That conjures another memory; it’s one I’d just soon forget. When I had heard that Archie and Griz’ father, Sim, had died last summer—I got deep into my cups with Mody and one of his older brothers, Alexander. Deirdre was going through one of her periods of sobriety and daft, as well as judgmental housekeeping. I was fighting with Lena, which was about as normal as breathing. My regret and persistent anger moved me to get them boys riled up, saying we were going to hunt us some Shawnee and fulfill my friend’s dying wish to find his sister. So, we went and roused Douglas from his bed and tried to slap some sobriety into Mody, but Deirdre protested. Yet, we persisted. When we pulled her husband across the floor and out the door, Deirdre bit me on the arm hard enough to draw blood. Then, she kicked Alexander in his shins. We dropped Mody, who had now started snoring and up and fled Deirdre’s wroth on our horses. Pointing them toward North Carolina and the mountains.
Even when we had sobered up that morning and had reached the two border mountains that separated the Cherokee and Catawba hunting grounds, none of us would admit to it being a fool idea. Nobody wanted to be called a coward. We rode up a steep winding path to the top of one of the mountains to see what lay ahead. We could see the turquoise , summer, hazy profile of the Appalachians leagues away from us. The sight of those massifs filled my mind with bears, wild cats, wolves, Indians and everything else that would like nothing more than to kill me. Withal, between us and them mountains, was an ancient, tall and impenetrable palisade of forest that we figured was full of Indians. But we were undaunted, and we pressed on to some mountains that we had spotted to the northwest. It come up before the Appalachians and was called the South Mountains. Alexander said he’d been near there before and he heard that Indians lived there; but he didn’t let on as to which Indians.
Parts of the ancient forest was burning; and, the July sun was blazing hotter than I’d ever felt. It was as much a vision of Hell as I had ever witnessed. I wanted to take my rifle and shoot down that firey orb. There came a moment during the hottest part of the day, that we all looked like we were gonna turn back. When suddenly, we heard the bugle of giant beast. I knowed it was the elk from my dreams. The Lord gived you dreams for a reason, didn’t he?
The call spurred me on and into the smoldering mountains. The blasted landscape soon gave way to a verdant garden. It was the land of the leal on Earth with streams lippin’ with trout rolling down the mountainsides like roots through beautiful green virginal woods. We didn’t bring much in the way of supplies, but you could catch the trout with your hands against the banks. The quickly falling night and elevation made it cool enough to keep away the biters. We stopped for a night’s rest on soft black soil in a great copse of waxy rhododendron, lulled to sleep by the lolling brook.
The next morning, we came to a great waterfall while following an old Indian trace. I think we’d fergot about the damned Shawnee as we swum in the great pool at the foot of the falls, but while climbing the granite wall, looking for a place to make a leap into the pool, Douglas stumbled upon fresh remains of a hunting camp with a half-faced cabin. He called to me and I climbed up to take a look. There, fer me to see as if on display, was my elk. The severed head of my elk anyways, with antlers reaching out like a mighty oak with the last bit of velvet hanging on like Spanish moss, none of us had ever gazed upon its like. It was so fresh that it appeared as if the head had just fallen from its corpse. Its eyes were barely glazed and it looked as if it could still see. We took it to be an ill omen. Aye, mirkie clouds were a’forming. The wind was now swaying the trees like the Earth was a muckle dog, shaking off something unwanted.
“I fear our passage has not gone unnoticed; we’ve got to leave these mountains James,” Douglas expressed what I was thinking. But we noticed other grim signs of the broken men as we turned to leave. Scalps with inky black Indian hair were staked on rooted saplings outside the camp. There was even five sun- whitened skulls piled like a basket of eggs, as if these men had returned to the bloody rituals of the old gods of Odin or Dagda. Then we hear’d a whimper from behind the half-face.
I took a look and found three women, or really just slips, tied to a tree. One was Indian and two was white; they was all barely clothed and dirty. The reddish blonde one screamed as I approached, and the others whimpered. Damned if they didn’t act like one of the Heron’s beaten dogs. Douglas and I tried to calm them as I cut the rope with which they was tied. We told them we meant them no harm and I placed my knife on the ground while saying that we wanted to get them away from this place. They’d have none of it, cryin’ whilst speakin’ some gibberish. I wondered if the white girls were the Dutch that Granny had spoken of and the parisioners called Rhinelanders. Douglas and I tried with all our might to coax them down and the Indian girl even said in plain English “I will come with you,” but the dark-haired white girl grabbed my knife from the ground and turned and fled down a trail between two huge boulders. Then, the other two followed, even the Indian girl. The girls were gone and there was nothing more we could do for them.
Alexander then appeared, telling us that us he saw men skulking on the low ridge.
If these men—and we were damn sure they was white, lawless men who had set up this camp and tortured them girls in ways to which I did’t want to think—caught us in the gorge against this waterfall, then there’d be no escape. We crept as swiftly as we might back to our horses, clothing ourselves as we stumbled on, dodging branches and brambles.
Alexander, the finest hunter and tracker among us, spotted movement on the eastern slope of the gorge as we saddled up. Sight hounds were barking, and broken leaves and twigs rained near us, cut by incomin’ fire which Alexander answered on the hoof. We picked up speed down the trail, surprising three men who were felling trees in our path to funnel us into an ambush. But, chancily for us, the ambush wasn’t in place; and, we could jouk up the slope around the debris. Yet, Douglas had other ideas. He rode right through the deerskin clad men, trampling one of them while another managed to prick Douglas’ horse in the withers with his long knife—nigh missing Douglas’ leg.
We were now home free and lit out as long as our horses would allow. Douglas’ bay, Creek Jumper, had got it in the right lung and was soon roaring a bloody foam. The horse was doomed and we all knowed it, but we wanted to let Douglas carry on as long as he saw fit. We knew he loved that horse. But after another half a league he pulled up rein and helped him undo the tack from Creek Jumper. He scratched her behind the ear, kissed her nether the forelock, and shot her in the head. His eyes were crimson as he got behind Alexander carrying his tack. He never said nothing else about it. We all felt guilty as could be for we had roused Douglas from his bed. We never gave him a choice whether to go with us or not on this fool’s errand, but he never once complained. Yet, he was the only one brave enough to bloody those Blackguards on that mountain. We never talked again about them girls, but I know they weighed heavily on all our hearts thinking about what depredations man could afflict on such innocents.
Even when we had sobered up that morning and had reached the two border mountains that separated the Cherokee and Catawba hunting grounds, none of us would admit to it being a fool idea. Nobody wanted to be called a coward. We rode up a steep winding path to the top of one of the mountains to see what lay ahead. We could see the turquoise , summer, hazy profile of the Appalachians leagues away from us. The sight of those massifs filled my mind with bears, wild cats, wolves, Indians and everything else that would like nothing more than to kill me. Withal, between us and them mountains, was an ancient, tall and impenetrable palisade of forest that we figured was full of Indians. But we were undaunted, and we pressed on to some mountains that we had spotted to the northwest. It come up before the Appalachians and was called the South Mountains. Alexander said he’d been near there before and he heard that Indians lived there; but he didn’t let on as to which Indians.
Parts of the ancient forest was burning; and, the July sun was blazing hotter than I’d ever felt. It was as much a vision of Hell as I had ever witnessed. I wanted to take my rifle and shoot down that firey orb. There came a moment during the hottest part of the day, that we all looked like we were gonna turn back. When suddenly, we heard the bugle of giant beast. I knowed it was the elk from my dreams. The Lord gived you dreams for a reason, didn’t he?
The call spurred me on and into the smoldering mountains. The blasted landscape soon gave way to a verdant garden. It was the land of the leal on Earth with streams lippin’ with trout rolling down the mountainsides like roots through beautiful green virginal woods. We didn’t bring much in the way of supplies, but you could catch the trout with your hands against the banks. The quickly falling night and elevation made it cool enough to keep away the biters. We stopped for a night’s rest on soft black soil in a great copse of waxy rhododendron, lulled to sleep by the lolling brook.
The next morning, we came to a great waterfall while following an old Indian trace. I think we’d fergot about the damned Shawnee as we swum in the great pool at the foot of the falls, but while climbing the granite wall, looking for a place to make a leap into the pool, Douglas stumbled upon fresh remains of a hunting camp with a half-faced cabin. He called to me and I climbed up to take a look. There, fer me to see as if on display, was my elk. The severed head of my elk anyways, with antlers reaching out like a mighty oak with the last bit of velvet hanging on like Spanish moss, none of us had ever gazed upon its like. It was so fresh that it appeared as if the head had just fallen from its corpse. Its eyes were barely glazed and it looked as if it could still see. We took it to be an ill omen. Aye, mirkie clouds were a’forming. The wind was now swaying the trees like the Earth was a muckle dog, shaking off something unwanted.
“I fear our passage has not gone unnoticed; we’ve got to leave these mountains James,” Douglas expressed what I was thinking. But we noticed other grim signs of the broken men as we turned to leave. Scalps with inky black Indian hair were staked on rooted saplings outside the camp. There was even five sun- whitened skulls piled like a basket of eggs, as if these men had returned to the bloody rituals of the old gods of Odin or Dagda. Then we hear’d a whimper from behind the half-face.
I took a look and found three women, or really just slips, tied to a tree. One was Indian and two was white; they was all barely clothed and dirty. The reddish blonde one screamed as I approached, and the others whimpered. Damned if they didn’t act like one of the Heron’s beaten dogs. Douglas and I tried to calm them as I cut the rope with which they was tied. We told them we meant them no harm and I placed my knife on the ground while saying that we wanted to get them away from this place. They’d have none of it, cryin’ whilst speakin’ some gibberish. I wondered if the white girls were the Dutch that Granny had spoken of and the parisioners called Rhinelanders. Douglas and I tried with all our might to coax them down and the Indian girl even said in plain English “I will come with you,” but the dark-haired white girl grabbed my knife from the ground and turned and fled down a trail between two huge boulders. Then, the other two followed, even the Indian girl. The girls were gone and there was nothing more we could do for them.
Alexander then appeared, telling us that us he saw men skulking on the low ridge.
If these men—and we were damn sure they was white, lawless men who had set up this camp and tortured them girls in ways to which I did’t want to think—caught us in the gorge against this waterfall, then there’d be no escape. We crept as swiftly as we might back to our horses, clothing ourselves as we stumbled on, dodging branches and brambles.
Alexander, the finest hunter and tracker among us, spotted movement on the eastern slope of the gorge as we saddled up. Sight hounds were barking, and broken leaves and twigs rained near us, cut by incomin’ fire which Alexander answered on the hoof. We picked up speed down the trail, surprising three men who were felling trees in our path to funnel us into an ambush. But, chancily for us, the ambush wasn’t in place; and, we could jouk up the slope around the debris. Yet, Douglas had other ideas. He rode right through the deerskin clad men, trampling one of them while another managed to prick Douglas’ horse in the withers with his long knife—nigh missing Douglas’ leg.
We were now home free and lit out as long as our horses would allow. Douglas’ bay, Creek Jumper, had got it in the right lung and was soon roaring a bloody foam. The horse was doomed and we all knowed it, but we wanted to let Douglas carry on as long as he saw fit. We knew he loved that horse. But after another half a league he pulled up rein and helped him undo the tack from Creek Jumper. He scratched her behind the ear, kissed her nether the forelock, and shot her in the head. His eyes were crimson as he got behind Alexander carrying his tack. He never said nothing else about it. We all felt guilty as could be for we had roused Douglas from his bed. We never gave him a choice whether to go with us or not on this fool’s errand, but he never once complained. Yet, he was the only one brave enough to bloody those Blackguards on that mountain. We never talked again about them girls, but I know they weighed heavily on all our hearts thinking about what depredations man could afflict on such innocents.
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