The Voodoo Queen Chapter # 8

. . .
The days rolled into November, and the air got colder. The mountains were socked in with low clouds and fog, a light drizzle was falling, and the Sheriff was winding through the mountains, headed for Tim’s cabin with a plan that would benefit everyone.
The Sheriff exited his car and looked around the small cabin’s exterior with no sign of Tim, except his truck. The Sheriff rounded the cabin as Tim was coming down a trail with an armload of firewood, which he dropped upon seeing the Sheriff.
“Damn boy, you sure are jumpy,” the Sheriff observed.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you pull up,” Tim retorted. “This isn’t a social call, and I’m sure you’re not interested in my wellbeing,” Tim pointed out.
“You’re right. I’m here with a proposition,” the Sheriff offered. “I know why you’re here; I know what you’re looking for, and it ain’t rocks and minerals. So, hear me out. I have what I believe to be a map to that Choctaw Gold you’re looking for. Correction, I have half a map, and Fred has the other half. We’ve been hanging on to these since the 1960s. Never tried to find it, not even sure it exists. But after a little current research and knowing what we know and where we got it, I feel pretty certain about the end results. Fred and I are getting old, and you’re an expert treasure hunter. If you’re interested, meet me at Fred’s tomorrow night around seven, and we’ll tell you more and make a deal. If you’re not, don’t show up and happy hunting, no hard feelings,” the Sheriff offered.
“Ok, let me get this straight. You and Fred have a map that you believe will point you to some gold. You want me to help you look for it and decipher the map. What kind of deal are you proposing?” Tim asked.
“If you’re interested, show up, I’m not going into details, right now,” the Sheriff explained and then turned to leave.
“Is this why you got Fred out of prison?” Tim shouted as the Sheriff reached the cabin.
“I got Fred out of prison because it was the right thing to do. We’re doing this because we’re not through living yet!” the Sheriff shouted back, then got into his car and drove away.
Tim stood in the misty, mountain air and watched as the Sheriff drove back down the mountain. He still wasn’t sure if he should trust the Sheriff or Fred for that matter. “What if they found the treasure, and then they decided to make me another missing person? There’s plenty of places a body would never be found in these mountains,” he thought. “And I bet the Sheriff knows where they are. He’s probably had plenty of practice, and I don’t know anything about Fred except he’s Shotgun’s Uncle. I need to think about this pretty hard,” Tim was talking to himself like a mad man.
. . .
The Sheriff rolled into Fred’s place around 5:30 the next morning. The old weathered barn had two deer carcasses hanging from its rafters, and smoke was smoothly flowing from Fred’s smoker. A fresh hog’s head sat on the gatepost and observed the Sheriff’s arrival. Smoke was also coming out of the stove pipe at Fred’s old farmhouse. The Sheriff stepped on the porch, opened the screen door, knocked twice and went it. “Where you at, anybody home?” the Sheriff hollered.
“In the kitchen,” Fred shouted back.
“Smells good, what’s cookin’?” the Sheriff asked.
“Venison stew and wild hog on the smoker. Mrs. Williams made me a pecan pie. I’ll share it with you fella’s after supper,” Fred replied.
“Looks like you had some luck huntin’ today,” the Sheriff noted.
“Yea, me and Shotgun, Harold and Ray, of course. We went up on Panola Mountain and killed three deer and a hog. You see that head on the gatepost? It’s got two-inch cutters…that was one mean hog. Shot it twice with a thirty-aught six, and it still got up and lunged at us when we approached. Had to quick draw the old .45 and finish him off,” Fred detailed in high spirits. “What time’s everybody gonna be here?” Fred asked.
“Everybody should be here by seven,” the Sheriff answered.
“I see Harold’s truck out there, where’s he at?” the Sheriff inquired.
“He saddled up one of the horses and went out to check fences. Harold’s gonna’ go to work for me. I already bought two dozen F4 heifers. Not much, but it’s a start. Got some ole’ banker buddies willing to loan an ole’ man some money, so I’m fixin to buy more cows next Spring and two log trucks in a few weeks. Harold’s gonna’ ramrod my operations for me. He and Cali Ann are gettin’ married next Spring, and I’ve got plenty to keep him busy. If things go well, and we can be profitable, I told him that I would make him a partner, give him a third of the business and Willard a third,” Fred explained.
“Harold’s a good guy—very good guy—straight—plays by the rules. Don’t get him in trouble with your other entrepreneurial ventures,” the Sheriff urged.
“Oh no—he’s not got anything to do with that. I’ve moved all that to different locations, nothing to tie it to this deal,” Fred assured the Sheriff.
“Ha, ha, I guess you can’t help it, huh? That outlaw blood just courses through your veins and guides you to make some decisions that are risky,” the Sheriff jested.
“Well, I can’t blame it all on the James’ family bloodline. I make these decisions on my own. Here, have a drink and quite worryin’.” Fred handed the Sheriff a Mason jar. The Sheriff took a drink and then conceded that it would be a shame to stop producing such a fine product.
“Wouldn’t be fair to society,” the Sheriff stated.
As all the guests started to arrive, Fred was building a big campfire out by the old bunkhouse, between it and the barn. He had what was left of his grandfather’s old chuckwagon and was using it for a serving table. Hickory and oak blocks surrounded the campfire and served as seating for the guests. The barnyard, bunkhouse, and corral looked much as it had a hundred years ago, when Fred’s grandfather worked cattle and cut logs to provide for his family and of course, made some whiskey too.
The night was calm and clear. The cold Fall sky shimmered with stars. An occasional breeze would whisper through the pines. An owl hooted on the ridge above the farm, and in the distance a coyote howled. A few cows lowed in the pasture.
All the guests had arrived, except Tim. Everyone greeted each another and shook hands; they filled their bowls with hot, steaming venison stew and pulled chunks of wild hog from the smoker.
“Don’t look like that treasure hunter’s gonna’ show,” Fred offered.
“Well, we don’t need him anyways, but I don’t want to cross paths in these mountains and have trouble with him. You know how I’ll handle that,” the Sheriff chuckled.
“We can handle it the way we always handle it,” Fred asserted as he dipped up a bowl of stew and handed it to the Sheriff. Before the Sheriff took his first bite, headlights shone and parked by the house. When the figure walked into the firelight, everyone could see it was Tim. He was greeted by several of the guests.
“Howdy Tim, get ya’ a bowl of stew.” Tim was handed a bowl and Uncle Fred served him up. Tim made his way over to the Sheriff and began to eat.
“Man, this is good stuff,” Tim exclaimed.
“Fred’s a good cook,” the Sheriff replied.
“So, all these folks gonna’ be part of your gold seekin’ adventure?” Tim probed.
“Because I’m willing to find out if I can trust you, that’s why,” the Sheriff explained as he gnawed on a pork rib.
“Fair enough—I’m in,” Tim agreed.
“You haven’t heard the deal yet,” the Sheriff pointed out.
“Well, whatever it is—I’m in. You fellas know these mountains and the way things work around here better than I do. I have a lot of money and time tied up in this search and nothing to show for it except a lot of delays, obstacles, and an arrow through my chest. So, I’m in, come what may,” Tim proclaimed.
The Sheriff finished his rib and chucked the bone over toward a Catahoula cow dog laying by the fire. It was quickly accepted. He poured a cup of coffee into a tin cup and stepped close to the fire to warm his free hand. Like a trail boss on a cattle drive, he began to address his outfit.
“Ok boys, ya’ll know why you’re here. But ya’ don’t know the details. I’m gonna lay it all out for ya’. Anybody that’s not interested, no hard feelings. Here’s the deal. Fred and I acquired a map back in the sixties. The map came from an old man who lived on Middle Mountain. He was a World War I Vet, shell-shocked and a little crazy after the Great War. His Uncle sent him to these mountains, hoping to heal his mind and body. His Uncle also told him where to go and how to get there. He only came down out of the Middle Mountain Range two or three times a year. He would hitch a ride to Sweet Springs of Talihina for a few supplies, and he always paid in gold. No one thought much of it at the time, as gold was still accepted for trade in those days, and he never had much, just enough to get by. He had been living in a primitive shack on Middle Mountain since right after the Great War. He died in the sixties. Fred and I would stop by and check on him when we were close to his shack. One day, we checked on him and found him dead. We buried him on Middle Mountain and looked through his few belongings to try and find out if we should notify a relative. A map fell out of his family Bible. We later discovered that his Great Uncle was a missionary to the Choctaws. The same missionary who had told them to ‘keep the gold a secret or the white man would take their land again.’ Next of kin was notified, but no one came to collect his belongings or to see where he was buried. Fred and I cut the map into four pieces, and we each kept two pieces . We never pursued the map’s secrets; we weren’t even sure if it was real, or just something a crazy, ole’ hermit drew during a delusional state of mind. After many, many years of studying and thinking about this, we’ve concluded that there is a big chance, a really big chance that the map is real. Mr. McRay, over there, is a professional treasure hunter, and he has named Middle Mountain as a likely place to search. Everything points to Choctaw Gold on Middle Mountain. If we find it, we’ll split it equally, no matter how much or how little. Me, Fred, Willard, Harold, Tim, Conrado, and Crowbar will split it seven ways. Could be only a hundred dollars, maybe a hundred-million dollars. We leave Thanksgiving week for at least fourteen days. We’ll pack in to Middle Mountain, pick up the trail, find the old hermit’s shack or what’s left of it, and see if we can follow the map. There is one big problem—Chief Otie seems to be on the war path, physically and spiritually. Tim, Harold, and Willard here already had a deadly encounter with him and his braves. So, if you’re in on this deal, bring plenty of guns and ammo. This is going to be dangerous and could be deadly, so make sure you know what you’re in for. Think about it and let me know by tomorrow night. Oh, by the way, Congratulations to Harold and Cali Ann, I hear there’s gonna’ be a wedding,” the Sheriff informed as he laid out his plan. The Sheriff sipped coffee, as each man, one at a time, raised a skinning knife.
“I’m in—let’s do it,” Crowbar agreed.
“You know I’m in,” Conrado said.
“I’m here for the long run,” Tim commented.
“I’m ready and so is Ray,” Shotgun declared.
“I’m in,” Harold uttered.
The Sheriff smiled as he looked around at the life-hardened, well-experienced crew who had gathered. “Fred, pass a couple a jars ‘round, let’s consecrate this deal with a drink.”
A night of eating, drinking, jokes, and planning ensued. In a few weeks, they would rendezvous at the end of the logging road that dropped into the Middle Mountain Wilderness Range.
. . .
As the time drew near to the rendezvous, all members of the party met at Miss Cherie’s place as she had instructed Tim. She had been forewarned that the number of searchers had increased from four to eight. One by one, the whole outfit showed up. Never before had there been so many vehicles parked at the signs on the wagon road. Each one paused to read the signs and ponder the reason for them, but no one dared ask.
They gathered in the front yard as a Winter storm brewed in the West with lightning flashing and thunder rolling. The storm was coming down the valley, following the river. Two lanterns hung under Miss Cherie’s porch, and two in the hickory tree close to the medicine wheel. They swayed and squeaked in the wind of the approaching storm. Miss Cherie’s hair blew and whisked around her face as she spoke.
“Ok, we all know why we’re here. I normally work with my client’s one-on-one to help them with their problems or needs. Each one of you have the same need, protection from the evil that Otie may want to do to you. Each of you is different, so I had to reach back, way back, into my Great Grandma’s books, writings, and spells, from the old country, Europe. Spells which will cover many people at once but in different ways. Then, I had to add what was needed to adapt to our current needs and environment,” she explained.
The wind died down and everything became calm. The lightening still flashed, and the clouds were moving closer. She pulled out a porcupine quill that was about eight inches long and held it in front of her face.
“I’m going to prick the palm of your hand with this quill. It’s been boiled in bat’s blood and was sent to me by my Aunt from Taos Pueblo, New Mexico. I’m giving each of you a large acorn from a huge oak tree. When I prick your hand, place the acorn over the bleeding spot and close your hand. Make a fist with the acorn, and then give it to me,” she instructed in a loud, demanding voice.
One by one, she pricked the palm of each hand. Tim really didn’t want to do so, but in the face of great danger and not wanting to embarrass himself, he consented. Ray wasn’t sure he wanted to participate, but Miss Cherie and Shotgun convinced him that he should. After all the acorns were collected, she placed them into a bleached white tortoise shell with the bottom half still intact. She wrapped her hands around the hollow shell so that the acorns could not fall out and shook the shell over her head until it made a loud rattling sound. It grew louder as she shook it.
“Now, stand in a circle around the medicine wheel,” she instructed as she took her place due north of the wheel. “Don you need to be due south. I am the guide; you are the anchor,” she spoke loudly and clearly. “Tim, due east, Conrado due west, everyone else fill-in the gaps,” she continued. “The moon is full, but we can’t see it for the clouds. Everything is just right,” she said assuredly.
She stepped forward and placed the tortoise shell and bloody acorns in the center of the medicine wheel. She placed an Eagle feather over the shell, then a hawk feather, an owl feather and lastly a tail feather from a road runner. On top of this, she placed eight huge bear claws and the heart-shaped crystal she had acquired from Claude’s cousins on Rich Mountain. She backed up and took her place due north and raised both arms above her head. Before she spoke, the crystal began to pulse and then glow a blood red as if it were being lit from inside by a radiant fire.
“The turtle holds up the world, the mighty oak stands against the storms, the porcupine has no enemies which can harm it, the bat is swift although blind and has perfect hearing, the bear knows no fear, the raptors feathers all have one thing in common with the road runner – they all eat snakes, but the road runner is fleet of foot and can outmaneuver a snake before he eats it. The heart is the center of all creatures, all creation, and gives life as long as it has blood to pump. The blood was the least in amount, but the most important. All are needed and none is greater than the other. All being bound by the blood of one another, watch out for each other, the same as you would your brother.”
She spoke these words and the storm exploded with a crash of lightning, and the rain poured down on them as they stood around the medicine wheel watching and listening to Miss Cherie.
“You are washed with the protection of brotherhood of man and nature,” Miss Cherie declared as she lowered her arms.
The crystal brightened, until they all had to look away. It then went dim, and the rain stopped.
They all gathered inside Miss Cherie’s shack, as she stoked the wood stove and threw another stick of wood on the fire. She handed two crystals to each man and Ray. She demonstrated that if you rub them together, they will glow with energy and give you a little light.
“When you camp, you should always keep your campfire burning all night—don’t let it go out. Take road flares and flashlights, of course. Light is important, light chases out the darkness, evil lurks in darkness. The dangers could come in any shape or form, some you may not expect, some you may not see,” she imparted her final warnings and instructions.
. . .
Day came and a caravan of trucks and stock trailers made their way up the Indian Highway and down the logging road, stopping at the end of the road where the jumping off point was for the Middle Mountain Range. Trailer gates swung open, horses and mules were unloaded, saddled and loaded with pack bags. The smell of horses, manure, leather and linseed oil filled the air. Clouds hung over the mountains and valleys, fog and low clouds emitted a mist of fine dampness mixed with the frigid temperatures which chilled one to the bone. Dusters, oil skins, slickers, and felt hats were the preferred attire for the day—collars up, brims pulled down. Leather creaked as saddles were tightened and tested, horses and mules grunted and blew as girts were tightened and bits slid into their mouths. Rifles and pistols loaded, checked and rechecked. Uncle Fred walked over to Tim and handed him the Bulgarian AK47.
“Here, take this instead of that pump .12 you got there,” Fred told him.
“Thanks, what about you?” Tim asked.
“I liked this double barrel. With it and some double-aught buck, I can take care of business,” Fred replied. Fred tossed Tim three, thirty-round mags loaded full and put another five-hundred rounds in Tim’s saddle bags.
“Harold you know the way, take the lead. We’ll follow you,” the Sheriff ordered.
“Ok, it’s not too bad until we hit the halfway point, and then things start getting a little rough, rock slides, washouts, blowdowns, and a very narrow trail with steep drops and sheer walls, no room for error from midway to the top,” Harold informed the Sheriff.
“Well, it’s been many years since I been here or there, but it sounds like it hasn’t changed any,” the Sheriff replied.
They mounted up and headed out. Eight riders, counting Ray, who was riding double with Shotgun on Bill. Seven mounts, each leading two pack animals loaded with food, ammo, bedding, tarps, picks and shovels. A line of twenty-one animals were strung out on the trail as they crossed the oak flats and down to a rocky ravine to begin their ascent to Middle Mountain.
The sound of clomping hooves and creaking saddles was muffled by the heavy fog and mist that moved into the mountains and seemed to hang there with no indication of leaving. As they neared the halfway point, they stopped on the bald spot where Tim and company had stopped before. On this day, the scenery was not as appealing; fog and low clouds hampered their view and they could barely see twenty-feet up a two-hundred-foot tree, much less miles across the mountain range. They let the animals rest and took a break themselves to stretch their legs. The dampness in the air made it impossible for Ray to light his pipe or Fred to have a Marlboro. The Sheriff offered up some Red Man, and everyone took a chew except Tim, who was determined to light his Lucky Strike regardless of the mist and blanket of fog. After the break, Tim dug around in his backpack and pulled out some earpieces and hands-free military style walkie talkies.
“Sheriff, I suppose you and your Deputies know how to use these?” Tim asked.
“Yep, sure do,” the Sheriff lied.
“Ok, one for me, one for you, one for Conrado, one for Crowbar,” Tim said as he handed one to each of them. “Twenty-one animals on this narrow trail has got us spread out and strung apart, and the fog is so thick I can’t see everyone. We can at least alert each other if something happens,” Tim proposed.
“Good idea! Harold, you’ve got to lead, you know the trail. Conrado, you follow Harold. Tim, you ride drag, and we’ll stagger me and Crowbar between Willard and Fred,” the Sheriff instructed.
The party mounted up and headed toward the treacherous part of the trail. As they rode deeper into the mountains and around the trail, the fog thickened to the extent that one rider could barely see the pack animals in front of him. The fog and mist whipped around the horses’ legs and hoofs with every stride like smoke hanging in a bar room. The pace slowed and Tim radioed to Conrado.
“Tell Harold to take it easy, this damn fog is treacherous on this narrow trail,” Tim barked.
“Roger that, he’s just feeling his way around the trail. I can’t even see the ground around me. I can barely see the ass of his pack horse in front of me!” Conrado radioed back.
Within seconds of the radio break, Conrado watched as the thick fog wrapped around the rear hooves of Tim’s last pack horse and pulled it off the narrow trail! The sorrel mare with a blaze face slid off the side of the trail with the weight of her pack pulling her down, nothing holding her except her lead rope tied to the pack horse in front of her. Her eyes were wide and wild as she kicked and struggled against the slick, crumbling, gray shell cliff, her neck stretched tight by the pull of the lead rope attached to her halter! It was only seconds but seemed to happen in slow motion as Harold’s big mule he was riding was abruptly jolted backwards from the force of the falling mare! Harold knew immediately what had happened. He dug his spurs into the big black mule and leaned forward as he felt them being pulled backwards. The first pack horse was pulled to a sitting position and was speedily sliding backwards on the wet, slick trail. They struggled and pulled, but the dead weight of the mare and her pack were more than they could pull up or stabilize. It was a slow, steady, backwards, pull, and they had no way of knowing whether or not if at any second, which animal would be the next one to slide over the side. Conrado sprang from his saddle and leapt through the air like a circus acrobat, drawing his knife and slicing through the lead rope, as he landed at the rear of the first pack horse, sending the screaming sorrel mare to her doom in a flurry of hooves, saddle and supplies, and giving a reprieve to Harold and the other two animals. At the fatal moment of separation, Harold’s big black mule lunged forward jerking the other pack horse to its feet.
Harold quickly dismounted and ran around his mount and pack horse to peer over the side of the mountain with Conrado.
“Damn it!” Harold said. “Damn it, Damn it!” Harold repeated.
Harold never said a cuss word, but today he did. Harold squatted down and put his elbows on his knees and took off his hat.
“Damn it, I raised Daisy from a colt, broke her, taught her to pack and ride. She was Cali Ann’s favorite—she loved to ride her,” Harold mournfully explained as tears welled up in his eyes. “She was 9 years old and was like family,” Harold continued.
He stood up and slapped his chaps with his hat, spun around and climbed back on his big black mule in an agitated manner.
Conrado’s earpiece was blowing up. “What’s going on, what’s happening up there?” Tim and the Sheriff were aware by the noise and yells of Harold, when he was urging his mule to pull, that something tragic was happening. They had also heard the sickening sound of what they knew to be one of the animals tumbling down the mountainside. They were hoping that Harold wasn’t astride it. The trail was too narrow to dismount safely so it was another hour before anyone could console Harold for the loss of his mule.
By two o’clock, the fog and mist had lifted, and the sun burned through, clearing the way for an azure blue sky. The traveling party could again see the beauty of the mountains. The early Fall and wind had left the hardwoods devoid of leaves. The green of the pines and cedars accented the grey of the barked trees and the greenish-gray rocks and boulders.
They stopped a few minutes to stretch and tighten grits. The Sheriff and Fred attempted to console Harold.
“I should have left her at home!” Harold moaned. “I shouldn’t have packed her so heavy!” Harold continued to blame himself.
“Son, I understand. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. I’m sorry that it happened.” Fred tried his best to say the right words.
“It was the mist and fog; something strange was in the fog,” Conrado conjectured.
“Something in the fog?” the Sheriff probed.
“Yes, it moved in the fog and with the fog. We couldn’t see it, the fog gave it away, but it was too late. It couldn’t touch us, so it took a horse, trying to get one of us in the process. I guess we should have taken our mounts to Miss Cherie, too,” Conrado said in a somber tone.
Tim surveyed the ridge above and rechecked his AK and .45.
“I’m going to make my way up to that ridge and ya’ll follow me on foot. Shotgun can you and Ray handle my horses if I tie them to yours?” Tim requested,
“Sure, but you better be careful up there. What if something happens to you, we won’t know it,” Shotgun pointed out.
“Well, I’d rather risk that than I had for all of us to get ambushed again,” Tim said as he started up the steep slope, working his way among the huge pines. Once in position, Tim did a radio check. “Ok, check, check. You boys read me?” Tim asked.
“Roger that,” three replies came back. “I’ve got a half-ass game trail up here; I’m going to move ahead and try to stay in front of ya’ll,” Tim informed them. “If something happens, and shit breaks loose up here, try not to shoot me!” Tim radioed back.
“Roger that, but we can’t guarantee it,” the Sheriff quipped.
Moving along the ridge at a quick pace, Tim scared up two deer and a bobcat as he hurried along at a speed that kept ahead of the pack line. After about an hour and a half, the radio silence was broken by Tim.
“Ok boys, you aren’t gonna believe this shit, but headed your way on the trail is about thirty Indian braves led by a Chief, all wearing loin clothes and war paint, bows, lances, war clubs, hatches, hell I don’t know what else. I can’t believe this shit!” Tim said with a muffled whisper. “I don’t think they know ya’ll are there. They’re just around the rock outcropping in front of you. The trail swings in deep toward the mountain after you ‘round the corner. You’ve got about three or four minutes before you’re face-to-face.” Tim watched from above and flipped the AK off safety.
As the war party rounded the rock outcropping, they came face-to-face with the pack line. The trail was barely wide enough at this point for four horses to stand side-by-side but there they all were—the Sheriff, Fred, Conrado, and Crowbar side-by-side with Harold and Shotgun in the rear holding all the pack animals. The Chief found himself looking down the barrel of the Sheriff’s .45, Conrado and Crowbar’s Winchester 30-30’s, and Fred’s double barrel .12 gauge Greener. Shotgun, Ray and Harold had guns in hand also.
The Chief came to a sliding stop and held up his hands to signal his braves to stop. The Chief spoke to them in the Choctaw language
“Crowbar, what did he say?” the Sheriff asked.
Crowbar interpreted, “He said we are trespassing on Choctaw land. He will allow us to leave without harm if we go now.”
“Chief Otie, I presume,” the Sheriff stated.
The Chief nodded, “yes.”
“I know you speak English as you’re an educated man,” the Sheriff pointed out that he knew who the Chief was. The Chief replied in Choctaw.
“He says, he lives in the world of the old ways now, he only speaks his native language, the way it was before the White’s destroyed the Choctaws world and their ways,” Crowbar interpreted.
“I understand and respect your teaching of the old ways, but we’re headed to Middle Mountain and the only way to get there is this narrow trail. If you and your braves would be so kind as to back around the rock outcropping and let us squeeze by, we would be much obliged,” the Sheriff explained.
The Chief spoke in his language and it sounded angry.
“What did he say, Crowbar?” the Sheriff asked.
“He asked me what I was doing with these White devils and the Apache dog.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m a quarter Choctaw myself on my momma’s side, and the Apache was adopted into the Choctaw tribe when he was five years old.”
The Chief spoke angrily again.
“What did he say now?”
“He said, ‘Ok, you are only ¾ white devil, and the Apache is a boot-lickin’ dog.’”
The immediate response of the Sheriff was to thumb-cock his .45 quickly and leveling it at the Chief.
“You say one more derogatory word about the Apache, you son of a bitch, and I’m going to spill your blood all over this mountain! But before you die, the Apache is going to show you an old Shawnee scalping technique, that I guarantee, you will not find pleasant! I’ll put three in you before you hit the ground and kill four of your braves before they knock another arrow. My old friend with the double Greener will cut three or four of you in half with buckshot, and my two Deputies can fan the levers on those Winchesters faster than a cat can lick his ass. That monkey behind me is pointing a .22 pistol at you. God help the Choctaw that gets killed by a monkey with a .22 pistol—they’ll be no happy hunting ground for ‘em, only a ticket straight to hell!”
The Sheriff’s last comment about the monkey got chuckles from both sides of the firing line and the Chief almost grinned. The Chief spoke again.
“Ok, what’s he saying now?”
“He says, that since you are old and should probably be home with the women and children, he is going to let you pass.”
“Thank you, much obliged. If you get any ideas about shooting us in the back, just look up the ridge. There’s a man with an AK47 and 500 rounds pointed at you.”
The Chief turned and spoke to his braves.
“What did he say?”
“He told them to go back to the wide spot on the trail about two-hundred feet back. He said to let us pass and make sure not to touch us, don’t even let even our horses and pack animals touch them. We are tools of the devil.”
As the Chief and his war party gave ground to the Sheriff and his pack line, the Sheriff radioed to Tim “You got eyes on all this?” the Sheriff asked.
“Roger that,” Tim replied.
“You hang back until we’re all past and out-of-range of the war party. If one of these bastards so much as touches an arrow, kill every damn one of them,” the Sheriff instructed.
“Roger that. It’ll be like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” Tim replied.
Harold took the lead again and the pack line started to snake its way up the side of the mountain again. As Harold passed by the group of braves, he looked at them and nodded in a friendly manner. Their faces were stern and solid, showing no emotions or sign of hospitality. They all looked to be from eighteen to thirty years of age. Everything they were wearing or possessed on their person was made by the one wearing or possessing it. Harold was almost envious of them, living in the past and learning how to do without the modern things that humanity believes it needs. That’s something he had always wanted to do. He felt as though he was born two-hundred years too late. As he rode past the Chief and their eyes met, a pain ran through his wounded arm and up his shoulder. He squinted his eyes and flinched, and the pain vanished as quickly as he passed the Chief.
Conrado rode past the braves not acknowledging them. When he passed the Chief, Conrado slowly turned and looked him in the eyes with one hand on his elk horn knife that Fred had made for him when he was a kid. Conrado referred to it as his “death stare.”
Crowbar glanced across the crowd of Braves and the Chief. He had eagle eyes and a photographic memory. He was attempting to determine if he knew any of these Braves.
As the Sheriff passed the Chief and Braves, he gave them a “go to hell look” and spurred his big white stud horse.
Fred smiled and tipped his hat as he passed.
Shotgun had a pain shoot through his head and eye while passing the Chief, but he just gritted his teeth and gave a Bill a kick to hurry him along. Ray kept his pistol cocked and in hand while riding backwards in order to keep an eye on the Chief.
Once the Chief and Braves were headed on down the trail, Tim chased down the pack line from his elevated position and continued his scouting and watching. An hour later, he spooked another whitetail and, in its hustle to flee, it caused several melon-sized rocks to slide down the mountain into the middle of the pack line. The Sheriff’s big white stud spooked and shied at the sudden rock slide. He reared and spun to his left over the edge of the trail. The Sheriff leaned forward, grabbed the saddle horn and tightened his grip on the reins. The big stud pawed the air and danced on his hind legs until he had spun around and landed his front hoofs back on the narrow trail, facing Fred and his mule, who was behind him. The Sheriff and Fred looked at each other. Fred leaned forward and took a rest on his saddle horn, raised his eyebrows and said, “Well that’s really good, Don! What the hell you gonna do now? Back that big stud all the way up the mountain?”
Don looked at the drop off on his right and the rock ledge rubbing against his left stirrup and then spit off the mountain.
“Well shit! Give me a minute, I’ll figure out somethin’,” he said.
The Sheriff took off his hat, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and tightly jammed his hat back on his head. With a hard tug, reins in one hand, the saddle horn in the other, the Sheriff backed a little, and the big white stud reared again and danced in the air like a wild stallion, twisting back around to the right direction. His left rear hoof slipped and rolled on loose rocks as he landed, and his left hind leg spilled over the edge. He kicked and struggled for a moment and miraculously gained a foot hold on the ledge and hoisted himself and his rider to stable ground.
The Sheriff took a few minutes to regain his composure as he held the reins and saddle horn, leaned back and exhaled. He removed his hat again wiped his brow and pulled out his pouch of Red Man and took a big chew.
“I’m getting to damned old for this shit!” he said and then spit off the mountain again.
The rest of the journey up the mountain trail was uneventful, and the last thirty minutes before they reached their destination at the top of the mountain range, they rode in the dark with flashlights and headlights shining the way. Wider, flatter ground on the top of the mountains was a welcome sight.