Meanwhile at Miss Cherie’s shack on Little River, an old friend came sneaking up behind the chicken house as Miss Cherie was throwing rocks at a fox that had taken an interest in her hens.
“Go on, go away, and find yourself some other meal besides my hens!” she hollered. “Claude, I hear you breathing, and you stepped on several sticks as you approached. You’re not being very sneaky, today,” she scolded.
“I know, I was in a hurry to see you,” Claude explained.
“You ready for some pie?” she asked.
“Yes, please, but before we have pie, I need to tell you something,” Claude said, stopping her from heading toward the shack.
“I saw your friends when they got hurt. I tried to warn them and scare them into turning around, but they kept going. The Chief Otie and his Braves were waiting for them. You know I can’t get involved in human conflicts, but I tried to help by warning them.” Claude was mostly concerned about Shotgun. “The Chief Otie is doing bad things. He tries to control my people with dark spells and spirits. My people are too strong to be affected, but he continues to try. I don’t want your friends to get hurt again or killed.” Claude finished his story. “OK, ready for pie now?” he asked.
Miss Cherie brought the usual setup, pie on fine china, linen napkin, silver tableware and her special pie for Claude, some blackberry pie for herself and a glass of dark red wine.
“Looks like I need to do a little research on this Chief Otie,” Miss Cherie stated. “Thank you for trying to help. Do you see this Chief Otie in the mountains very often?” she asked.
“Yes, sometimes a lot, sometimes not a lot,” Claude said.
“Maybe someday, I’ll get to where I can understand your way of talking.” She smiled and drank her wine and ate pie in the cool, Fall air. “Fall is more pleasant in the mountains than anywhere else I believe,” Miss Cherie mused.
“Fall?” Claude sent as a question although it was hard to tell---sometimes he just repeated what she said to learn the words.
“Yes, when the weather cools, and the leaves change color, and the grass dies, and the geese fly south, and the animals grow fur, and the bears grows fat, and the days grow short and the nights grow long---that’s Fall,” she explained.
“Ok, I understand,” said Claude.
“Did your cousins enjoy the pastries’?” she asked.
“Yes, very much, they were very happy,” Claude said.
“How can you tell when your people are happy? Your face is almost expressionless.” Miss Cherie was curious.
“We just know---we know each other’s feelings. What is exp…express…Expression...a...list?” Claude was learning a new word.
“Oh, well…How about we save that for another time Claude. I’ve got work to do, and I’m sure you’ve got Bigfoot, Sasquatch things you need to do.” Miss Cherie needed to find out more about Otis but couldn’t do so until her guest left.
“Ok, thank you. I’ll be back soon. If you need me, call my name,” said Claude as his massive form quickly disappeared into the Fall foliage.
Miss Cherie walked over to the barn and looked up at the Owl as he sat in the loft.
“Ok my friend, I need some information. I used to be able to trade with the fox like I do you, but he gave me bad information a couple of times. He began making things up just so he could have a free meal----I don’t trust him anymore. You’ve always been truthful with me, so let’s keep it that way. I need to know about the Choctaw War Chief Otie. He roams these mountains. I need to know what he’s doing, what he’s done, and what he plans to do. This information should be good for several meals. Opa heli, Opa heli, Opa heli,” she told the owl, and he left the loft with a rush of wings and headed north toward the mountain.
. . .
A week passed and Shotgun opened his eyes to see his faithful friend sitting beside him. Ray hadn’t left his side the entire time. The nurses had insisted that Harold take Ray’s pistol when he arrived, but other than that, they all loved him and brought him food and drinks. Ray only left Shotgun’s side for bathroom breaks, a quick puff of his pipe outside, and an occasional bath in the fountain by the hospital front entrance. According to the doctors, Shotgun was going to have a complete recovery.
Tim was released and he returned to his cabin, although most every day he was with Shotgun and Ray waiting for some sign of improvement. Harold’s arm was on the mend and Uncle Fred was a week closer to being released from prison, although he still didn’t believe it.
. . .
The owl, who was normally in the loft by daylight every morning, had been gone for a solid week. No sign of him anywhere. Miss Cherie was starting to worry that Otie had captured him or worse. Finally, on the seventh day the Owl swooped into the loft and hooted three times to announce his arrival. Miss Cherie was cooking beans and rice with a South Louisiana kick, when she heard the much-anticipated signal. She left her food simmering on the stove and dashed out the front door, barefoot, letting the screen door slam behind her just like her Mamma always told her not to do. She held her skirt up to her knees as she tiptoed across the frost covered ground and made her way to the barn.
“Well my friend, I was worried about you. Are you ok?” she asked.
The owl spread his great wings and closed his eyes.
“Good, I have imagined all kinds of things when you didn’t return. What have you found out for me?”
She stepped back as she looked up at the magnificent raptor. The Owl flew down and lit on the hitching post by the corral. Miss Cherie walked over and once again looked into the huge eyes of the owl. At first, they seemed to glow and then the images came. Miss Cherie watched in horror as she saw Chief Otie grab the hair on the head of a man in camouflage and continue to cut his throat until he got to the neckbone, then drew a flint tomahawk and hacked through the bone and joints. All manner of gruesome gore hung from the gapping neck as Chief Otie ran down a mountain trail carrying his gruesome trophy. Then she could see fire in the owl’s eyes as it panned out to expose a big campfire with drummers beating on ancient drums and a dancer in some type of carved mask dancing around the fire. The dancer held a spear and stomped in rhythm with the drums. On the end of the spear was a human head, the skin and hair removed to reveal a gruesome smile and wide eyes. As the dancer danced around the fire, he stomped and waved the spear toward the heavens. Another dancer rose up from the outer circle of observers and began to dance holding a snake in one hand and a flint knife in the other. As the drums continued to beat, the two dancers stopped dancing and stood on opposite sides of the fire. The masked dancer with the spear and skinned, human head began to slowly roast the head over the fire until it began to smoke. He then took the flint knife from the other dancer and pried open the grinning mouth. He grabbed the tongue and cut it out, then carefully cut out the eyeballs. Once this gruesome act was fulfilled, he took the snake from the other dancer and put it into the mouth of the skull and forced the jaw shut. They danced and drummed faster until it all stopped. The masked dancer held the roasted, mutilated head in both hands and held it up to the heavens. The snake exited the right eye socket and entered the left as he surveyed his grizzly home. The fire leapt higher and the drummers began again.
“What on earth is he trying to do?” she asked herself as she held both sides of her head in disbelief. She could only assume the masked dancer was Chief Otie.
The next scene wasn’t as gruesome, but equally as concerning. Otie was gathering plants and crystals as well as the blood which was left by Shotgun, Tim, and Harold. The next scene confirmed what Claude had told her. Chief Otie was standing at the edge of a dark forest. It appeared that about a dozen Bigfoot people were standing in the shadows. Chief Otie was speaking the Choctaw language to them and pointing at gifts of food he had laid out before them. As he was speaking, the Bigfoot people were turning away and going back into the forest. As the last Bigfoot faded into the darkness, the Chief appeared to become angry. He gathered his food gifts and built a fire. As the fire burned, he threw the food gifts into it one at a time and spoke words that Miss Cherie had never heard before. She could make out the Choctaw words, but it was mixed with some other language. She only knew for certain that he was seeking help from dark spirits and black magic. It seemed as though this Chief had become a psychotic, medicine man or witch. His hatred had driven him insane, and the evil spirits that stay hidden deep in the mountain were beginning to take over his soul.
The last scene she saw was the Chief striking one of his braves and several arguing with one another as the Chief combined the blood he collected with the tongue and eyes of the corpse and then threw it all into a clay vessel and poured boiling water into it.
“Oh, dear God!” Miss Cherie said aloud. “I’ve got to warn Tim and the guys about this. I’ve got to find some of Great Grandma’s books and see if I can find a way to understand those words he spoke,” she spoke to the owl as though he cared. “I guess you want your reward now,” she taunted him. He spread his wings and closed his eyes. Miss Cherie held up her end of the bargain. A few hens were a cheap price to pay for this information.
. . .
Miss Cherie didn’t have to wait long to warn Tim about Chief Otie. Tim showed up later that day with other supernatural ideas on his mind. After a somewhat uncomfortable walk down the wagon road to Miss Cherie’s shack, Tim paused in the front yard to catch his breath. Miss Cherie stepped onto the front porch and said, “Good to see you out and about. Are you ok?”
“Yeah…I’m ok. Just got a little more healing to do,” Tim answered.
“Is Shotgun ok?” Miss Cherie asked.
“Yeah, he’s doing good. I needed to come see you about something…something spiritual,” Tim offered.
“Really? I can’t wait to hear it,” Miss Cherie said.
Tim gingerly walked across the yard and stepped up onto the porch, unholstered Uncle Fred’s .45 and asked, “Do you do cold readings?”
“You mean like parlor tricks?” Miss Cherie queried.
“No, I mean like holding an object to determine where it’s been, who it belongs to or if there’s anything unusual about it,” Tim explained.
“Yes, I was once to be able to do that, but it’s been a long time, not much request for that around here,” she responded. “But first, I have something very important to tell you,” Miss Cherie said.
“Ok, go ahead, and then I want you to hold this pistol and tell me what you see,” Tim urged. Miss Cherie explained what she had seen about Chief Otie. The dangers and uncertainties of Tim’s quest had now been doubled if not tripled. She suggested he abandon his quest for gold and move on to other interests once he was fully healed.
“One of the words Chief Otie spoke was Hungarian, ‘boszorkany’, it means ‘injurious phantom’. I couldn’t decipher all of what he said, but what I could decipher added up to one thing—black magic and conjuring up demonic spirits. He’s gone mad or possessed or both. He has collected the blood that you, Harold, and Shotgun had left at the scene of your ambush. This is very bad for all of you! I can try to help, but I’m not sure exactly what I’m up against. He seems very learned of the black arts, not just his own but from other parts of the world. He could be the Devil, himself!” Miss Cherie was very serious and frantic in her explanation. She had never seen as much evil as what illuminated from Otie’s spells, and in South Louisiana she had seen a lot.
“Ok, alright, I see your point. This Chief Otie character is one freaky dude. I’m not sure what to think about this whole evil spirit thing. Even though I believe in the supernatural and God, I don’t know how fearful I should be about this,” Tim explained. “I need to tell the Sheriff about this, as it explains what happened to the corpse we found with no head. But I can’t tell him…he wouldn’t believe me, not if I told him I got the information from a Voodoo Queen,” Tim said with a defeated tone.
“I’ll tell the Sheriff, don’t you worry, I’ll explain it to him,” Miss Cherie assured him.
“You know the Sheriff?” Tim questioned in a surprised tone.
Miss Cherie placed her hands on her hips as she would do when she became agitated.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot, you know everyone. Hey, you wouldn’t have anything to do with how long the Sheriff has been Sheriff would you? Nah, probably not, that’s crazy.” Tim smiled and knew he should shut up and change the subject. “Ok, now then, let’s try this.” Tim popped the magazine out of the .45 and cleared the chamber, then handed it to Miss Cherie.
Miss Cherie held the grips in her right hand as though she had done this before. She placed her left hand on the top of the slide and closed her eyes with her head tilted slightly back.
Tim thought, “How sexy she looks and even sexier holding that gun.”
Miss Cherie opened her eyes and looked at Tim. “What did you say?”
Tim’s mouth dropped open and the words wouldn’t come, “Uh…uh…uh, nothing—I didn’t say anything,” he stammered.
“Oh, ok—I could have sworn I heard you say something.” Miss Cherie gripped the gun again and titled her head back and closed her eyes.
Tim waited as Miss Cherie squinted her eyes and repeatedly shook her head. This went on for several minutes until she calmly laid the gun on the table and stood there staring at Tim.
“Well, say something—what did you see?” Tim asked impatiently.
“I saw things, I wish I hadn’t,” Miss Cherie answered. “That gun has been used to kill a lot of people–a lot of people. Asians in uniform during the Korean war. I saw a moonshine still and truck loads of liquor. Target shooting and laughing. Picnics and snakes being shot. I saw Shotgun as a child holding the gun and smiling. I also saw the grips being taken off and a map being hidden inside them. I saw Fred’s wife’s grave—Fred was crying in the dark, and he put this gun to his own head and pulled the trigger—that’s the last thing I saw,” Miss Cherie said as she wiped a tear from her eyes.
“But Fred’s alive!” Tim said staring wildly at Miss Cherie.
“Sometimes what I see is past, sometimes present, sometimes future. I remember now why I don’t do this anymore.” Miss Cherie crossed her arms and walked over to the window. When she turned back around Tim was unscrewing the grips on the jaded .45. He carefully removed the bone grips, and pieces of folded paper fell from under both sides. Tim scrambled to unfold them and see what they revealed. Sure enough, a map, but only two parts of what appeared to be half of a map.
“I bet this is why Fred didn’t want the Sheriff to get his hands on this pistol. But what’s this a map to, and where’s the rest of it?” Tim was excited as most treasure hunters are when they find a map someone has drawn to something that must be valuable enough to hide.
“You have to put it back—it’s not yours,” Miss Cherie insisted “And you better not tell Shotgun you found it,” she instructed.
“Ok. Ok. But I sure wonder what that old fox has hidden that needs a map, much less part of a map, and who knows where the other half is hidden?!” Tim was trembling with excitement even though he may never get to know the secret of the .45 map. “At least now I think I understand why Fred didn’t want the Sheriff to get his hands on his pistol. It sure didn’t make sense until now.” Tim smiled and returned the map to its old hiding place and tightened the grips.
Miss Cherie picked the pistol up and looked it over. “I think I’d like to shoot this pistol sometime,” she said as she held it in front of her, aiming out the window.
Tim reached around her from behind and put her hands into the right position to aim and shoot. When he held her tight, he noticed she smelled like honeysuckle and wild roses.
“A gun is like a woman; you need to hold them tight. But you squeeze the trigger gently to get the correct results,” Tim whispered to her as he helped her squeeze the trigger and dry fire the pistol.
Miss Cherie gently slid out of his embrace and handed him the pistol.
“Maybe, when you get healed up, you can give me some shooting lessons; I don’t think you’re up to it right now.” She smiled and went over to the stove to make coffee, while Tim stood there gazing at her, still intoxicated from her scent and the feel of her in his arms.
. . .
Another week passed and Tim healed and grew stronger. Shotgun improved daily. Harold regained more use of his arm each day and Uncle Fred was told by the Warden of his pending release. The Sheriff hadn’t told anyone about Fred’s upcoming release until the day before it happened.
The Sheriff called Conrado into his office and explained to him what was about to take place, and that he was going to drive Fred home from McAlester.
“You’re welcome to come along if you want to,” the Sheriff told Conrado. With a nod and an elusive smile Conrado consented.
The next day, as Uncle Fred walked out of the prison gates, he was met by two old friends, Don and Conrado standing by Don’s Lincoln Town Car. Fred shook Conrado’s hand and hugged him. Then Fred and Don stood there looking at one another like two old bulls who wanted to fight. Then Fred stuck out his hand, and Don took it. The Sheriff hadn’t felt the grip of his old friend in a long time, and it softened his leathery old heart…just a little. The Sheriff opened the door on the front passenger’s seat and said, “Let’s go home.” They all loaded up and headed to Little River Valley. After twenty to thirty minutes of silence the Sheriff reached under his seat as he drove, pulled out a quart Mason jar and passed it to Fred. “Here have a drink. I know it’s been a while,” he said.
Fred spun the lid off and took a swig. “Ahh, that’s smooth as mine,” he said.
“That is yours!” the Sheriff explained.
“Figures!” Fred said as he took another swig.
“I just happen to know where that five hundred gallons is kept that we confiscated. There’s four hundred fifty gallons of it in your barn right now, behind all your square bales,” the Sheriff said.
“Four fifty, what happened to the other fifty?” Fred asked.
“Well, I had to have gifts and bribes for cooperation and to show appreciation to get your sorry hide out of the hoosegow,” the Sheriff said.
“Hmm…not a bad price to pay considering it took everything I had to pay that damn, Tulsa lawyer. I’d been better off having that monkey of Willard’s represent me,” Fred said and then offered Conrado a drink. Conrado held up his hand and shook his head. “Suit yourself my boy, I’ll drink your share,” Fred said.
“Let me have some of that!” The Sheriff ordered and reached for the jar.
By the time they reached Fred’s old farm, spirits were high, and they were having a grand reunion, reminiscing about the good times. When they drove into Fred’s yard and exited the Lincoln, all three strode to the porch. Fred opened the door and flipped on the dim, porch light. He turned around and sat down on the porch swing. The Sheriff and Conrado took a seat in two old metal chairs, and they all took in the scenic view of the mountains that surrounded Fred’s place.
“Welp, Don, let’s make a new start. I was wrong for running off with Ann Marie, but you were never home, you never had time for her. She was lonely and sad and felt unloved and unneeded. I hated seeing her that way. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else sooner or later. But I should have tried to point it out to you instead of taking her for myself. I loved her dearly and I miss her,” Fred uttered sadly as he looked out on the mountains.
“You’re right—it wasn’t all your fault. I had a mistress—law enforcement! After I became a Deputy, that’s all I wanted to do. Then when I became Sheriff, I was even more distracted. The first year, I didn’t even eat three meals with her and left in the middle of two of them, because I got called away. I’m just as much to blame. After she left, I threw myself deeper into my work. When she got the cancer and died, I blamed you. I thought it wouldn’t have happened if she had stayed with me. A man carries anger and hatred—he hangs onto it—he turns it into a crusade, and it eats away at him. I shouldn’t have done what I did to you, Fred. I cost you everything you had except your house and a piece of land.” The Sheriff’s years of regret had built up inside of him and now came pouring out like a flooded river.
“After she died, I drank way too much of my own product. I survived my cancer and felt guilty because she didn’t. I got careless in my business dealings. I didn’t care if I got caught, but I really wanted to die. It was partially my own fault that I got caught.”
Fred had confessions of his own. “Let’s start clean, the way we were after the war, hell before the war, before Ann Marie. Back when we had each other’s backs. We’re not getting any younger you know,” Fred said and then looked at his old friend, the Sheriff.
“That sounds like a hell of a good idea, my friend,” the Sheriff said, smiling as he handed Fred the jar again.
Conrado sat silently and took it all in. It was good to see the men who had been like fathers to him, back together again.
“Well, we gotta go Fred. Your old truck has a tank full of gas and a new registration. There’s about three thousand dollars in your bank account, best I could do right now. Get settled back in and give me a call or come by the office when Willard gets released from the hospital,” the Sheriff said as he headed across the yard to his car.
. . .
After the best night’s sleep, he had had in years, Fred got up early and watched the sunrise come up over the Kiamichi Mountains as he had done since he was a child. There was no other place he would rather be. He discovered that the Sheriff had put a few groceries in the frig and cabinets and a whole carton of Marlboro’s and a pouch of Red Man’s on the table for good measure. Coffee, breakfast and a smoke on the front porch felt like heaven to Fred. He picked up the receiver of his landline and to his surprise, heard a dial tone. He called the hospital to check on Shotgun’s release.
“Sweet Springs Hospital,” the voice on the line answered.
“I’m checking on Willard Frank Scott. He should be getting released today,” Fred replied.
“I can’t give that information, sir, only to family,” the voice said.
“Damn it, Francis, this is Fred!”
“Fred, are you calling from prison?”
“No, Francis, I’ve been pardoned! I’m free! I’m home!”
“Oh my! You’re at home? Are you on the run?”
“Nope! I’m free man!”
“Wow, I can’t believe you escaped!”
“Francis, I’m free, I’m pardoned, I’m not running!”
“Not running? They’ll catch you for sure!”
“Damn it, Francis! Listen to me! I’m out, the Sheriff got me released!”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? Willard is scheduled for release after the doctor sees him this morning, probably around ten o’clock.”
“Thank you.”
“Room 109”
Fred put on his best pair of pin-striped overalls and khaki shirt, grabbed his “Rodeo America’s #1 Sport” cap and headed out the door. Upon arrival at the hospital, Fred slowly opened the door to Shotgun’s room and entered Shotgun’s room. Ray’s eyes lit up, and he pounced on Fred giving him a big hug.
“Well, hello Ray! I’ve missed you too!” Fred said as he hugged Ray and walked over to Shotgun’s bed.
Shotgun sat up, wearing his neck brace and exclaimed, “Uncle Fred, what are you doing here, did you escape?”
“Nope! The Sheriff got me a pardon!” Fred replied. “I’d hug your neck if you didn’t have that horse collar on,” Fred told him.
“I hope to get it off today. I’m so glad to see you—you just wouldn’t believe how happy I am!” Willard cried with joy.
. . .
Willard was released, and Fred, Willard, and Ray stopped by the Corner Barber Shop where they found Floyd, the barber, engrossed in his newspaper while he sat in the first chair. Fred and the crew entered, and Fred sat down in the second chair; Ray took a seat and lit his pipe; Shotgun climbed into the shoe shine stand because it was his favorite place to sit.
“Give me a shave and a trim, Floyd,” Fred requested. Floyd slowly lowered his newspaper and looked over at Fred.
“What are you doing here, did you escape?” Floyd asked as he jumped up and started closing the blinds and locking the door. “Are you crazy?! They’ll catch you for sure coming here in broad daylight!” Floyd was hysterical.
“I’ve been pardoned! I’m a free man!” Fred informed him.
Floyd was nervously peeking through the blind. “Hurry! Go out the back door—I’ll watch for the cops!” Floyd said.
“I’m free Floyd, I’m free!” Fred replied as he calmly leaned back in the chair.
“I’m honored that you would bust out of prison just for me to cut your hair, but they’ll catch you for sure if you don’t hurry!!” Floyd was a nervous wreck.
“Damn it! Floyd, the Sheriff got me a pardon!” Fred loudly repeated.
“WHAT?? Well…why didn’t you say so?” Floyd replied as he opened the blinds and unlocked the door.
“Floyd when you finish with me, give ole’ Ray a trim, too,” Fred instructed.
Floyd looked at Ray as he puffed his pipe and blew smoke rings. “Well…Uh…I…Uh…I’ve never, I wouldn’t know, I…Uh…I couldn’t. I’m not sure what to change or where to start, he’s got hair plumb down to his ankles,” Floyd stammered.
“I’m just messin’ with you, Floyd. How you been?” Fred asked.
“Whew! Thank you! Been doing fine, Fred. It’s so good to see you!” Floyd sighed with relief. After a shave and a haircut and a few jokes, Fred called the Sheriff and informed him of Shotgun’s release from the hospital.
“I’ll bring the guns that I confiscated from Willard and his friend out to your place this evenin’,” the Sheriff offered.
. . .
Later that afternoon, while Fred and Shotgun were getting caught up on events, Tim showed up. “Who’s this pulling up in that fancy truck?” Fred asked as he reached for a double barrel Greener shotgun, he had propped by the door.
“That’s Tim,” Shotgun replied.
Tim approached the porch and stuck out his hand. “Tim McRay, and you must be Uncle Fred. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Tim said.
“It’s all true,” Fred said as he shook Tim’s hand.
“I went by the hospital, and they said you were released, and that your Uncle Fred had picked you up. I wasn’t sure if I believed them, but I guess it was true,” Tim said looking at Uncle Fred.
“The Sheriff got him a pardon!” Shotgun replied.
“Well! I’ll be damned!” Tim bellowed. “Maybe, in a few more weeks, we can continue what we started if you’re up to it.” Tim looked at Shotgun and waited for a response.
“I think so…maybe. I was telling Uncle Fred about everything that’s happened since he’s been away. He might want to go with us, if you decide to tell him about the minerals and rocks we’re looking for.” Shotgun looked at Tim and slyly winked.
“Well, maybe—we’ll see. I’ll let ya’ll get caught up. Oh yea, let me return these guns to their owner while I’m here.” Tim went to his truck and retrieved the .45 and the AKs.
Fred held the 1911 the same way the Sheriff did up on K-Trail and then examined the AK. “I love these Bulgarian made AKs. Willard tells me your pretty handy with it,” Fred commented.
“I’ve had my hands on a few guns,” Tim admitted.
“Hey, speaking of guns, the Sheriff said he’s be stopping by this evening to bring back the ones he confiscated. Come back by and get yours tonight or tomorrow,” Fred responded.
“Sure thing, I’ll see ya’ll tomorrow. Good to meet ya’ Fred.” Tim left Shotgun and Fred to continue visiting and getting caught up with each other.
Fred explained to Shotgun and Ray about the recent truce between him and the Sheriff. He also explained how he was going to get back to business soon. He planned to buy cows, a few at a time and build a new moonshine still to replace the one that was confiscated. He also had a few seeds to plant next Spring, for medical use only, of course. He also explained the hydroponic way of growing things and maybe even a small, fish farm. Uncle Fred was always open to new ideas and ways of making money.
The Sheriff came around that evening with guns to return and ideas of his own. As they all sat on the front porch, the Fall air assisted in bringing on new ideas and plans. They passed the Mason jar and chased it with a hot cup of coffee, except for Ray. Ray stuck to his Fireball; he had once had a bad experience with the “shine”. (Something to do with a coon dog and his pistol…not a happy ending.)
“You know Fred, we’re not getting any younger. Maybe it’s time we pulled the grips off our .45s and chased that dream,” the Sheriff declared, looking up at the mountains in the twilight.
“You think so? We don’t know if it’s real or only something an ole’ World War II vet drew, because he was shell shocked and crazy,” Fred speculated.
“I have a sneaking suspicion that Tim is here for that exact thing. Not the map, but what the map leads to. Why not get him involved and those young fellers here? We’ll need some help and Tim’s a professional treasure hunter. He’s had some success. I studied up on him. Besides with all the shit going on with Middle Mountain, we need all the help we can get!” The Sheriff spit and took another drink of coffee.
Fred leaned back in the porch swing with his hands behind his head.
“Well, you’re right about one thing, we’re not getting any younger. If it’s true, and the map’s real, and we can figure it out, we won’t have to hit a lick at a snake for the rest of our lives, or theirs.” Fred nodded toward Shotgun and Ray.
“We’ll give these boys a few more weeks to heal up, and then I’ll talk to Tim. Maybe, the week of Thanksgiving we can pack up and head to Middle Mountain for a few days,” the Sheriff suggested with a new fire in his eyes and spring in his step.
A coyote howled in the distance and was answered by another. The Fall sky with the stars brightly shining was as beautiful now as it was any time of the year.
. . .
Fred visited old friends, and a trip to the store caused quite a stir and required several explanations, but everyone was finally aware of Fred’s legal release and pardon. At the store, posted on the bulletin board was a reminder to everyone about the upcoming Halloween costume party at the Community Center. Fred looked at the bulletin and smiled.
“I always loved those costume parties,” he reminisced aloud.
“You always came dressed like General Robert E. Lee,” the lady behind the counter responded.
“Well, Betty, I’m told, I look a lot like him. And this is “Little Dixie,” Fred bragged.
“I’m sure. I’ll see you there, along with lots of other folks. Everyone always has a great time,” Betty agreed.
Fred’s referral to “Little Dixie” was the name given to Southeastern Oklahoma. After the war of Yankee Aggression, (some call it the Civil War), so many former Confederates moved here that it was referred to as “Little Dixie”. This was before it was opened to White settlers, but that didn’t stop them from coming and the native people didn’t seem to object, since they had supported the Confederacy and were punished for it by the U.S. Government. Every county in Southeast Oklahoma was named after a native American Confederate General when Oklahoma become a state instead of a territory in 1907.
The Halloween costume party date came around, and the Community Center was decorated with haybales, pumpkins, jack o’ lanterns, skeletons, ghosts, and all such manner of traditional Halloween decorations. Lanterns hung in the big, oak tree beside the building, children ran here and there in the chilly Autumn air, trying to scare one another. A tractor with a trailer and hay bales was taking folks for rides down the old, gravel road in front of the Community Center building that had once been a one room school house. There was a huge, punch bowl, Frito pie, Cokes, candy, caramel and candy apples, and a cake walk. Fred walked in looking like the Great General, himself. He was quickly grabbed from both sides by two of the local, widow women.
“Oh! General, you look dashing!” one babbled.
“Oh! Fred, come with me and let’s do the cake walk,” the other one drawled.
“Oh my! You ladies look lovely! Let me make the rounds and talk to some folks, and I promise we’ll spend some time together this evening.” Fred tipped his hat and made his way over to the punch bowl.
It was a full house tonight, and it overflowed into the front yard and under the huge oak tree, where kids were bobbing for apples and throwing darts at balloons. Miss Cherie’s buggy arrived, and she and Claude tied Rambler to the hitching post beside four saddled horses.
“Ok, Claude, stay close to me and don’t say anything…follow my lead,” Miss Cherie advised Claude. She thought it would be amusing to have Claude walk among humans on this night. He would have an opportunity to see how humans act and talk in a social setting. No other time was this possible, except at a costume party.
”You’re my cousin from New Orleans, remember that and let me do the talking,” she reminded him.
“Ok” Claude said in his Squatchy voice. She thought it would be funny to have some of the unbelievers standing directly next to a Bigfoot.
Mrs. Williams spotted Miss Cherie and quickly greeted her. “Hello Miss Cherie, I’m so glad you made it. Who’s your handsome friend?” Mrs. Williams asked.
“This is my cousin from New Orleans, Claude,” Miss Cherie told her.
“Well, Hello, Claude, pleased to meet you. They sure grow ‘em big in New Orleans! Do you play football?” Miss Williams questioned, while looking Claude up and down.
Miss Cherie spoke up quickly, “No, he doesn’t play football. He’s had a sore throat, and he can’t talk too much.”
“Come with me and I’ll get you some warm cider and one of my pastries. That’ll make you feel better.” Mrs. Williams grabbed Claude by the hand and whisked him away before Miss Cherie could interfere.
About that time, Tim walked up. “Hello Miss Cherie, no costume?” he quipped.
“I’m in costume, can’t you tell?” she retorted.
Tim looked her up and down. She had on her usual attire which was reminiscent of the mid-1800s.
“Nope! I don’t think I see it,” he observed.
“I’m a Gypsy fortune teller. I’m only wearing one earring,” she argued and then turned her head to reveal a missing earring.
“Who’s your big friend over there?” Tim asked.
“My cousin from New Orleans,” she replied
“Your cousin? Oh…ok,” Tim repeated and seemed relieved.
“What is Shotgun and Ray supposed to be?” Tim questioned.
“Shotgun is Tarzan, and Ray is Cheetah. Anyone can see that!” Miss Cherie smirked.
“Ok, I guess so. I was wondering why he had a loin cloth over his blue jeans,” Tim noted.
“I’ve got to check on Claude. It appears that all the women have got him cornered, and he’s very shy.” Miss Cherie hurried off to save Claude from committing any social faux pas.
The Sheriff arrived in his Town Car and made his way through the masses, shaking hands and slapping backs, hugging women and kissing babies. He was hailed like a Caesar returning from a victorious battle. He spotted Miss Cherie and quickly made his way to her amidst a barrage of handshakes and greetings.
“Hello, Cherie, didn’t expect to see you here,” the Sheriff gushed.
“I’ve become a social butterfly in the past few months,” Miss Cherie declared. “It looks like you made amends with your constituents in the River Valley,” she noted.
“Yep, I guess Fred told you about our new beginning and the end of our feud?” the Sheriff asked.
“He did. I’m so happy to see you two as friends again. It’s been too long. I hope you didn’t do it just for votes.” Miss Cherie raised both eyebrows, looking at the Sheriff suspiciously.
“No, Cherie. I did it because it was the right thing to do. You helped me to see that. I owe that to you.” The Sheriff leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“You better watch it, Sheriff! Someone might see you consorting with the Voodoo Queen and vote against you. Oh, wait, I hear your competition went missing!” she remembered.
“Yes, he did. That poor devil! We think he had a heart attack and fell into the lake. Never found a body, guess the gators ate him,” the Sheriff replied and then smiled.
Who’s this big fellow, here?” the Sheriff asked, pointing at Claude.
“My cousin Claude, from New Orleans,” Miss Cherie explained.
The Sheriff stuck out his hand for a handshake, and since Claude had a pastry in both hands, he placed one in the Sheriff’s outstretched hand.
“Well, thank you, Claude,” the Sheriff said.
“He doesn’t talk much. He’s shy and has a sore throat,” Miss Cherie interjected.
“Oh, ok. He’s a big rascal! Maybe he could help me sometime next Spring. I’ve got about three hundred head of momma cows gonna calf, and he could hold em’ and brand em’ without any help—do it all by himself.” The Sheriff was sizing up Claude.
Mrs. Williams strolled up to the trio and greeted the Sheriff.
“Well, hello, Sheriff. So glad you made it. Isn’t Miss Cherie’s cousin, a big boy? He’s a whopper!” Mrs. Williams spouted.
“Yea, he’s a whooper, all right!” the Sheriff agreed, then bit into his pastry. “These are delicious! Wow, who made these?” the Sheriff queried.
“Oh! I made those, Sheriff. Everyone seems to like them. Claude here has eaten sixteen, already. He really likes them,” Miss Williams pointed out.
“Sixteen?!” Miss Cherie exclaimed and then looked at Claude.
“It’s alrighty! I love to see big, healthy men enjoy my cooking. He kinda’ reminds me of my two boys.” Miss Williams said, as she hugged Claude. “Oh my! This costume is really lifelike. It’s amazing what they can do nowadays!” Mrs. Williams said, then whispered to Claude, “You might want to air that costume out before you wear it again…kinda’ musty smelling. Here let me help you.”
Mrs. Williams dug in her purse and pulled out some perfume and proceeded to spray Claude and rub the perfume into his hairy chest with her hands.
“Goodness! you have really got some muscles. I can feel them through your costume. I need you around my house to split some firewood and kill some of those pesky squirrels that keep getting into my bird feeders,” Mrs. Williams said as Claude’s eyes got big and held a look of terror and confusion on his normally unreadable face.
Miss Cherie saw the need for Claude to escape and took Claude by the hand. “Well thank you Mrs. Williams. Claude wants to watch the apple bobbing game.”
“Oh, no! Not yet…he’s going to do the cakewalk with me next. Come on Claude.” Mrs. Williams grabbed Claude’s other hand and drug him over to the cakewalk. The music played and Claude took small, uncomfortable steps as Mrs. Williams held his arm in hers.
“Fred and I will come see you soon, Cherie. We need a little advice and maybe some of your insight.” the Sheriff proposed and walked away to continuing his politicking.
In a few minutes, Mrs. Williams and Claude returned. Claude was carrying a triple-layered red velvet cake.
“Look what we won!” Mrs. Williams was giddy as a school girl. “I love this big guy! Ya’ll need to come over and visit before he leaves. I’ll make some more pastries, and we can visit,” Mrs. Williams gushed.
“Yes, please!” Claude said in his Squatchy voice.
“Oh, for goodness sakes! You poor, dear thing, your voice sounds terrible. It must be very painful. Let me get you some more cider.” Mrs. Williams walked away to get Claude’s beverage.
“I told you not to say anything!” Miss Cherie whispered to Claude in a stern tone.
“Sorry, I got excited,” Claude apologized.
Mrs. Williams made her way back to Claude with hot cider in one hand and a Shepherd’s hook in the other. She was dressed as Little Bow Peep.
“Here you go, Claude. This will help.” She handed Claude the cider, and he held the cup with his thumb and pointer finger. He looked like he was holding a child’s tea cup at a tea party. With one gulp, he swallowed the warm cider and drained the cup.
“That should help your throat. I put a little something extra in there for you.” Mrs. Williams winked and smiled at Claude. Claude didn’t understand, but Miss Cherie had a frightened look on her face.
“Thank you!” Claude said with a little higher pitch.
“See…getting better, already,” Mrs. Williams declared.
“Thank you, Mrs. Williams, we’re going to go outside for a little while.” Miss Cherie grabbed Claude’s hand again and drug him outside before Mrs. Williams got any more ideas.
“Here, let’s watch the apple bobbing,” Miss Cherie entreated Claude.
Tim walked up and said, “Claude I need to talk to your cousin for a minute.” He hooked his arm around Miss Cherie’s as they strolled into the shadows of the big, oak tree.
“I need to come see you and we need to figure out what to do with this Chief Otie. I’m planning on packing back into Middle Mountain in a few weeks,” Tim informed her.
“I’ve been reading some of Grandma’s books and I think I have something to help you and the rest. Before you leave again, I need you, Shotgun, Ray and Harold to come over to my place. It needs to be a full moon and after midnight. Let me know about two days before you’re ready, so I can make sure everything is right,” Miss Cherie instructed him.
“I saw you talking to the Sheriff, looks like you two know each other better than I thought you did,” Tim hinted.
“And that’s none of your business. You’re about to get on my bad side,” Miss Cherie warned Tim with fire in her eyes.
“Sorry, you’re right—not my business,” Tim conceded.
As they walked out of the shadows to the apple bobble game, they saw lots of children gathered around the big cast iron washpot and Claude with his head underwater. He came up with two apples at a time and children cheered. He handed out the apples and shoved his head under the water again. The longer he held his breath the more they cheered. They weren’t interested in the game anymore, they wanted to see how long Claude could hold his breath. One teenager was looking at his watch. “Eight minutes—that’s crazy!” he shouted. They all cheered again. Claude actually smiled.
“I think it was the cider,” Miss Cherie commented.
“Ok, kids. Claude has to go home now.” Miss Cherie took Claude by the hand and motioned for him to get up off his knees.
“Aww!” the crowd of children protested.
“Sorry…but we’ve had fun though.” Miss Cherie headed toward her buggy and was stopped by Mrs. Williams.
“Ya’ll leaving?” she asked
“Yes, Claude has to get up early in the morning and leave,” Miss Cherie explained.
“We’re so glad ya’ll came. Claude, I hope to see you again. Maybe next time I see you, I’ll get to see what you really look like.” Mrs. Williams teased and gave Claude a hug. “That perfume helped; you smell much better,” Mrs. Williams informed Claude.
Confused, Claude sniffed his arm. Miss Cherie waved at the Sheriff, Fred, Harold, Shotgun, and Tim as they made their way to her buggy.
Shotgun walked over to Harold and quizzed, “Did you see that scar on Miss Cherie’s cousin’s leg?”
“I did,” Harold replied.
“What do you think about that?” Shotgun wondered.
“Well, I’m not sure, hadn’t really thought about it,” Harold mused.
“Something strange going on around here, more so than usual,” Shotgun asserted, as he watched Miss Cherie’s buggy’s lantern fade from sight down the gravel road.
. . .
The Bone Yard Slash 