If you enjoy this story then please
purchase a copy of either “Panther Trouble” or “Huntin’ Trouble” off my author’s
page at Amazon.com. Both books have several similar stories. Both are in
eBook form. “Panther Trouble” is available in paperback as well.
He knelt
there, slowly wiping the blood from his knife by dragging it across his buckskin
covered thigh. Nearby lay the body of the former owner of that blood. He was
also the cause of Mike’s now very careful and studious gaze as he slowly turned
his head, listening to the sounds of the surrounding pine forest.
In the
distance he heard the drumming of a woodpecker. Nearer, the bark of a squirrel.
The bushy-tailed old male was still disturbed by the rush of sudden activity
which had just occurred in his usually quiet world. A passing black snake paid
neither the squirrel nor Mike a bit of concern. His rapidly gliding movement in
and out of the straw and palmettos as he sought his day’s meal never slowed.
Mike stayed low and moved very slowly. Any
sudden movement or standing might invite another renegade Creek warrior to try
his hand at killing Mike. “One’s enough for today,” he muttered quietly. Slowly
he reached down and retrieved his rifle. Then, still alert to another possible
attack, he began loading it with powder and ball. As he glanced around slowly,
his skilled hands worked at their task. On a not too distant pine tree he noted
the torn bark where his last ball had gouged a path after it had passed by the
charging warrior.
“Guess I was
a little too excited on that shot,” he thought. “Man can’t be so wasteful on
the frontier, boy,” he recalled his father saying. “Yep,” he muttered an
acknowledgment to the remembered fatherly coaching. It was especially true now
he realized. His shot bag only held five remaining balls, if his fingers
weren’t lying to him. That was how many he felt down in the short bag at his
waist. “Need to get on to Waresboro and see can I scare up some more
ammunition,” he thought. He slowly turned this way and that holding the now
loaded and primed weapon. Waresboro still lay about 8 to 10 miles north and
east of him as best he could figure.
With no more
Indians in evidence, he checked the now dead warrior for a possible bag holding
needful items…..such as maybe some rifle balls. The man had a bag hanging
across his back, but it contained various items for fire building and a few sea
shells. None of this interested the young frontiersman, so he straightened up.
With another glance around to ensure he was alone, he turned and started for
Waresboro. The warrior’s fighting knife now rode on his waist, the only thing
he took from the dead man. His spear lay where it had fallen. The squirrel
renewed his barking as Mike sat off along the faint path he had been following
before the deadly encounter.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 |
| photo by Clint Bowman taken along Swamp Road on the west side of the Okefenokee Swamp |
The doe had
frozen still as she suddenly sensed a possible danger in her forested world.
With a flick of her raised white tail she turned and vaulted into a hard run
weaving between the palmettos as she raced for the cover of the nearby creek
bottom. Her sudden movement drew the attention of the three renegade Creek
warriors. They seemed to be lazily idling beneath the shade of an oak. Idling,
they were. Lazy, they were not. They each stood armed and ready. Wild Cat,
their respected Seminole war chief, had assigned them the task of bringing back
a white prisoner from among the local settlers. They were hoping for a passing
family to appear on the nearby trail to Waresboro. They wanted to snatch away a
child, small enough to travel quickly with. A boy child, one that could be
raised and trained to do chores and farming. Those kind brought good prices
with the slave traders along the distant Florida coast. They waited quietly,
only a slight turn of their heads as they watched the retreating deer.
Mike had finally relaxed a little as he walked
along headed northeast along the old Indian footpath skirting the edge of a
large swampy area. After a couple of hours of walking and keeping a watchful
eye out for both Indians and snakes, he had halted in the large shade of a
flowering magnolia tree. The area at its base naturally clear of high grasses,
he could rest there and not have to worry about accidentally sitting on a snake.
After checking his weapon, he had leaned back against the not too rough bark of
the tree’s trunk and briefly napped. It was his action of standing which had
alarmed the deer. Fortunately, this action corresponded with one of the
warriors raising a hand to swat an annoying mosquito.
The warriors
thought the deer to be alarmed by the brief movement of the hand and never
suspected that an enemy was now nearby. The brief wave of the hand had also
drawn Mike’s attention. Now he stood almost immobile. Almost, but not quite.
Slowly, with infinite long practiced patience, he eased back down out of sight.
Once below the level of the covering palmettos, Mike retreated behind the large
trunk of the magnolia and carefully considered his options.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Samuel
MacDonald was known to be a careful man. A man who thought long and hard over
matters before investing time or money. And he had pondered over the idea of
moving his little family to the “red” side of the Altamaha River for over a
year before making the decision. But, with the matter decided, he had quickly
moved to pack his two wheeled cart, tether his cow to it and set off for the distant
and well talked of Waresboro. The region was supposed to be good for farming,
hunting and fishing… what else could a man ask for?
It was this
fateful decision which lead to Samuel and his young wife of eight years being
on this particular trail on this particular day. Between the two of them, they
would never have been able to survive an attack by a party of Indians. The math
simply wouldn’t have worked out. Samuel carried a decent and well used musket.
Clara had a small but deadly pistol riding at her feet in the cart. In her lap
sat little Sally, all of three years old and napping. Sitting on the back of
the cart with his feet dangling down rode their five year old son, Robert. A
party of well armed Indians would quickly have had their way with such an easy
target. But not today. Sometimes, the Good Lord just works things out. At least
that would be Clara’s way of saying it at the Waresboro trading post that
evening.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Mike heard
the approaching cart at almost the same instant the waiting Indians did. He
quickly realized their intentions to attack the cart as it came into view
across the palmetto tops. One of the warriors quickly rushed across the
distance to get ahead of the cart as the other two started directly for it.
Such a cart, loaded and with a cow tied behind, would not be able to rush away
from an attack and the experienced warriors knew this. Their war cries
momentarily froze Clara with fear. Samuel quickly called for her to arm
herself. He then stepped to stand between her and the two attackers, not realizing
that one was taking a roundabout approach ahead of him. Samuel was a frightened
and desperate man. He touched his knife in its sheath to assure himself of its
presence, threw his long gun up and took careful aim. The warriors, long
practiced in the art of charging armed white men, spread out as they charged.
They knew he would have only one shot and then it would be club, fist, and
knife!
The attack
would have been perfect and hugely successful for the Indians, except for one
tall, scruffy, and battle hardened factor. Mike swiftly swung into action. His
first movements were sure and quick. His position behind the magnolia tree put
him ahead of the approaching cart. The Indian swinging out ahead of the cart passed
just yards away from his hidden vantage point. Mike’s aim was true. The warrior
fell face first into the palmettos, out of which spurted a well frightened
swamp rabbit which seemed intent on heading for the Florida border as quick as
possible.
The other
attackers both fired their weapons as they attacked Samuel’s position. Neither
expected to hit Samuel or Clara, they fired more to frighten the young couple
as they yelled and charged at them. Mike’s not too distant shot didn’t seem to
register with them. They were completely focused on Samuel.
They closed the gap
quickly… Samuel fired his musket and quickly realized he had missed the weaving
warrior. He stepped bravely forward swinging his rifle before him! One warrior
dove beneath Samuel’s ineffective swing and slashed across the back of his leg
with his fighting knife. It was a crippling blow! Samuel’s leg collapsed as he
sought to turn and swing down at his attacker. Clara’s weapon discharged
somewhere behind him! The second warrior faltered briefly as her short ranged
shot was true. Then suddenly, a viscous whirlwind of fury descended on the
fight in the form of a buckskinned, knife swinging, kicking, and yelling demon!
The fight
ended quickly. The two warriors lay dead and Samuel sat beside them with blood
tricking down the side of his head. Little Sally wept as she sat wrapped with
Robert in their mother’s shaking arms. Clara sat, glancing from Samuel to Mike
to the nearby forest, unsure of what to do or say. Mike, the danger now over,
turned and walked over to pick up his rifle. Glancing around at the young
family, he began loading his weapon. His gaze resting on Samuel, he asked,” You
fit to stand?”
Samuel sat
still, glancing around as if he had not heard the question. Mike waited, long experience
telling him the young man was dealing with shock. After a long minute, Samuel reached
over to the nearby cart wheel and began to pull himself up. The movement of her
husband spurred Clara to action. “Robert, hold Sally tight and you two stay right
here on this seat,” she said calmly as her motherly instincts kicked in. With
that she nimbly climbed down and began to assist her husband. Mike, with his
rifle now loaded, picked up Samuel’s musket and began loading it with an
occasional gaze out and around for any possible danger. The surrounding pine
forest seemed at peace, now.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A few hours
later, the cart rolled its way to a stop outside the trading post at Waresboro
drawing the attention of all within sight. Indian attacks were fairly frequent
occurrences and rumors of them even more frequent. A small crowd gathered to
help Samuel hobble into the store. Three ladies, upon seeing the small children
and their mom, rushed from their nearby cabins to surround and fuss over them.
The Waresboro folks knew how to welcome new settlers to their remote post on
the South Georgia frontier. Soon, soup was being ladled up and bread being
shared. The men quickly made Samuel feel welcome. Mike, well known to the
locals, was surrounded by a small knot of men who wanted to hear his news of
the region to their south. And soon the community’s preacher arrived with his
wife and an invite for the newly arrived family to settle with them for the
first few days.
Later that
evening, Mike sat beside his fire not too far from the trading post. He lay
back against an old oak and watched the smoke from his fire as it lazily
drifted up into the Spanish moss draped boughs. Somewhere nearby, a couple of
owls seemed involved in a discussion of some sort. In the distance a fox
yelped. As his eyes slowly closed, Mike thought,” Sure is good to have friends
whose wives cook so well.” The nearby owl curiously eyed the smiling buckskin
clad figure then suddenly launched himself into the night. In the far distance, the sound of a bull
gator bellowing his challenge reverberated across the edges of the Okefenokee.
Not everyone would sleep along the South Georgia frontier this night.
THE END
