The Night Hunter

(Readability level is about 6.1 grade level)

The cold Georgia night’s sleepy silence was broken by the sound of two excited hounds as they struck a fresh hot scent. It was a sound which always seemed to make the night hunter’s heart warm on the coldest of nights. Slowly Ole Stan rose to his feet and stepped a short distance away from the small fire burning next to the old half buried log. It had taken the two a good long half hour or more to strike a trail. Beholden Stanley Williams had been wondering what the delay was. It wasn’t normal for the old male and his little gyp companion to be so slow in hitting on a trail as raccoons were more than plentiful along the Satilla.  

Known simply as Ole Stan by his friends and others around the region, he had been named Beholden by a grateful frontier mother after too many failures in trying to birth a son. Her thankfulness to the Good Lord had saddled her son with a name which, more than once, led to impromptu exchanges of knuckle sandwiches out behind the local meeting house. It seemed that after a few of these Sunday experiences most of the local boys decided to simply call Beholden Stanley a shorter, friendly name. 

Ole Stan now listened carefully. His eyes searched the sky here and there as his nose tested the wind. “Don’t seem like the clouds are going to build up yet,” he muttered.  “Ahroooo, yip, yip, ahroo…” the two hounds were getting excited. The night hunter picked up his rifle and checked to see that his firing cap was in place. The dogs quieted. The sound of a barred owl drifted through the woods on the night’s slow breeze. In the far distance, the distinct snarl of a large night hunting cat sounded. “Wonder what’s happened to them two?” he muttered to himself. “This ain’t right,” he thought.

The sudden sound of splashing in the river opposite his sandbar fire startled Ole Stan. He gripped his rifle tightly and crouched, ready to fight if need be. Then the light danced off the eyes of the two hounds as they swam the short distance to the sandbar and scurried quickly up to the fire’s warmth. The hunter, now completely surprised, watched them come. Both dogs had their tails down and kept glancing back across the river. The little gyp was obviously afraid, the old male, Silas, was growling low and soft as if to say, “Watch out boss, troubles over there!”

It was when Silas moved around to his master’s left side and his growling took on a louder and more vicious sound did the night hunter realize that there was movement now in the palmetto bushes on the far bank. The newly risen moon was providing a good bit of light this night, though over there the bushes were in shadow and only dark shapes at best. Slowly he crouched and tightened his grip on his rifle. His right hand slid to check on the availability of his long knife safely waiting in its sheath. Slowly, Ole Stan began to back away from the fire and into the shadows offered by the young sweetgum and tulip trees which were attempting to slowly grow their way out from the bank to take over the sandbar. Calling softly to the gyp and Silas, he moved quietly back until he was within the young trees. 

He moved carefully to place a small group of three trees against his back. He now kept his eyes on the far bank. The two dogs stood, one on each side. Silas, standing on his left, seemed to be clearly watching something across the river and continuously emitted a low growl which Stan was sure carried its way across the quiet waters. The only sounds other than the dogs, was the slight ripples in the river of some passing catfish or gar. “Likely a big gar,” muttered Stan as he waited, now down on one knee. The gyp whined quietly. The scream of the distant big cat drifted down the river. Silas never wavered, kept his focus across the river. “Yep,” muttered the night hunter, ”One thing at a time, old boy, one thing at a time.” The hoot of the barred owl sounded again from far off across the river.

What came first, Stan was never sure. Whether it was the suddenly loud snarling growl of a bark which exploded from Silas or the unnerving appearance of three men emerging from the river where none had been before, Silas could never figure out. All three were clearly seen in the moonlight as they now ran across the white sands in the moonlit night. One carried a spear and was on the left of the three. The others carried either knives or hatchets, Stan wasn’t sure. He also never could remember how his rifle came to be cradled in his left armpit and his knife appeared in his right hand… it just happened. The sharp crack of the rifle and the explosion of sparks seemed to announce to the world that once again two cultures were in disagreement. The middle Indian simply fell, face down into the sand and lay still. Silas, with a loud snarling growl launched himself in a curving run to the left as he attempted to attack one of the warriors by biting his lower leg. The spear carrying warrior leaped the last few feet as he thrust his spear at the hunter. The gyp barked a scream of fear, turned and ran into the night.

Without thinking, with years of frontier survival experience coming into play, Stan swung his rifle around and crashed it into the spear knocking its tip aside. Thrusting forward with his long knife, the leaping Indian provided a lot of the power with which the long knife now ripped into his upper arm. Badly cut, the man twisted trying to get away from the knife. Landing, his feet tangled and slid in the mix of mud and sand in this border area of the sandbar and he fell backwards away from the night hunter’s slashing knife.

Stan, slashing towards the falling Indian warrior, didn’t stop moving but spun around to face the last one. The one Silas had gone for. Silas had paid a price for his devotion. His head gashed open by the man’s knife, the old hound still gamely tried to catch the moving brave’s leg. The brave swung a wooden club at the dog, but missed. The man’s attention distracted, he never saw the long barrel of the rifle as it crashed into the top of his head. He fell with only the sound of his body hitting the ground to be heard. Stan, remembering the fallen warrior to his right swung his knife and eyes quickly that way, ducking his head and crouching expecting a blow to come.

There was no need. The man, wise in the ways of frontier fighting, knew when to withdraw. His arm badly injured, he was retreating down the sandbar holding a clump of Spanish moss grabbed from a low hanging tree limb against his badly bleeding arm. His dangling injured arm still carried his spear, but the fight was over. Stan straightened up and watched him go.

Suddenly, realizing his left side hurt, he looked down to see an arrow dangling from his buckskin shirt! His side felt wet. Suddenly another arrow landed at his feet… where he now saw three others standing with their tips buried in the sand. Looking across the river, he saw two dim figures on the far bank. They now turned and walked back into the darkness, the dim motion of palmettos moving marked their passage. It was over.

Stan quickly began reloading his rifle. Silas walked over and lay down on the white sands nearby and quietly whimpered. In the distance, the owl’s hooting call was finally answered from upriver.

 

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A week or so later, three older frontiersmen sat on the front steps of the Kettle Creek meeting house. They listened as Ole Stan stood in the late evening shade of an old oak and talked to a small group of new comers to the community. He held a length of rope loosely in his hand which was tied about the neck of the little gyp. “Now this here dog is a first class hunter. She will trail anything, especially coons. Yep, first class. Never backs down no matter what, she…..”, on he went as the old men now chuckled and elbowed each other as they lit their pipes.

In the distance, an owl hooted a greeting to the new evening. And far off down the creek came the sound of an old dog as he announced the finding of a raccoon’s scent. Ole Stan glanced that way, handed the rope to a young man nearby and said, ”Yep. Top notch, she is. Just give me one of the pups when she brings a litter. Now, I’ve got to go.”

Grabbing up his rifle which had been leaning against the oak, he checked his long knife and walked off quickly towards the sound of a very excited hound… with a happy smile, a warm heart…. and a ripple of quiet laughter from the old frontiersmen.

“Hang on, boy, I’m coming!” he quietly said, lengthening his stride. From the nearby oaks shading the meeting house, an owl called into the night.

The End