Red Stick Danger

(Reading level: grade 7.8)

Of the two men carefully concealed among the brown, dead, and damp leaves of the creek bottom, one was a white man. It was he who had first eyed the four sharpened sticks scattered about here and there. 

“That was done by a beaver, not a man,” the Creek Indian said quietly. “How do you know?” whispered his white companion. “I see the teeth marks, at least two of them,” he answered, again, quietly.

Both men lay unmoving among the downed tree limbs and dried leaves of a cold winter’s afternoon. The narrow creek bottom they were hiding in didn’t offer much in the way of cover. They had burrowed quickly down into the leaves and were pretty well hidden. Both were armed with gun and knife. They were waiting to see if the party of nearby Red Stick Creeks would find their trail or pass on by. Fortunately, they had heard the approaching Indians before they had been spotted. Working quickly, they had tried as best they could to become as invisible as possible.

Red Sticks hated whites and all their Indian friends. Since they had been defeated during the recent Indian war in what was now the new state of Alabama, many of them had fled to Florida. They had joined up with the Seminoles in resisting white settlements and the U. S. government. But apparently, a few of them had decided that South Georgia offered some opportunities for economic advancement in the form of widely scattered farms with infrequent army protection. So they had drifted into the region and already showed signs of their success. They were driving two stolen young calves and had four riding horses, not enough for all of them, but still they were proud of their new found wealth. And judging from the loud talking of two to three of them, they had also managed to steal someone’s “medicinal” supply of rum or homemade brew. 

Slowly, Clifton became aware of the smell of smoke drifting down the creek bottom from upstream and upwind. The warriors had decided to camp for the night. The two friends exchanged an understanding look. If the Red Stick warriors were going to camp and were also getting drunk, then the two would have a much easier time of avoiding them. Clifton had been uncomfortable roaming the woodlands this far north of his usual wandering grounds. He was very partial to the land around the Okefenokee Swamp of Southeast Georgia. He had long been ready to return southwards but an agreement to help someone had delayed their return.

The two had only been up this far north a couple of times and were only here this time due to having made an agreement with a wealthy farmer’s first cousin down near Waresboro way. The cousin had been sitting in the stage station lamenting the number of his cousin’s calves which a panther had been making off with. Neither Clifton nor Cross Toed John could understand why anyone would allow such an animal to continually destroy livestock and one of them had questioned the why of the matter.

It turned out that the wealthy farmer’s three slaves were terrified of the panther and incapable of tracking and shooting him. The farmer himself had tried it, only to have the big cat jump him and his horse from the advantageous position of a low hanging oak limb. The resulting terror and commotion caused the farmer to lose control of his horse which ran away into a large patch of blackberry bushes.

 The cat had slid down the horses hindquarters and inflected such painful injuries that the horse had ran quite a ways before tiring and circling slowly back to the main house.  The farmer had fired a shotgun blast which did little except scatter an especially large number of acorns across the area. Of course, the blast did frighten the panther, causing him to run away. After a considerable amount of effort the farmer had extricated himself from the blackberry bushes and walked the few miles back to his house. There he met a very tired and still frightened horse who took a bit of coaxing with an ear of corn to get back into its pen.

With that adventure over, the farmer had written to his South Georgia cousin for advice. This had led to the meeting at the Waresboro stage station and the agreement by Clifton and Cross Toed John to head north and help track and kill the panther. Though both men had not enjoyed the company of the farmer nor his sharp tongued wife and her harsh coffee, he had paid well when the job was done.

Now as the two lay in the damp and very cold creek bottom, the panther was three days dead and Clifton was anxious to be back south. An area where Red Sticks never ventured and one never had to hide in damp and very cold leaves to avoid them. The two friends had been on the second day of their return trip when the present situation delayed them.

The mid-winter sun seemed to be quickly falling from the sky. The cold seemed to increase even more rapidly. Clifton knew that soon he would be hard put to keep his teeth from chattering. The glow of a very large fire now seemed to be filling the far end of the creek bottom and suddenly a very frightened calf began to bawl. The bawling ended in a kind of unnerving high bawl. “And that is the end of that calf,” thought Clifton as he realized that the Indians had just butchered the calf and were settling in to roast beef steaks and get even drunker.

As the darkness now filled the lower creek bottom, Clifton and John rose slowly to their feet. It was obvious to the two frontiersmen that the noisy bunch of Red Sticks had not posted a guard nor did they seem to be concerned about someone hearing them. “Could be that they killed whoever they stole those animals from,” commented John quietly. As he said it, he was checking his gun for moisture, just in case. Both men knew of times when people had been injured or killed because they didn’t mind their powder and let it get too damp to fire properly during a fight.

“Could be,” answered Clifton as he finished seeing to his own weapon. “Now what?” he asked his companion. “There’s nine or ten of them, and only the two of us. Even drunk, they might get off a couple of lucky shots and then we would be in a bad way,” muttered John. Gradually the two men drifted over to stand behind a tree which both realized would help break up their outline, should one of the Red Sticks decide to wander out for a look around.

After a few minutes, with the cold seeming to penetrate deeper and deeper into their layers of clothing, Clifton spoke. “I think we should run off with their horses,” he said. “I think there is a settlement a few miles south of us along that military road we crossed coming up here. We can leave them there and explain where these guys are. The local militia can form up and get after them.”   

John looked thoughtfully up at the rising moon and said, “Sounds good to me…they’ll be asleep soon.” The two friends crouched down with their backs to a tree and waited. The Indians seemed to be arguing over something and an occasional shout would ring out. “They’re gambling,” stated John. Being a Creek himself, he could understand a good part of their language even as distorted as it was by the strong drink and distance. The two friends ceased talking and waited patiently in the way long time hunters and frontiersmen train themselves to do. They slowly and carefully eased a leg this way and that to keep a foot from falling asleep because of cramped circulation. Each filtered the night’s sounds and both were aware of each Indian leaving the far campfire to ease himself.

After what may have been three hours the far camp had grown quiet. The sound of one or two snorers could be heard as well as the occasional shifting of a horse or calf. Slowly the two frontiersmen rose as one. John took the lead, slowly moving along a route that would take them around the camp and to where the horses were tied. Moving slowly, the two took almost an hour to cover the distance, one slow step at a time. One of the Indians seemed to be having disturbing dreams as he shifted often and sat up a couple of times briefly. Each time he soon lay down and was quickly snoring softly again.  

As they untied two of the horses and mounted, with the lead ropes of the other two in hand, the restless sleeper sat up again. This time he didn’t lie back down but instead stood up and gazed into the night’s shadows as if trying to decide if it was really two men on the horses or maybe if it was a part of whatever dream he had been enduring. Suddenly the reality of the situation broke through his disturbed mind and shouting loudly he reached down for a weapon! Both men shouted at their steeds in unison, slapping their heels to the sides of the now startled farm horses. The animals, unused to being ridden with such vigorous encouragement leapt forward, one crashing into a small tree as if blinded by fright!  Recovering, the mount plunged off after his retreating friend, headed up the creek bottom as the sharp crack of a musket sounded behind. That the full camp of Indian warriors were now up and active was soon made clear as three or four more fired blindly in the direction of the running horses.

Climbing up the bank at the head of the bottom, John shouted back at Clifton, “East or west?” “Head west, the creek is shallower up that way, we can cross it and turn back south!” answered Clifton, glancing back.

***********************************

Two days later the two friends arrived at a trail crossing along the military road built to allow quick movement of troops from the Georgia coast inland. Situated at this crossing were a trading post, three small homes, and a stage station with a few spare horses. The trading post owner also served as an assistant to the federally appointed Indian agent for the Lower Creek tribes and it was he to whom the two reported their adventure.  Though news of any Indian problems had not reached the community as of yet, the agent was not surprised when informed that the raiders were some of the last remaining Red Sticks north of Florida. Cross Toed John’s description and report of some of the overheard comments from the creek bottom helped him to believe the story.  “You boys were just plain lucky!” he exclaimed. Clifton replied,” The Good Lord watches over those of us who stumble along the way. That’s what my ole’ mom used to say, at least.”

“Well, whatever… at least you two were able to bring word. I’ll send my man, Frank, up the road to find the army patrol camped near the Ocmulgee River. He can find them within a day or so. Maybe they can cut back across and find these fellows before they do more harm,” the agent said. “Sounds good. Now I think we will buy a few things for the trip and head south,” Clifton said.

************************

Later that day, as they were trailing southwards, John looked back and asked, “What was that feller laughing about when we left?” “Oh, he was laughing about the farmer, Mr. Wilkes, we helped out. When he heard about the panther jumping him, he just about fell over laughing.” “Why?” queried a perplexed John.

“Turns out they are cousins… and they don’t particularly like each other. Seems that Mr. Wilkes claims to have been a great Indian fighter against the Cherokee during the last war with England. He stole the heart of a young lady this feller was high on, married her, then left her for another woman,” answered Clifton. “So what happened to the woman?” asked John. “That was her out back bouncing that little boy baby on her lap,” answered Clifton.

“She was a nice woman, her coffee was good and her home was clean. Knew there was something about that Wilkes I didn’t like when we were up there helping him. Just couldn’t figure it out,” Cross Toed John said, shifting his rifle to a more comfortable position, as his eyes noted the bright white tail of another retreating whitetail buck off to the far right of their trail.

The End

You can read more about the Red Stick Creek Indians here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Sticks

              The New Year Question
Here I stand pondering,
The new year about to begin.
Here I stand considering,
The old year about to end.

"Did I do well," I wonder,
"With the time I had?"
Or "Did I waste it wrongfully,
This year of time I had?"

                                    Clint Bowman

An Under-The-Pier Christmas (re-posted from Christmas 2011)

I really hope that this Christmas is a good one for you. Take time for family outings. Enjoy and encourage each other "well-well" (as my African friends used to say). Remember to take time to thank the Good Lord above for the real reason for this special season. He DOES really care for you and wants to have a special relationship with you... all you have to do is believe in Him, accept His free gift of love and forgiveness found in Jesus Christ the Messiah.  Start by praying....He will guide you to do what He desires for you to do. God bless, cb 

                                                  ***********************************

An Under-The-Pier Christmas
(Reading level: grade 8.4)

It was just a few days before Christmas and the critters which inhabit the depths of water beneath the St. Simon’s Island pier were not happy. They were in fact getting pretty depressed. They had almost no Christmas decorations to decorate their underwater domain with. Almost everything they had owned had been destroyed or swept out to sea during the Great Storm which had punished the area just a few months ago.

The Great Storm, as they referred to it, had lashed the area above the surface with terrible winds and did much damage. The Great Storm had punished the underwater creatures as well. It had caused such powerful currents to rush through the area that almost all their homes had been destroyed. Many of their friends had even been carried far out to sea. Every few days another old friend would come struggling exhaustedly back telling tales of barely surviving the depths of the great Atlantic Ocean. Why, only yesterday Joey Crab had returned so tired and worn out that he could barely enjoy the excited greetings of his old friends around the pier.

Today, the creatures had suddenly realized that it was almost Christmas day. And as they passed each other coming and going they talked about the lack of decorations for the Christmas celebration. You see each year on Christmas eve and on Christmas day peace is declared among all the inhabitants of the waters surrounding the St Simon’s Island pier. All of them come together on Christmas morning to hear the old story of the birth of the baby Jesus. They congratulate each other on surviving the difficulties of another year. This year’s celebration of fellowship would be special as they would be remembering the Great Storm and honoring the memories of those whom it had carried away. No one knew if those old friends and neighbors had perished or would one day reappear as Joey Crab had done.  

The biggest concern for everyone was where to find Christmas decorations? As the talk went around among the creatures, a fisherman up on the pier accidently dropped his artificial bait and it fell down into the depths of the water. While this wasn’t all that unusual, today it was different. The “bait” was a new, shiny type called a spoon. It was small and not of the kind usually used by fishermen around the pier. As it sank to the bottom it twisted and turned this way and that and the sunlight reflected off it causing it to look almost like a falling star of sorts. As it reflected rays of sunlight off in every direction all the creatures seemed to stop and stare at it… and an idea was born. As soon as it landed, the crab family was there. They hoisted it up on their backs and headed up under the pier as the creatures rushed together excitedly talking. Grandfather crab called out above the din of excited talk, “Okay now, everyone calm down! Calm down, please! There, that’s better,” he said.

“I think we all got the same idea at about the same time, heh?” he asked.  Everyone excitedly agreed. “Now the problem is, how do we get more of these shiny things to use for our decorations?” he asked. Quickly, the crowd began excitedly discussing this and then suddenly an excited voice rose above the din. “Why, we can go up there and get them!” shouted an excited fiddler crab. “And how to you propose we do that?” asked grandfather crab. “Anyone of us sets foot or claw on that pier and we will become shark bait,” he continued. Everyone nodded, as it is well known that the pier is one of the best known sites around for shark fishermen.

Sam Hermit, one of the cousins of Grandfather Crab, called out, “We will need a diversion!” he said. “We will need someone to cause such a ruckus that we can raid the tackle boxes up there on the pier and get the things we need,” He explained. “And I have just the idea,” he said. “They are all congregating up there now for the evening’s shark fishing contest. If we were to hang up one of their lines out there in the channel on something which would move around a lot and mimic a huge shark, then we would be able to sneak up there and get the stuff we want. All the fishermen would rush down to the spot where the one is fighting with what he will think is a monster shark,” he explained.  

An idea popped into Grandfather’s head. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I need about eight volunteers for a dangerous task,” he said. Quickly eight large and brave sea creatures stepped forward. They were an odd collection of creatures to be sure. Some were barnacle covered old crabs while others were slimy looking octopuses. No one doubted their bravery, as all of them were well known members of the Under-The-Pier club, a local club of adventure seeking fellows. “Now,” said Grandfather,” I want you guys to head out there into the channel and very carefully and slowly gather up six or eight of those fishing lines and knot them together. But be careful not to tug on them so that the fishermen think they have a bite or else they’ll jerk on the line and you may get hooked,” he explained. “When I give the signal, then I’ll want you guys to jerk downwards as hard as you can on the tangled lines then let them go. With some luck the fishermen will think they have all caught a giant shark and they will pull against each other. That should keep them occupied for a while,” he grinned.

“No problem,” answered Slick, the club leader. He was an interesting fellow to look at as he had a tattoo of a flying bird on each arm at exactly the same location. When he wanted to entertain people, he would extend his arms and twirl around quickly which made the bird appear to fly in a circle. The club members talked briefly among themselves and then headed off to do their task. Then Grandfather called for a swarm of crab family volunteers. “We need about thirty of you guys to get ready over by that piling,” he said. “When I give those guys the signal and they begin the show, you will scurry up there and all of you lift one of those big tackle boxes and run over the side with it,” he said. Immediately many of the larger and older Crab family members bunched up over by the indicated piling and watched grandfather for the signal to head topside.

Everyone waited anxiously. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Slick sent the message that their mission of gathering and tangling the lines had been achieved. Grandfather lifted a conch shell to his lips and raised one of his arms. With a drop of his arm and a blast from the shell, the club members yanked down as hard as they could on the tangled mess of fishing lines. Even as deep down as the creatures were, they could hear the excited yells and shouts coming from above as the fishermen struggled against their “giant shark”! Grandfather turned to the bunched crabs eagerly waiting at the foot of the piling and raising all of his front arms upwards he shouted, ”Go!”. Immediately the bunched crabs surged upwards and quickly gained the edge of the pier. Those who were in the lead had no chance to stop and look around as they were hurled forward by the mass of crabs coming up from below. Soon, one of the oddest sites to ever be seen on the St. Simon’s Island pier occurred. A mass of swarming crabs picked up a large fishing tackle box and simply flowed across the pier and off the other side, leaving behind several shocked and staring pier visitors.   

On Christmas day, the Under-The-Pier community of sea creatures relaxed and admired their pretty decorations as the gently passing currents twirled and otherwise caused the colorful hanging fishing lures and floating bobbers to dance. The community shared the Christmas story together and congratulated each other on surviving another difficult year. They also wished each other a prosperous year ahead and hoped that next year, those of their community who had not yet returned since the Great Storm, might be there to share Christmas with them.

The day after Christmas, the pier visitors lounging around enjoying the sun of another beautiful coastal day were suddenly astounded as a tide of surging crabs mysteriously rose up on one side of the pier and swept a large fishing tackle box onto the pier. Outlined across the top of the lid in small gray stones were two words… Merry Christmas! 

                           May you have a REALLY MERRY CHRISTMAS! 

Ambush!

Ambush!
(Reading level: grade 9.9)

Slowly, the man lying in the shallow tea colored water of the Okefenokee Swamp shifted his gaze from the tall grasses bordering the nearby tree shrouded island to his overturned dugout. The dugout lay a short distance across the open water run against the far side with one end of it lower down in the water. The higher end was the hiding place of his Creek Indian friend, Cross Toed John. The two had, just a few short minutes before, been slowly and lazily paddling their way down the run which would soon end itself in the open waters of Bluff Lake. The lake was one of many running the length of the east side of the Okefenokee and had in the past proven to be a sure location for the catching of a good meal of blue gills with the occasional largemouth bass. Today it had proven to be something else. What that was, they did not yet know.

Lying there, Clifton could see that several of the arrows which had risen like a flight of angry bees from the tall far grasses along the island had imbedded themselves in what had previously been the side of the dugout facing the island. Only Cross Toed John’s swift realization of their danger had saved one or both of them from serious injury. With a warning cry he had tightly gripped the top of the boat’s sides and thrown himself hard over to his left and away from the incoming flight of arrows. His action had served to roll the dugout bottom side up and provided him with immediate protection from the descending arrows. Clifton, caught a bit off guard, had fallen out into the open water of the run where his experiences of many years surviving the South Georgia frontier served him well. He immediately realized that John had spotted some serious and nearby danger. Quickly, he gulped a lungful of air and dove beneath the water heading for the far side of the narrow run. He swam beneath the mass of water lilies, mosses, and floating vegetation. Spotting sunlight coming through a small hole in the mass, he slowly surfaced enough to breath yet kept his head down in the cover of the swamp vegetation.

The water here was shallower, not over three to four feet in depth. The sight of the arrows and the previous ringing cry of John’s alarm had set every nerve on edge. Clifton felt that his body was sensing every vibration in the surrounding area of swampy vegetation. Looking closely at the edge of the upturned dugout, Clifton could see the partially submerged face of his long time friend peering out at him. Though John had seen or at least sensed the flight of arrows and therefore knew that hostile Indians were nearby, his present predicament meant that he was unable to see what attacking force might be moving towards them. Slowly, Clifton shook his head as if saying “No! Don’t move!” Already he could see the tops of the heads of what looked to be six Indians now showing above the not too distant grasses.

Slowly the hostiles began to move; obviously they were standing in their dugouts while using long paddles to propel themselves out of their ambush site and into the open lake waters turning towards the run where their apparently defenseless quarry hid. As they glided smoothly around the point of grasses and entered the mouth of the run, Clifton’s hand was slowly pulling his long knife out of his belt. He glanced briefly at his old hunting rifle, now sticking up out of the swampy mass of vegetation it had fallen barrel first into. He realized that with their rifles and powder now wet, the fighting would have to be with knives and tomahawks… if he and John could survive the arrows which were sure to be loosed as soon as the approaching Indians could spot them.  Glancing towards his hidden friend, Clifton could see the business end of a well sharpened  knife blade showing above the water, just hidden beneath the over turned boat which John kept in place with one arm while he readied himself for the unavoidable fight which seemed surely about to begin.

Often those who travel the trails of wildernesses near and far are doomed or spared by some of the strangest happenings. Sometimes a traveler will come upon a strange sight which leaves him wondering about the fairness of life. Once, a man innocently walking along a narrow river trail while looking for a good place to fish was struck unconscious by a falling tree. He fell into the river where he drowned. Why did that tree have to fall away from its riverside spot at that precise time? No one knew. Yet it did and an innocent man ended his days on earth, stepping into the hereafter to face his Maker, whether he was prepared for such an event or not. Many a discussion had been held around many a camp fire by frontiersmen about such things. Debates had raged and yet questions still remained to be debated again and again by campfire philosophers and semi theologians. Now, one of those unexpected events happened. And John and Clifton would live to often debate the whys of it!

As the hostiles turned their dugouts into the mouth of the run, a bull alligator suddenly launched himself up out of the swamp’s brown waters showering the first two dugouts with a wild spray of tea colored water and bits of flying lily pads! The uninitiated may think that such heavy awkward looking animals cannot leave their watery world with anything like a graceful lunge up into the air… but it would be a serious mistake to think so. This one did. With an explosion of energy, the previously unseen alligator shot up into the air and then came crashing down across the mid section of the first dugout submerging it almost stem to stern! Its two occupants leapt as far off to the side away from their attacker as their fear powered legs would take them. The rocking waves of swamp water caused the closely following second dugout to heave violently, dumping the Indian standing in the bow over the side before he could catch his balance. The third and final dugout swerved quickly away from the chaotic scene as one of the Indians fired a very ineffective arrow at the attacking alligator, knowing as he did so, the attempt would be worthless. 

Even as the alligator now hesitated lying across his newly captured resting place, Clifton and John both bolted up out of the water and quickly righted their dugout. As John gave a mighty shove to begin their escape Clifton made a long stretching dive to get a grip on the dugout’s bow and heave himself up and into the bow. In almost the same motion his sweeping hand grabbed a nearby floating paddle and within another second he had rescued his rifle, still sticking up in the the nearby grasses into which it had landed. As John landed in the stern of the dugout the boat almost swamped with water from the force of his landing, the next instant it shot forward as the two very determined and grateful friends dug deep with their paddles and made a run for their lives!

The shouts and excited talking of the now left-behind hostile Indians could be heard for a long ways across the water lily and grass filled swamp prairie. The excited calls of the now disturbed red winged black birds and numerous water birds clearly communicated to all near and far that the swamp’s peace had been shattered. Clifton and Cross Toed John steadily put distance between themselves and their attackers, both knowing that if the hostiles could regroup and give chase, their lives might be ended there in the watery environs of the Okefenokee. Though they were free, their gun powder was still wet and any fighting would still be hand to hand with the odds definitely not in their favor!

Many hours later, the two veteran frontiersmen settled down into a hastily scouted out defensive position behind a thicket of palmettos, briar bushes, and thickly located pines on a small raised bit of ground which swampers would often call a “house”. Most outsiders would have called it an island. The setting sun left an orange glow with yellowing trails reaching up into the darkening violet of the western sky. The towering Spanish moss shrouded tops of the cypress and pine trees swayed gently in the evening breezes which failed to reach far enough down the towering trunks to be felt on the ground.  Clifton, gently shifting his weight to a more comfortable position while digging a now well squashed pine cone out from underneath his hip, muttered quietly, ”Well, what do you think? Those egrets seemed to settle back down over yonder by that stand of cypress pretty quickly. Maybe it was just a passing bear that disturbed them?” “Possible.” The one word answer was all Cross Toed John was willing to volunteer at the moment.

The two had paddled vigorously for a good while to flee their attackers. Then they had settled in to a steady rhythm which quickly ate up the miles as they had moved steadily away from their possible pursuers. Occasional looks back and short stops for listening had revealed nothing. Neither man was willing to stop too soon. The numbers of possible outcomes of two men fighting against six using only knives and tomahawks were mostly negative in Clifton’s way of thinking and he was sure John felt the same. So they paddled on, crossing the swampy prairies cutting through gator trails and circling warily around familiar islands, now viewed differently as possible locations of hiding hordes of hostile warriors.

Later in the dark of the swamp’s night, listening to the haunting echoing calls of barred owls and the deep vibrating rubble of an occasional bull gator, the two men relaxed a bit. The drop off in their adrenalin had left them feeling at times sleepy and dull minded.  Yet, every sudden commotion caused by some unseen but obviously large alligator thrashing through the grasses in pursuit of some form of prey would cause another rush of adrenalin. Clifton’s hand ached from gripping his knife and his eyes stung from the continual beads of invading sweat which seemed to be on a steady roll from his forehead to the corner of each eye. Each man longed to sleep, but the thought of what might be coming had kept them from succumbing to that temptation. However, now they were feeling that even if they had been followed, they were temporarily safe. No Indian would risk paddling through the dark swamp waters in a low riding dugout at night. The thought of what might happen if the dugout ran afoul of one of the numerous large alligators in a narrow watery trail was enough to keep any sane warrior settled near a smoky fire enjoying the respite the smoke would give from marauding mosquitoes.      

Clifton and Cross Toed John had debated the possibility of starting such a smoky fire to give themselves some relief from the swarm of mosquitoes attacking them, but they realized that if the warriors had followed them, then the fire would only serve to identify their general location. On a dark night in the swamp, a bright fire could be seen for a few miles and would possibly lead the enemy right to them by daybreak. So they lay in their hiding place. Steadily, they attempted to apply dirt and any mud which was handy to any bare patches of skin to thwart the mosquitoes. With minimal talk they napped uncomfortably; often waking to listen and look around… both men knew that it wasn’t just hostile Indians they now had to be aware of. A passing large alligator, any dangerous snake out hunting for a meal, and even an occasional passing panther or bear could pose a problem which both hoped to be able to avoid. Slowly the night passed.

“I saw them first!” stated an almost shouting Clifton as he and John argued under the oaks near the trading post at Kettle Creek community. This latest comment was immediately greeted by several hoots, hollers and snorts of laughter as the locals enjoyed the latest round of the ‘ambush’ story as they were locally calling it. Clifton and Cross Toed John had returned to the community located along the east side of Kettle Creek without further Indian problems. The alarm they raised among the local settlers and passing hunters had led to an armed militia sortie being conducted along the stage coach trail running along the north side of the swamp from Kettle Creek eastwards down towards the communities established near the eastern borders of the swamp. Once the patrol had reached the Carter community, they felt that whatever threat had possibly existed was over and they had returned home.

Now one of the favorite pastimes for the locals who hung out around the trading post playing checkers and swapping fishing stories was to suggest gently that just maybe the whole thing had been a result of someone possibly imbibing a little too much ‘cold remedy’. This being the local term for home made brew. Especially in light of the fact that the militia had not found any proof of hostiles being in the area. The fact that neither John nor Clifton were known to be drinkers of rum or any other strong drink just increased the fun of the teasing.  And in the retelling and arguing over the events, the order of things as well as the facts of who did or said what had become cloudy in the telling. Hence, the current session of arguing. One of the facts which completely astounded everyone every time the story was told was, of course, the attack by the alligator as it had leapt onto the dugout. Speculation was that the Indians had been spearing fish and had been dropping them in that particular dugout while being observed by the gator. It was a well known fact that gators would attempt to steak a man’s fish if such an opportunity presented itself.  Several unwise fishermen had had their strings of fish stolen by a passing alligator while fishing in both the nearby Satilla River and the swamp.

“I saw them first and I saved your life by tipping the boat over,” Cross Toed John steadily replied. “I was just about to do the very same thing and save your life, but I had to first grab ahold of my gun,” retorted Clifton.

John rolling his eyes amid the laughter said, “Well, if that is so then why….”

The End

Ever had a day when you try to concentrate on something, but  your concentration is continually interrupted by a tune you can't stop? Happened to me the other day...

 

"That Tune"
Little singing voice in my head,
Please, go away!

That tune is so darned distracting,
Please... go away!

Dum, dededum, de de….
Please, go away!
...
I have to work today,
Please… go away!

...Thanks
cb

 

 

Memories Which Never Die

(Reading level: grade 5.9)

One last touch of the cross I wore and I placed my hands on the M-60 grips. Our Huey danced slightly from side to side as the treetops flashed closely past us. We were landing in a hot LZ. And I was the most frightened nineteen year old special ops soldier in the U.S. Army.

The radio’s excited calls for help were almost drowned out by the crackle of gunfire coming loud over the channel as the men on the hilltop fought for their lives. We were their last hope. The sky above the LZ was thick with glowing tracer rounds which had suddenly begun arcing up to meet us as we swooped in to land.

Arriving after a one hour flight, the two leading gunships had turned back badly damaged. Now, barely able to maintain control of their damaged aircraft, their pilots were desperately trying to get back across the border into Panama and out of the drug cartel’s area of control.

The six man squad on the ground was depending on us. We had to get them out! All were wounded. All were someone’s husband, son, or brother. We couldn't leave them! To do so would condemn them to a horrible death.

It had been worse than horrible. I’d never seen the shattered bones and exposed intestines of another human before that day. It was long ago, but it changed my life forever.

*****************************

“Don’t worry, son,” I said, patting his shoulder. “We have a good team here. I promise, we will do our best for you.” I watched as his eyes gave in to the powerful effects of the anesthesia. Once again, another soldier needed me to help him survive. But this time it would be a scalpel and the finest technology our teaching hospital had, instead of a Huey mounted M-60 in my hand. “And thanks be to God, I won’t have to kill anyone in order to help this one,” I gratefully thought.

But, the sudden brightening of the overhead lights caused my mind to serve up another brief flash of a nightmare of bright daylight, the smell of smoke, and the sounds of hurting men. Memories which I think will never die.     

Clint Bowman

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bell_Huey_family

I am very happy to let ya'll know that the current issue of Waycross Magazine (Spring 2013, issue 21) is out...and my short story "Death on the Satilla" is in it... thank you David Callaway, publisher, for choosing to include my story! I am blessed. The magazine has its own website (www.waycrossmagazine) but I don't know if the current issue has been posted there yet. Enjoy!