Until Walt spoke up. He just couldn't hold his silence any longer. "Jebediah, you ain't said a word in three days, I know'd you as long as I can remember; are you thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"
Jebediah was leading the way, as always. Not because he was a better tracker than Walt, but because his eyesight had not left him just yet. He replied over his shoulder without stopping, "What you tryin' to say, Walt?"
"Well, you know as well as I do this ain't no black bear we're follerin'. From the size and depth of them there tracks, we're talkin', twelve maybe fifteen hundred pounds. Ain't no blackies git that big."
Walt rode alongside Jebediah, the paw prints in between their horses run south through the muddy trail.
"I didn't want to say nothin', 'til I seen IT," said Jebediah. "But you're right, we got us a brown bear – maybe even a grizz." Walt pulled back on the reins, bringing his black and grey Cracker horse to a halt. Jebediah did the same, his Cracker horse was colored chestnut and slightly larger.
They looked eye to eye for the first time in a while; the reason being the ground required their full attention when tracking game from horseback. They both felt stiffness in their necks from the change of position.
Walt massaged his neck as he replied in bewilderment, "I ain't never heard of a grizzly travelin' any wheres near this far south. I heard a' one shot in the Carolinas once, but that were clear up in the Smokies."
"Yeah, I hear yah," said Jebediah. He took advantage of their stop to light up a cigar. "I been thinkin' bout it, and the only thing I can figure is them battles between the North and South has run this bad boy deep in the wrong direction."
Walt nodded his head in agreement. "That makes sense, Jebediah. I did take to mind these tracks are squirrelly, like this bear is lost and not sure where he wants to go."
"All righty then, let's git 'im, Walt. Hell, we'll be famous."
"Yeah, or we'll be dead."
They both chuckled a bit while they moved on.
An hour or so had gone by when the trail was lost at the edge of the black water of a still-water swamp, where the bear tracks simply stopped. The old men dismounted, their snow-white hair blowing in the steady breeze. Jebediah walked along the edge of the water one way, while Walt walked it on the other. They both stood with their hands on their hips, staring into the Cypress swamp.
"Shit! Can you believe it?" exclaimed Walt.
"Yup, that crazy bear went straight through the bog." said Jebediah as he walked over to Walt's side. "We can foller, but that water's knee high, at the least."
"To hell with the water," replied Walt. "I ain't goin' through that." He pointed with his crooked index finger at the black fog about twenty feet into the swamp. As bad as Walt's vision was, he could still see that the fog was moving.
"Skeeters," said Jebediah.
"Yup, skeeters," answered Walt, "Not to mention gittin' eatin' alive, they're so thick we'd choke on 'em." At that moment, Walt slapped at his ear, as a mosquito buzzed in it.
"Well, we could ride south around the edge," suggested Jebediah, "and try to head him off on the other side."
"That sounds like a good i-dear, Jebediah, We can pick up his exit trail, or if we git there first, we can wait 'im out."
"We better git movin' then, Walt." Jebediah nodded in the direction of the black fog of mosquitoes slowly coming at them; the swarm now only about ten feet from the edge of the marsh.
"They smell us, all right," said Walt, as they both quickly mounted their horses and spurred them to a run, riding south along the outskirts of the black-water swamp, glad to leave the bugs behind.
They traveled miles without stopping, until an hour before sundown. They would set up camp for the night and both agreed they should sleep in shifts. These seasoned hunters knew that within a blink of an eye they could become the hunted.
* * * * *
Ten settings of the sun had passed since Hunter James Dolin had ridden away from the gator pit. The gunslinger fondly liked to think of the pit as Scooter's gator soup. Hunter thought of how righteous it would be to get Richard Montgomery in that position, dangling by his ankles over a pool of hungry swamp dragons. Or, better yet, a nest of cottonmouths, for the water moccasins venomous bites would be a slower death and torturous. These thoughts pleased Hunter, but more importantly, they occupied his thoughts – a diversion keeping him from thinking of Lilith and Zeke. He allowed himself to think of Matt more often. Matt was an old man and had lived a long life, died an honorable death – a warrior's death. Lilith was young and innocent, and he had not been able to save her as he'd promised. Zeke was a young boy, born to a hard life in rough times; the gunslinger was unable to save him as well. He had never promised him directly, but he felt the boy expected it, whether the youngster knew it or not.
Revenge became the fuel to the fire that burned inside the gunslinger, keeping him alive with purpose and moving him forward. God willing, he swore he would have his vengeance in this life, or the next. No – he would not be satisfied with the next life, it must be this life, and he would not stop until he was very old or dead.
With these thoughts driving him, Hunter traveled the most direct route possible from the outskirts of Myakka City straight for Lake Okeechobee. His plan was to ride the north rim of the lake until he ran across Montgomery's place, or until he found someone who knew of its where abouts. He had ridden hundreds of miles, stopping only twice in small towns for supplies, all without incident.
In the late afternoon, he sensed a change in the air; it was a smell he knew well. He guided the Appaloosa off the path, maneuvering through a patch of yellow pines, breaking out onto the shore of the giant lake, Lake Okeechobee; which in the native language means Big Water. There wasn't a lake in the state that came close to its equal.
The half-breed looked out over the fresh-water sea as a steady breeze attempted to blow his black-brimmed hat from his head. The air was warm, fresh, and clean. He decided to settle in for the day.
Dismounting, he walked Zeke back into the pine forest and tethered him to a tree. He pulled a hatchet from a loop on his saddle, and walked deeper into the thickest part of the woods where he chopped down five small pines to make a clearing. He took the cut trees and turned them horizontally to form a wall by tying them to live trees with rawhide. There were two reasons for this wall; one, to block the wind from the lake and the other was to shield the light of the fire from being seen. He raked up leaves and sediment with a branch he had cut. Hunter stacked some dead twigs into a tepee shape and stuffed it with Spanish moss, then leaned bigger dead wood over that, forming the same shape. Removing the steel tip from one of his arrows, he quickly spun the shaft between his palms, the wood tip pressing on a split branch of a palm frond. The friction created heat, catching the moss he dropped on top of it. This happened easily for the ground was dry due to lack of rain.
With a small but potent fire going, Hunter fetched Zeke and walked him to the clearing. The half-breed's stomach was growling at him as he removed the app's saddle for the night. The sun was dropping in the sky, but he still had time left before full dark. Hunter grabbed his bow and a tipped arrow, along with a pre-cut length of twine from his saddlebag and made his way through the trees to the edge of the lake.
On the way, he picked up a four-foot long by two-inch diameter branch from the edge of the woods and pushed it down into the mud, like a skinny fence post at the water's edge. He then tied one end of the twine to the back end of his arrow and the other end he tied at the top of the vertical stick. He set the bow and arrow down on the bank and began digging through the wet soil. The worms were many; as they wiggled in his hands in an attempt to escape, he chucked them into the water a good twenty feet from shore.
Within seconds, the Crappie were thrashing as they fed on their wiggly meal. The bow-slinger brushed the black sand from his hands before picking up his bow and arrow and firing it into the frenzy. He snatched up the line tied to the arrow and pulled it toward him, the palm-size fish resisting
all the way. Hunter repeated this five more times; throwing more worms into the lake between shots to chum those to the surface until he had three half-pound Crappie, wounded but still flopping further up the shore behind him. If this were the cold season, Hunter would have shot many more for travel, but in the Florida heat of the summer fish spoiled very quickly, so he only killed what he would eat.
After gutting them and scraping the scales from the fish skins, Hunter cooked them over the fire, skewered with the same arrow that killed them. The white tender meat was delicious; he ate every morsel leaving only the heads and the largest of the bones. As the sun set over the lake, Hunter smoked his last cigar of the day. Then he fell asleep on his bedroll with the double-barrel shotgun lying across his mid-section, leaving Zeke as lookout, as was the horse's job so many times before.
Hunter James awoke with the sun and to the calling sounds of an osprey flying high in the morning sky. Ever since the surprise run-in with Sam Jones and his warriors, Hunter slept in full gear, from his guns to his boots. Zeke was another matter; the horse was stripped of his rig nightly, for he was pulling double-duty. Hunter had lost his packhorse months ago when it had come up lame, most likely from hoof rot. It was never a pleasant thing shooting your own horse, but the extra meat was a nice change from gator tails and snake backs.
The first thing Hunter did after waking was to saddle the Appaloosa for travel. He never knew when uninvited company might arrive, especially being a wanted man with a large bounty on his head. With this done, Hunter covered the warm coals of the spent fire with sand; he grabbed his tin cup and filled it a quarter full with salt from his pack. He walked to the edge of the lake and filled the tin with water. He drank, gargled, and swished the salty liquid between his teeth, swallowing some, and spitting out the rest. He was staring into the bottom of the cup wishing he had some coffee grounds for it, when he spotted a flash on the horizon of the ocean-size lake. Hunter stood from his squatting position and put his hand to his brow to block the sun's glare off the water. It was definitely a steamboat; it appeared to be moving north. Hunter moved quickly up the bank, through the trees into the clearing. Zeke whinnied, thrashing his head as he was spooked a bit from the fast movement. "Easy boy," reassured Hunter. "It's time to move on."
He unraveled the reins from the tree branch and slung himself onto the horse's back, maneuvering him through the trees to the edge of the grassy beach. Pulling back on the reins, they came to a halt. Hunter then dug around in one of his saddlebags 'til he found what he was looking for. His sixteen-inch telescope, a gift from the U.S. Army some years back. The safest way to track and kill Indians is from a distance, so it's quite an advantage if you spot them before they spot you.
Hunter extended the spyglass to its full length, and then putting it up to one eye while closing the other, he began scanning the horizon for the boat. He had seen paddle steamers on the lake several times, but he had never seen one like this before. This one was a steam ship; much larger than most military vessels that traveled these waters. The large red paddlewheel was located at the stern and an oversize drop-gate was at the bow for reaching a landing place easier in the shallows. The tall smoke stacks were mid-ship, one port, one starboard.
There were two Gatling guns on platforms – one was near the stern and the other was mounted on the bow. They appeared to be on swivels; Hunter had seen versions of these guns on military vessels but had never seen them on a private ship like this one. As he panned the ship with the scope, he counted five men on deck, all armed with rifles and side arms, none wore uniforms in blue or grey. These men were not military, and the hundred and seventy-foot steamer flew no flags.
While Lee and Grant fought over lands in South Carolina and Tennessee, other men in leadership saw the advantages of playing the middle for power and profit. Like the Comanchero's of the west, they bought and sold guns to the white armies as well as the Indians. These kinds of men had no honor to God and Country; they were driven only by greed.
The ship looked to be at full speed, and was almost out of spyglass range when Hunter caught a glimpse of the steamboat's name.
With his teeth clenched near the breaking point, the gunslinger cursed, "SON-OF-A-BITCH!!!!" He immediately knew who owned this battleship and where it was heading.
"He named it after her," said Hunter under his breath. "I can't believe he named it after her." With heat rising in his throat, the half-breed gunslinger put the telescope away. "YAH!" he yelled as he spurred the Appaloosa to a run, riding north with one thought on his mind – the torture and death of one Richard Montgomery.
Chapter Seven
Walt woke up at four a.m. like clockwork. With sleep-filled eyes he saw that Jebediah was already up drinking coffee. Jebidiah had the last shift on the bear watch, one sleeping and one at the watch; but regardless of their cautious schedule, they always woke at four a.m. The older they got the less sleep they seemed to need.
Walt would say, "I'm gittin' old and runnin' outta days. I'll git plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead."
Jebediah would shake his head in agreement and pronounce, "It's called a dirt nap, Walt. We'll git plenty of rest then, won't we?" Laughter would immediately follow, usually accompanied with a shot of whiskey, but not this morning.
Lately it had been more coffee and less hooch, for they were on a bear hunt. And this wasn't any ordinary bear; this was a Kodiak or a grizzly. These old coots had been hunting bear all their lives and they had never heard of a brown bear traveling this far south, ever. They were under the assumption that this bear was crazed, a rogue that was twelve-hundred pounds of danger equipped with teeth and claws powered by its brute strength.
"What do you think, Jebediah?" asked Walt as they packed up camp for travel. "We been half-way 'round this here bog swamp, and there ain't no sign to be found."
"I hear yah," replied Jebediah, as he kicked dirt on what was left of their camp fire. "He's a sly son-of-a-gun. I figure as I think on it, he turned around at some point and went out the way he'd come, or, he turned west and went out the side somewheres."
Walt mounted his steed, as did Jebediah. "You're figurin' sounds right, Jebediah. We'll ride west around the rim, and then north the way we come from, try to pick up some tracks. Hell, maybe that critter's lying in the middle of that black-water swamp, dead with distemper."
"I half-hope you're right, Walt. I'm not sure I want to find this bear. The way my bones were aching this mornin', I just might be gittin' too old for this shit."
The old men both chuckled aloud as they turned their Cracker horses to the west, leaving the sun to rise at their backs. At a steady walk, they moved around the edge of the swamp with their heads down, looking for tracks of a beast that neither man was sure he wanted to find.
The old boys rode all day, stopping only to relieve themselves and pull jerky from their packs; they ate, smoked, and drank water from the saddle. It was late afternoon and neither man had touched their whiskey bottles, which was unfamiliar territory for these two men. The earlier they started the day, the earlier they felt like drinking, and as always the old men awoke before the sun. But today was different, this day they were hunting a devil. With age comes wisdom and they knew they would have to be at their best if they wanted to come out of this hunting expedition alive.
Jebediah was leading the way a good ten feet above the swampy tree line. Walt was four horse lengths behind him and twenty feet or so up from that same line. This was a standard formation they used to cover more territory. They were approximately twenty miles from where the bear tracks had first entered the swamp days ago, almost creating a giant circle, when Jebediah came to a halt. He immediately pulled his Henry rifle from its saddle-sheath and cocked the lever action, loading a .50 caliber cartridge.
Walt was looking down for signs when he was alerted by the cocking sound of Jeb's rifle. Walt pulled his eight gauge, double long barrel shotgun and thumb pulled both hammers back.
"What is it, Jebediah?" asked Walt in a whispe
r.
"He came out here, Walt," also in a whisper, "and the tracks route into that saw-grass over yonder; the footpaths are fresh."
Jeb's rifle pointed toward a large field of grass thirty feet from the swampy forest edge which didn't give them a whole lot of room if that bear decided to charge out at them from the hedge of sharp-sided foliage.
"Dammit Jeb, he's gone from skeeter infestered swamp to saw-grass, that greenery is horse neck high; it'll cut us up fer sure."
"SHUSH… I hear somthin' movin'," pleaded Jebediah.
There was a slight shuffling sound coming from the tall grass patch, Jebediah's horse became uneasy, perhaps sensing danger. The wind was blowing at their backs, putting them upwind of whatever was lurking in the brush. The bear could smell them while leaving Walt, Jebediah, and their mounts guessing.
"Easy boy," said Jebediah, as he stroked the horse's neck.
"Hey partner," warned Walt. "I got a bad feelin'…"
Just at that moment the bear charged at Jebediah from the grass. His chestnut Cracker horse reared up on its hind legs in a panic with a loud whinny. The huge grizzly did the same, standing on his back legs while letting out a vicious growl. The height of the horse's muzzle was at the bear's chest as the bear was that much taller. They looked to be preparing for some crazy dance – the horse's hooves and the bear's claw-ridden paws were less than two feet apart.
Jebediah was hanging on for dear life, one hand on the reins and the other clutching his rifle. Jeb was in a compromising position, leaving him unable to get off a shot.
That's when Walt went into action; while trying to settle down his animal he dared not let go of the reins, but he somehow managed to firmly grasp both hands around his eight gauge. Pulling both the triggers, he fired the double barrel shotgun from his hip. Both slugs hit the twelve hundred pound bear in the side. Walt didn't see if he hit the target, for when the loud bang of that shotgun went off, his horse reared up, throwing him off backwards to the ground.
Hunter James Dolin Page 4