hot towel and wrapped the Sheriff’s face. After a few minutes, the Sheriff unwrapped the towel.
“You say he’s goin’ fishin’, Floyd?” the Sheriff asked.
“That’s what he said—said he liked to fish alone. Said it gives him time to think.” Floyd had some information for the Sheriff that was more than just idle talk.
“Floyd, you ever think about retiring?”
“Nope, Sheriff, reckon I’ll cut hair till I die. I’d get bored bein’ retired, and besides I like talkin’ to all my customers and friends every day.” Floyd finished up the Sheriff’s haircut and dusted him off.
“Thanks, Floyd, put that on my tab,” the Sheriff said as he hurried out the door. Once outside, the Sheriff whipped out his cellphone and dialed up Conrado. “Where you at? You and Crowbar meet me at my office as soon as you can,” he ordered Conrado as he walked down the sidewalk toward the courthouse.
In an hour, his two most trusted Deputies entered the historic office with its ten-foot, ornate, tin tile ceilings. The woodwork on the doors and all the beautifully carved wood trim was indicative of the skilled, talented craftsmen of that time period.
Conrado, an Apache, had been an orphan. The Sheriff and Fred both had participated in raising Conrado since he was about four years old, and they had enlisted a Choctaw family who was willing to house him. For 30 years, Conrado had been a faithful Deputy to the Sheriff. Crowbar was the Sheriff’s second cousin on his mother’s side. The Sheriff was one-quarter Choctaw himself, even though you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. Conrado and Crowbar both were around sixty years of age. With their long, black hair and their grey Stetson hats, white starched Sheriff’s Deputy shirts, jeans, and black boots they were an impressive pair. At first glance, you would think they were members of the Tribal Police until you saw the Okpulo County Sheriff’s patch on their shirts. Both carried .45 ACP, 1911s with bone grips much like the Sheriff’s but not exactly.
The Sheriff leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on his desk, leaning forward, he said, “Well, boys, I got some interestin’ information today. Seems like Mr. Maxwell likes to fish; he’s going to leave early Saturday morning heading to Hugo Lake. I’m still thinking about what to do with this information.”
The Sheriff got up and walked over to the third story window and looked out over small town U.S.A. He watched the people walking around the fountain on the town square. He looked at the stars and stripes flapping in the wind and the Oklahoma flag with the blue background and all the symbols which represent the native people of the state. He watched as a scissortail lit on the courthouse lawn and snatched what may be the last grasshopper of the season. He took out a pouch of Redman Chewing Tobacco and stuffed a big chew into his left jaw, chewed for a few seconds then spit in an antique brass spittoon setting on the floor by his desk.
“I think I know what to do with this information. You boys meet me at the old ice house Saturday night around two in the morning. Bring me a pig in a poke, and I’ll bring a knife and a lighter. If the pig doesn’t cooperate, we’ll have us a barbeque!” The Sheriff spit again and gave a nod of approval at his idea and smiled. Conrado and Crowbar looked at each other and nodded.
“I’ve got to go shake some hands and slap some backs down at the rodeo arena. They got a ropin’ goin’ on over there this evenin’ and a varsity football game tomorrow night for me to make an appearance at. I love election years!” The Sheriff grinned and took his seat again. Conrado and Crowbar went about their usual duties and made plans to carry out the Sheriff’s special instructions.
. . .
Saturday night came around and at two o’clock Sunday morning, the Sheriff drove up to the old abandoned ice house. He walked up the steps of the daunting, old structure and entered. He took out a Zippo lighter to find the light switch. The big empty building hadn’t been used commercially for at least thirty-five years. The two hundred-foot-long by forty-foot wide wooden structure had huge oak beams supporting the rafters. Only eight light bulbs dangled on wires from the front to the rear of the building. The sparse, yellow glow of the lighting caused the dimly lit building to cast shadows along the walls. Within a few seconds, half the lights went out.
“Damn, old ass lights!” the Sheriff cussed under his breath as he fumbled for the fuse box while holding his Zippo in one hand. He found the old, rusty fuse box and popped it open to discover one of the old glass screw-type fuses had blown. Fortunately, a couple of extras lay on the shelf next to the fuse box. The Sheriff’s big ham-like hands would barely fit inside the small fuse box to unscrew the outdated, glass fuse and replace it with another. It was evident that he had been here before.
“Damn, outdated fuses…guess they’re kinda like me,” he muttered to himself. Fuse replaced, lights back on, the Sheriff casually strolled from one end of the ice house to the other under the dim glow of antiquated lighting. He unlocked the big chained double doors and swung them open. Within a few minutes, headlights pulled up to the doors, then turned around and backed in. Once the vehicle was inside, the Sheriff closed the doors and relocked the chains. Conrado and Crowbar exited the four door, County Sheriff’s pickup and dropped the tailgate for the Sheriff to inspect their cargo. The Sheriff looked into the bed of the pickup at a huge U.S. Mail sack that was as long as the pickup bed and three-feet wide.
“Good job boys! Unload your package,” the Sheriff commanded and then took a few steps back. The deputies slid the sack out of the truck and untied the top. The sack fell down around the ankles of Mr. Bernie Maxwell who was handcuffed and had duct tape on his mouth. Conrado pulled the tape off his mouth with one lightening quick jerk.
“Oh, you! You people are going to regret this! When I get loose, I’m calling the FBI and telling them about your backwoods, hillbilly attempt to intimidate me! You’ve lost your mind, you old coot, kidnapping me! You and these heathens!” Mr. Maxwell ranted.
“Whoa! Stop! calm down! We didn’t kidnap you—we just want to talk. Don’t insult my Deputies by calling them heathens. I’ll have you know they’re both Christians,” the Sheriff informed Mr. Maxwell as Conrado and Crowbar looked at him and nodded in agreement with the Sheriff.
“I’m a quarter Choctaw myself on my Mother’s side, so I take offense to that kind of talk,” the Sheriff calmly said.
The Sheriff walked into the shadows of the old, wooden building and returned with two, wooden, straight back chairs. He set them down, facing each other and motioned for Conrado and Crowbar to put Mr. Maxwell in one and the Sheriff seated himself in the other.
“Mr. Maxwell, I need you to drop out of this election. All I’m asking is for you to quit the race and in the next election, I’ll throw all my support behind you. You’ll be a shoe in—a ringer. I just need one more term. I’m a man of my word—I’ll support you and make sure you win if you do me this one favor,” the Sheriff requested nicely.
“Hmmmm…Uh…No!” Mr. Maxwell replied.
“Mr. Maxwell, this is not going to go well for you if you don’t cooperate,” the Sheriff urged.
“What are you going to do, beat me with a rubber hose, break my leg, beat me with a bag of oranges and break some ribs?” Mr. Maxwell asked defiantly.
“Mr. Maxwell, I’m not going to do anything to you. Out here in the country, we let the land and nature help us with things like this. This ain’t New York City. Things are different here, people are different. But it all still comes down to power, influence, money and whoever is the smartest at getting and keeping all these attributes. I’m asking nicely—I’m begging you, and I don’t beg. Please promise me that you’ll drop out of the election, and we’ll turn you lose. I swear, I’ll back you next election and help you any way I can after you’re elected.” The Sheriff sat face-to-face with Mr. Maxwell and explained this to him with a very sincere and serious tone.
“I don’t give in to bullies! I’ve dealt with the mob, corrupt cops, gang bangers, dope dealers, thugs, and all sorts of trash! I’ve been threatened by worse people than you. You might as well get on with whatever you’re going to do to me, because the answer is always going to be NO!” Mr. Maxwell replied.
“Crowbar, will bring me that little ice cooler out of the truck, please?” the Sheriff asked.
Crowbar sat a small, ice chest on the floor beside the Sheriff’s chair. The Sheriff slowly opened the cooler and pulled out a Coors beer in a bottle and then a small, six-ounce bottle of Coca Cola. “Mr. Maxwell, would you like a beer or a Coke? I’ll uncuff you if you’d like to have a drink. Those animal tranquilizer darts leave a bad taste in your mouth when you wake up…or so I’m told.” The Sheriff held up the choice of refreshments in front of Mr. Maxwell.
Bernie licked his lips and shifted his jaw from side-to-side. “I don’t care to have a drink with you!” he shouted.
The sheriff fished around in his pocket and pulled out an opener, popped the top on the Coke and took a long, slow drink. “Ahhh, refreshing! These little bottles remind me of when I was a child. Granddad would take me to the store, right here in Sweet Springs once a month and buy me a Coke. We’d drink it at the store, so we didn’t have to pay the two-cent deposit on the bottle. While I drank the Coke, he’d talk to the other old timers about the price of seed corn, weather, politics, and the upcoming weather conditions. Times were simple back then. Mr. Maxwell, I’ve tried to be patient with you. I’ll ask you one more time. Please, drop out of this race. Give me your word, and I’ll turn you lose,” the Sheriff urged with great sincerity.
“What if I say ok—then I don’t do as I promised?” Bernie asked.
“Well, we’ll have this same meeting again,” the Sheriff promised.
“Then the answer is still, NO!” Bernie continued to be defiant.
The Sheriff turned up the Coke and finished his drink. “Ok, have it your way,” the Sheriff said and nodded to Conrado.
Conrado walked to the closest, dark corner of the building and rolled a bundle of chain-link fence across the floor close to Bernie. He unwired the bundle and rolled it out flat. It made a metallic, clanking noise as it unwound across the floor, sounding like the tracks on an army tank or a bulldozer. Clank, Clank, Clank, Clank. Bernie sat perfectly still with a puzzled look on his face; this was not what he expected. Conrado and Crowbar grabbed him and threw him down on the chain-link. They had him rolled up in the middle of it before he could make a sound. They wired it back together so it wouldn’t unfurl and then rolled it over until Bernie was face up. The Sheriff rose and sauntered over to Bernie in his wire sarcophagus. He leaned over, placing one foot on the roll of wire.
“Mr. Maxwell, I apologize for not giving you a proper welcome to my county when you moved here. Now Conrado and Crowbar are going to take you down to the Oklahoma/Texas line and throw your ass in the Red River. The water’s up, its running from cut bank to cut bank. This is fifty feet of chain-link, six feet wide. You’re about five and a half feet tall, so you should be snug. This roll of wire will sink to the bottom of the river quickly, the sand will silt in through the wire and it will bury itself in the river bed like an auger. It won’t rust out or give up its secret for about a hundred years…by then, who cares!? Welcome to Okpulo County, Oklahoma, have a nice stay,” the Sheriff said and began walking away.
“Ok boys, you know what to do, I’m going to go have an early breakfast or a late supper, one or the other. Ya’ll take tomorrow off if you want to, go fishing or somethin’.”
The sheriff stopped and turned around speaking a little louder, “Oh, and Mr. Maxwell, don’t worry about your truck and boat. Your truck’s over at the lake by the boat ramp with your trailer. Your boat’s anchored in the cove where you like to fish, and there’s even a couple of fish in the live well. I’ll help the Game Wardens drag the lake for your body tomorrow, but of course we won’t find it. I’ll personally give my condolences to your widow. She’s gonna look good in black—some women do.”
Conrado and Crowbar loaded their doomed cargo and locked up the ice house. The ride to the Texas border took about an hour, so therefore Bernie had time to think about his situation. The Sheriff’s deal all of the sudden sounded pretty reasonable. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t squirm, he could barely breathe. He looked up at the moon and stars, and he felt the chilling, Fall air whip around and through the holes in the wire. “Is this how it ends for me? he thought. “Killed by an outdated, backwoods Sheriff and two Indians!” It would be almost humorous if he wasn’t so scared to death. Conrado drove across the long bridge into Texas, made a quick U-turn and then stopped halfway across the bridge. The Deputies exited the truck and dropped the tailgate. They slid out the bundle of doom and hoisted it onto the guardrail. Bernie tried to speak but could barely make a sound.
“Hey guys, I think I’ll take the Sheriff’s deal. You can turn me loose, ok?” he squeaked.
“Too late, pray to Jesus,” Conrado instructed.
They positioned him on the guardrail and then dropped him face-up to the heavens. The one hundred-foot drop seemed like slow motion to Bernie. He watched as the crescent moon and stars moved away from him. He heard the splash and felt the chilling water as it made its way around his body, into his ears and finally covered his eyes. He tried to hold his breath, but it was futile. The red, muddy water filled his lungs and his world went gray.
Conrado and Crowbar watched as best they could as the watery tomb sucked the unlucky candidate downward. They removed their hats and had a silent prayer, then left the scene the same way they came.
. . .
By the time the Sheriff got home, he received a call from his office. The night shift had received a frantic call from Mrs. Maxwell concerning her husband. She had reported to them that her husband had left early yesterday morning to go fishing and had not returned. She stated he had been headed to Hugo lake and had been gone for about twenty-four hours, now.
“I told her, he probably got out on the lake and had boat trouble, it wouldn’t crank or something. Probably floatin’, waitin’ on someone to find him,” the Deputy on the other end of the line explained.
“Call the Game Warden and send him over to look for him. See if she knows where he might be,” the Sheriff instructed.
“Yes, Sir, already done that,” the Deputy replied. “Game Warden found his truck and his boat anchored in a cove. No sign of Mr. Maxwell. Their fixin’ to start draggin’ the lake. Just thought you should know,” the Deputy said.
“Ok, thanks. I’ll head that way. Tell me how to get there, which boat ramp?” the Sheriff asked.
It was daylight when the Sheriff arrived, and operations were underway to recover the body. Three Game Wardens, four boats and some Deputies were gearing up to drag and dive.
“Well, Sheriff, looks like you’re the only one on the ballot now.” The voice came from behind a big Oak tree. The Sheriff spun around to see his old friend, George Fletcher a Game Warden. “Sorry, Sheriff, didn’t mean to startle you. Had to get rid of some coffee,” George said.
“What do you mean by that, George?” The sheriff seemed to be somewhat defensive.
“Bernie Maxwell. No sign of him—boat’s anchored and fish in the live well. Maybe fell in, had a heart attack, who knows?” George went on to explain as he put on a life vest. “You want to ride with me, or you got other things to do?” George asked.
“I’ll ride with you; I like being on the water this time of year. It’ll seem like old times when I used to ride with you at night, listening for poachers to shoot or watching for spotlights.” The Sheriff smiled and slapped George on the back.
. . .
Two days of dragging and diving produced nothing but an illegal fish basket.
“Well, if he doesn’t float in a day or two, we’re going to presume that he was ate by the few gators that are here,” George said as he rubbed his face and poured a cup of coffee from his thermos.
“That unlucky bastard should have stayed in New York City, I guess,” the Sheriff replied as he gathered a wad of Red Man in his fingers and stuffed it in his jaw.
“Kinda’ reminds me of that time ten years ago when we drug the Red for thirty days straight after we caught that ole’ boy throwin’ that body off the bridge rolled up in chain link. We never found anything, never hooked anything except an old car that had been there for fifty years. You were pretty certain that he had probably killed ten to twelve people like that but couldn’t prove it since we couldn’t produce a body. That ole’ boy was a criminal genius,” George continued to reminisce.
“That guy was a sociopath,” the Sheriff replied. “I think I’m going to go over and console Mrs. Maxwell. I hate to give her the bad news, but someone has to,” the Sheriff said and then stretched and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Don’t start courtin’ her too soon, Big Don. I hear she’s an attractive lady,” George said with a devilish grin. The Sheriff gave a half-smile and walked toward his car.
. . .
Tim, Shotgun and Ray had arrived at Harold’s house and began to explain their need for his guiding expertise in the area of Middle Mountain. Harold being doubtful about any Choctaw gold had opted for daily pay like Shotgun and Ray had done.
“I’ve got one horse and two mules; all are trained to pack or ride,” Harold reported. “There’s also two big mules and two horses at Uncle Fred’s place we can use,” Shotgun volunteered.
“The trip will take a day’s ride in, a day’s ride out and at least a week to ten days in between, depending on what we find. We better pack plenty of provisions. We could pack light and kill what we eat. We’d spend time huntin’ instead of searchin’ if we did that though…never mind, scratch that.” Tim was calculating all options.
The caravan included two trucks, two stock trailers, eight mounts, including Bill, the burrow, provisions and ammunition.
“I’ve got saddle scabbards for every kind of rifle except that AK47 you’re toting, Tim,” Harold said.
“No problem, I’ll just sling it over my shoulder or across my back. I got used to that at one time. When we were over in the sandbox, we rode patrol and did a few missions on horseback,” Tim replied confidently.
Early the next morning, they made their way up the winding and scenic Indian Highway for several miles. They turned onto a logging road and drove down it for about two miles until it came to a dead end.
“Ok, boys, it’s ride or walk from this point on,” Harold told them.
Horses and mules were unloaded from the trailers and packed for the trip. Each rider led a pack animal. At the start, the trail was easy but by midday, it became rough and treacherous. They picked their way around rock slides, washouts and the occasional fallen pines that were one-hundred-sixty feet tall. The views were splendid, and the beauty of these mountains was magnificent this time of year. The cold nights and early frost had caused the leaves to turn brilliant shades of red and orange. Even the narrow trails around the mountain range that offered a sure death with a two-hundred-foot drop to one side and a sheer, straight wall to the other side seemed less daunting when everything was so bright and colorful.
They had stopped to give the animals a rest and to take in the view on the edge of a bald spot on the mountain, when a deer bolted from above them and headed down the mountain, crossing in front of them.
“Hmm…that deer was more scared of whatever is up above us, than he was of us,” Tim said.
“Yeah, could be a bear or a big cat,” Harold said. At that moment, a deep, guttural growl came from above, and they could hear the sounds of a tree being pushed over.
“What the hell?” Tim unshouldered his AK47 and jacked the bolt. Shotgun did the same with his .20 gauge as did Ray, thumb cocking his pistol. Harold made his way around to the right side of his mount and jacked the lever on a Winchester 30-30. The brush above them shook and a five-foot log rolled down toward them, stopping within ten feet of Harold. A volley of three or four small rocks landed around them, narrowly missing everyone. A loud scream echoed through the mountains; a sound that can only be described as a combination of a panther’s scream and a woman’s scream who is being murdered. An owl hooted three times, then everything was calm and silent.
“What the hell was that all about? What the hell was that?” Tim asked as he scanned his surroundings, pointing his AK as he scanned.
“They’re not happy that I brought you here,” Harold said.
“THEY’RE not happy? Who the hell are THEY?” Tim asked.
“The Forest People, the Sasquatch, the Bigfoot, whatever you want to call ‘em,” Harold explained. “We have an understanding. I come up here, and I don’t bother them. I only kill what I eat, and I don’t bother them. I leave them small gifts to show them respect,” Harold explained.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Tim questioned.
“Very serious.” Harold answered.
“How long has this been going on?” Shotgun inquired.
“Ever since I was a kid, ten or twelve years old I guess,” Harold said.
“You never told me this—I thought we were friends,” Shotgun said in a disappointed tone.
“Until recently, you wanted to kill or capture one. I couldn’t let you do that,” Harold told Shotgun.
“Oh, right! Sorry, I understand,” Shotgun apologized.
“You guys are serious?” Tim asked again.
“Yes, we’re telling the truth. There are lots of Bigfoot in these mountains, and they seem to be very protective of Middle Mountain for some reason,” Harold said, still scanning the ridge above for any movement. “They seem to be agitated about us being here for some reason. I’m guess it’s because I brought you guys here,” Harold stated as he tried to figure a reason for this strange change of behavior.
“They seem to have calmed down or gone. Let’s get going again,” Tim ordered.
The team mounted up and rounded the mountain onto a part of the trail that crossed a narrow, rocky gorge. Seemingly from out of nowhere, a rock, the size of a cantaloupe, exploded against a pine tree inches above Tim’s head! He dismounted in one lightening quick move and took aim up the mountain, laying his AK across the saddle for a rest.
“These damn critters are about to piss me off!” Tim shouted.
“Be calm, don’t be aggressive,” Harold warned.
“Be calm, my ass!” Tim snapped. “If I’m under attack, I return fire!”
“No! No! Don’t do that!” Shotgun shouted and Ray shook his head, “No”.
“What’s with you guys?” Tim sounded aggravated.
“They won’t hurt you,” Shotgun shouted from the back of the pack line.
About that time a baseball-size rock crashed into Shotgun’s right eye and knocked him from his burrow, Bill. When he fell, he struck the back of his head on another rock. Ray dismounted with one leap and covered Shotgun with his body in case more rocks were coming. When the rock hit Shotgun, Tim barked off three rounds up the mountain, and that set off a volley of arrows from above. One arrow struck Harold’s forearm that was holding the reins, two struck Tim’s saddle and one went through his chest. The horses and pack animals bucked and snorted, while Tim burst off another dozen rounds in the direction of the arrow attack. Harold dismounted holding his wrist and forearm, trying to control his horse and pack mule. Holding his chest at the base of the arrow, Tim made his way to Shotgun. Harold took cover behind a boulder the size of a buffalo. Tim used the horses and mules to cover himself, Shotgun, and Ray. An arrow whizzed by Harold’s head as he peeked around the boulder. With his good arm, he did a John Wayne maneuver, and “one hundred jacked” another round into his level gun, leaned out and shot uphill.
The horses and mules stomped and snorted around Tim, Shotgun, and Ray as Tim tried to hold them all in place as a shield against their unseen attackers. After several minutes that seemed like forever, it appeared that all was clear. Shotgun was unconscious, and Ray was holding Shotgun’s head in his lap. Tim was groaning and breathing heavily while holding onto the arrow that had entered his chest on the left, lower side and exiting his back.
“Damn it! Damn it!” Tim shouted. “I’ve been shot before, but this son-of-a bitch hurts bad!” he exclaimed.
Harold cautiously made his way over to Tim, Shotgun, and Ray.
“Oh, my Lord! Is he still breathing?” Harold asked Ray. Ray nodded ‘yes’ but was holding Shotgun tight and rocking back and forth in a panicked reaction.
Tim pulled his bandana from around his neck and handed it to Harold.
“Here tie a tourniquet around your arm. We’ve got to fix you first, so you can help us,” Tim told him. Tim carefully removed his Carhart jacket. The arrow had missed it somehow and entered the unbuttoned part that exposed his shirt.
“Should I pull it out?” Harold asked.
“Hell, NO!” Tim quickly responded. Tim was trying to analyze his situation when he noticed it was a wooden arrow with turkey feather fletching. “What does the tip look like Harold?”
“It’s a flint arrowhead like some I’ve found, but it’s tied with some strange-looking twine,” Harold reported.
“That’s new, Harold,” Tim told him. “Do your Bigfoot friends shoot arrows?” Tim asked.
“No, I don’t know who attacked us,” Harold confessed. “Should I try to break it, so we can pull it out?” Harold asked.
“No! Hell no! Quit worrying about pulling it out. That’s only in the movies. Cut the liner out of a sleeping bag and wrap it around my chest, crisscross around the arrow as closely as you can,” Tim instructed. After Tim was somewhat stabilized, they turned their attention to Shotgun.
“He may have neck injuries; I’ll wrap his neck with a shirt. Put some water on a rag—cloth—shirt something and hold it on his eye and forehead. He’s probably got a concussion. Let me see if I can get on my horse.”
Tim was trying to triage and make rescue plans at the same time. Tim climbed painfully onto his horse with an ancient-looking arrow sticking through him, a scene straight from the movies.
“Ok, very carefully hand Shotgun to me, support his head,” Tim instructed. “OK, mount up. Ray, you double up with Harold. Tie the leads on the pack animals and they can follow; if they don’t, we’ll come back later for them if the mountain lions or bears don’t get ‘em. Got to travel fast and hard. I don’t know how long I can stay conscious. Once we get there, unhook the trailer from my truck and drive like hell to get us to the hospital,” Tim told Harold, grimacing with every breath.
After a painful, agonizing, six-hour horseback ride back to the truck, it was getting dark and the company of treasure hunters looked more like Custer’s’ Seventh Calvary.
“Mountains weren’t quite as pretty on the ride back,” Tim said as he sat sideways in the passenger’s seat and held his side in pain.
“You gonna make it?” Harold asked, shifting into drive and looking at Tim with wide eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, just drive—drive fast,” Tim said as he faded out of consciousness
. . .
The next time Tim opened his eyes, he was looking at a heart monitor, laying on his side on an exam table at the Sweet Springs Hospital. He tried to sit up, but only arose on his right elbow when a nurse grabbed his shoulder and said, “You need to lie down, sir.”
“Where’s my friends?” Tim asked.
The nurse wheeled the exam table around to bring into view Harold who was sitting on a bed next to him and Shotgun lying on the bed with Ray on the opposite side. Harold’s arm was bandaged, and Shotgun’s face was swollen with bruises in shades of purple and blue. He also wore a neck brace and had a heart monitor attached to him.
Tim thought about the warning Miss Cherie had given him. Could he live with himself if the spell that helped him find his treasure cost him the life of another person? “Once it’s set in motion it can’t be stopped.” He looked down at his chest to discover that the arrow was still there.
“Try to lie still,” the nurse told him.
“How’s my little friend over there?” Tim asked.
“He has a concussion and possibly a skull fracture, not sure about his neck, yet,” she answered.
“How about you, Harold?” Tim asked.
“I’m okay, the arrow went straight through—it hurts like the devil but not too bad compared to you guys,” Harold answered and glanced over at Shotgun.
“Why haven’t they removed this damn arrow?” Tim asked the nurse.
“Well, by looking at the X-Ray, the shaft of the arrow is close to your lung and that’s why it’s difficult for you to breathe. It also chipped a rib, other than that it didn’t hit any vital organs. We’re waiting on a doctor to be brought in by helicopter from Tulsa. We’re equipped to handle minor injuries and bar fights at the local beer joints that only need X-rays and stitches. We can deal with snake bites and broken bones, but this is a little tricky,” she told him.
“Why don’t you air flight me to Tulsa.” Tim asked, gritting his teeth as he struggled to breathe.
“Well hon’, you lost a lot of blood, and from what I understand the six-hour, horseback ride and hour drive to get here didn’t help your condition any. To be honest, we’re scared to move you, so lie still, please,” she sternly demanded.
Before all this information could sink in and be processed the Sheriff burst into the emergency room. He looked at Tim with the primitive arrow sticking through his chest; Harold with his bandaged arm in a sling; Shotgun in a neck brace with his head swollen black and blue, and Ray holding Shotgun’s hand, dabbing his face with a wet cloth.
“What in the H-E-double LL is going on here? I get a call that the guys who found the bodies on K-Trail are in the emergency room, suffering from wounds received in an Indian attack. Somebody better start talking!” The Sheriff seemed a bit angry.
The Sheriff walked from patient to patient while Harold related details of the event.
“And that’s the same thing I told the State Trooper who stopped me doing ninety in a fifty-five. He responded by giving us an escort to the hospital. I only told him a little bit of the story when he noticed the arrow sticking through Tim and interrupted me as I was trying to explain. He told me, ‘Shut up and follow me.’ Then I told the whole story to him when we got here,” Harold rambled on with his explanation.
The Sheriff just shook his head and removed his Stetson.
“Damn, a shootout with the Indians and the only one that doesn’t get hurt is the monkey. Ya’ll are the damnedest bunch of idiots I’ve ever seen. The Sheriff looked at Tim as he grimaced in pain with every breath.
“Mr. McRay, I’ll be glad when you leave my county! You seem to have a knack for bringing strange trouble wherever you go.” The Sheriff repositioned his hat and took a sideways glance at Ray, then stormed out into the waiting room where the State Trooper was filling out his report.
The arrow was removed by the doctor who had flown in from Tulsa. Harold went home and Shotgun remained in a coma with Ray by his side. The arrow was given to the Okpulo County Sheriff’s department for evidence. Two Game Wardens and two Deputies followed Harold back where the horses and mules had been left. They gathered the other arrow for evidence and helped Harold catch and lead the horses, mules and one burrow. Harold, with help from Cali Ann and other friends, returned the mounts to their pastures and unloaded some of the supplies.
He returned to the hospital to check on his friends with Miss Cherie in tow. Harold had stopped to tell her about Shotgun and Tim, and she insisted on going to see them. She rushed into Tim’s room to find him sitting up in bed, bandaged from his neck to his waist, wrapped like a mummy.
“Oh, my goodness, are you in pain?” she asked as she held Tim’s hand.
“Not now, but before they removed the arrow, I wanted to die!” Tim said.
“Don’t say that!” Miss Cherie snapped.
“Why, Miss Cherie, you didn’t seem too concerned when you let that rattlesnake bite me!” Tim smiled and popped back.
“I was in control of that situation; I have no control over this situation,” she stated, squinting her eyebrows and glaring at Tim with her beautiful, brown eyes. “Where’s Shotgun?” she asked.
“Room 110, next door,” Tim answered.
She spun around like a whirlwind, was out the door and at Shotgun’s bedside in seconds. Ray was a bit surprised to see Miss Cherie, but he kept holding Shotgun’s hand and patting his face with a wet cloth. Miss Cherie looked at Shotgun and gently rubbed his face with her hand, she shook her head and said a prayer.
“Take care of your friend,” she told Ray as she exited the room.
She returned to Tim’s room where Harold and he were conversing about the length of Tim’s recovery and wondering if anyone had contacted Uncle Fred about Shotgun’s condition.
“The Sheriff said that he would let Fred know about Shotgun. I hope and pray he makes it. He’s on our prayer list at the Church and the Preacher is coming to check on him, too,” Harold reported.
Miss Cherie waited for Harold to leave the room then she whispered to Tim in an agitated tone, “This is why I don’t get involved in fortune seekers, shit like this always happens.”
“I understand what you mean, I really do,” Tim agreed.
“Do you? Do you, really? I don’t think you do!” she retorted. “You better think long and hard about all this before you start looking for gold again!” she told Tim, then rushed out as fast as she rushed in.
After a short visit, Harold took Miss Cherie home and then went to the store for an overdue cheeseburger date with Cali Ann.
. . .
Three days passed and the Sheriff showed up for another visit. He stopped to see Shotgun first. The Sheriff stood and stared down on the pitiful-looking, little clock repairer and said, “Willard, if you can hear me, I’m going to see your Uncle Fred. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”
Then he went next door to visit Tim. “Mr. McRay, looks like you’re doing better,” the Sheriff observed.
“Yes Sir, Sheriff,” Tim replied.
“Mr. McRay, you told me that you were a geologist or something of that sort, searching for various rocks and minerals. I know a lot about you, and I call BULLSHIT! What were you really doing on Middle Mountain?”
“Sheriff, I told you, looking for minerals, crystals, and other types of elements.”
“Those ‘other elements’ include gold?” The Sheriff gave Tim a look with his steely blue eyes that reeked of his eighty-seven years of knowledge and experience.
“Well, Sheriff, I guess if we run across some gold in those mountains, that would just be icing on the cake. But I don’t know of any reports of gold around here, only silver mines and a little gold panned in the Kiamichi River over toward Winding Stair Mountain,” Tim explained in an attempt to play down the insinuation.
“You almost got yourself killed, and we’re still not sure if Willard will make it. Do you think it’s worth it?” The Sheriff waited for a reply.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Sheriff,” Tim answered with his poker face on.
“I got a call from the Tribal Police yesterday. Two young men were brought to the Indian Hospital over in Yanush. One with a gunshot wound to the stomach, and the other shot in the leg. According to your report, you returned fire and so did Harold. The two Choctaw boys aren’t talkin’. They won’t say what happened,” the Sheriff said
“We returned fire, but we were just shooting blind trying to get to cover. We never really got a look at who launched those arrows,” Tim said.
“Those arrows are well-made, modern arrows that look like Choctaw arrows. Currently made arrows, made to look like relics. There’s a self-proclaimed Chief named Otie, who teaches the Old Ways used before the Europeans ever came to this country. These boys hang out with Otie and participate in the learning and ceremonies of the Old Ways. But there’s one problem. Otie doesn’t like white people and wants to take back Southeast Oklahoma for the Choctaws. He wants to run out all white men from these mountains. I understand his feelings, but it’s too late to do what he has in mind. Time, politics, history, and progress have made this impossible. But they say, he’s a ‘bit eccentric’—I call him ‘crazy’. I’ve got a feelin’ he had a lot to do with what happened to ya’ll. Take my advice and stay off Middle Mountain,” the Sheriff advised and walked out.
He strolled down the sidewalk and over to the City Square. He took a seat on a bench and looked up at the blue, Oklahoma sky which was dotted with white clouds that looked like homemade cathead biscuits. He lit a King Edward cigar and crossed his legs. He needed to do some thinking before he went to see his old friend turned enemy at the State Penitentiary.
. . .
After a long smoke and a think, the Sheriff went to his office and shut the door. He opened the bottom drawer on his desk and pulled out a bottle of Gentlemen Jack and a shot glass. He filled the glass and threw it back. “Ahhh…that’s better,” he said to himself.
“That always makes the words come easier,” he said aloud and then picked up the phone to start making at least a dozen phone calls.
A few hours later, he was walking into the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester. As he checked his gun and was escorted to a room for visitation, he was greeted by every guard and trustee in the prison. “Hello, Sheriff!” “Hello, Sheriff!” “Hello Sheriff!” Everyone knew him, the oldest Sheriff in Oklahoma, maybe the whole USA. He was a celebrity in the law enforcement arena.
He sat down in a visitation room and waited. In a few minutes, Uncle Fred was brought to the room, in cuffs and shackles.
“Well, what the Hell are you doing here?” asked Fred.
“It’s Willard,” the Sheriff replied.
“Willard! What’s wrong, what happened, come on, speak up!” Fred was frantic.
“He’s in the hospital, unconscious.” The Sheriff told the story of how it happened and all he knew about the situation.
Fred put his hands on the table in front of him and made a fist.
“If I wasn’t in here, this probably wouldn’t have happened!” he shouted.
“Oh, I bet it would have. Willard loves adventure,” the Sheriff answered.
“You don’t know shit about Willard,” Fred shot back.
“I know more than you think. Now listen to me. We’ve wronged each other in different ways. Let’s forget and forgive and start over. I’m working on gettin’ you out of here. I made a dozen phone calls today. I called in every favor that was owed me and threatened some with dirt I knew on them if they didn’t help. It’s going to take about two weeks, but it’s gonna’ happen. I’ve made my peace with you, now see if you can make yours with me. I’ll let you know if there’s any change in Willard’s condition.
The Sheriff motioned for the guards to take Fred back to his cell. Fred looked at Don with untrusting, uncertain eyes as he got up and left in silence.