My breath was coming out in foggy clouds so I decide to quit feeling sorry for myself and walk over to the wood cooking stove. I need to do what is necessary to hold out until the storm breaks and I needed to start now. The oil lamp that was left burning was down to a matchstick of flame and emitting a thin string of sooty black smoke. I picked it up and gently shook it to see if there was any oil left and it thanked me by going out. It was not so dark I could not see but in a few hours it would be pitch black. Stumbling around in the mess Bonnie left behind once it got dark, did not appeal to me.
I took my gloves off and felt the side of the stove it was barely warm but should have some coals in the firebox. I lifted one of the round cast iron covers that had a spring handle on it, looked inside, and saw a few orange speckles among the ashes. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I could see an ax leaning against the wall behind the door. There were several pieces of firewood scattered around on the flat stone hearth. I retrieved the ax and chipped some kindling. I knelt down and opened the firebox door only to have ash and a few of my precious coals fall out onto the hearth. The firebox had not been cleaned in years and the ash trap in the bottom of the stove was completely full. The only way I was going to get a decent fire going was to clean the stove out. In front of the rock wall that made up the chimney was an ash bucket full to the brim with old ashes, and a set of well-worn fire place utensils. I bent over and snatched up the bucket to head outside. As I stood up, I hit my head on the corner of the thick wooden plank that served as a mantle. The explosion of pain in my head made me drop the bucket so my hands would be free to prevent my brains from escaping. In the split second it took me to do this, the bucket took up residence in the neighborhood my left foot was occupying. After giving my toes a proper mashing, the bucket happily disgorged its contents across the already cluttered floor. My only unoccupied appendage decided it did not care for my wild gyrations and decided my balance was no longer a priority. I joined the bucket on the floor. I lay curled up in the pile of ashes screaming and cursing myself for the stupidity of staying behind.
The growling of my stomach joined the throbbing ache on the north end of me along with the more subtle pain of the south. Freezing to death before I starved to death convinced me to get up and do something about it. I rolled over to grab the ash bucket and felt something hard dig into my ribs. I groped for it and figured out it was a small canning jar. I picked it up with the intension of throwing it across the room but the weight of it made me sit up and hold it in front of my face. Holy crap! It was a half pint jar full of gold! I turned and grabbed the ash bucket and was surprised when I saw another jar in the remaining ashes. There was no mystery now why my foot hurt. No wonder Bonnie was so hell bent on coming out here. I bet when she was young Old Charlie probably showed her some of his gold he found. When her family put Charlie in a home, all she needed to do was come out here and find it. The two jars probably weigh about four or five pounds. If I had to guess I would say there was upwards to a hundred thousand dollars of gold in the jars. Bonnie only had one I saw but I couldn’t tell what she had in the leather bag. Charlie Jennings was no fool. He had a simple way of hiding things in plain sight so he would not forget where he hid them. Anybody else would think he hid his valuables in the hardest places to find them.
You could not eat gold and it would not keep me warm, so I had to get back on task. I took a TV tray off the floor and scooped up the ashes and put them into the bucket. Opening the door to the blowing snow, I threw the ashes off the porch and the wind quickly swallowed them up. As I turned to go back in I noticed a pile of wood buried in the snow. I dug out what I could put in the bucket and carry under my arm. The cabin windows had thick wooden shutters held open by hooks hanging from the ceiling of the porch. As soon as I got a fire going, I would come back out and close them to help conserve heat.
The intense throbbing in my head was starting to lessen but the slightest touch to the prominent knot sent an ice pick reminder not to do so. I piled the wet firewood against the hearth and started to work on the stove. The ash trap door was still open and the extra draft had several coals burning bright orange. I carefully put them in the iron skillet on the back of the stove. When I started to shovel ash out of the bottom of the stove, the shovel clunked against something. I turned the shovel over and dragged a foil covered box out of the ash trap. It easily weighed twice as much as the jars. I carefully set it down with the shovel. If Bonnie had taken the time to clean the stove before she used it she would be rich right now. Glancing over my shoulder at the mess she left behind, I decided Bonnie was not the type to clean anything if she could find someone else to do it for her.
I got the stove in workable condition and managed to get a small fire started with the help of several pages out of an old cookbook. I put the dry logs from the hearth on the fire and a couple of the wet ones on each side. The light was starting to fade, so I needed to work that problem next. I took an old magazine and rolled it up tight remembering my outhouse adventure. I unscrewed the oil lamp base and poured the remaining dribbles of oil on it then lit it from the stove. My homemade torch gave off enough light for me to give the place a quick once over. All the drawers and cabinets were open, and the contents scattered on the floor. My search netted me several boxes of waterproof kitchen matches in one of the cabinets and to my delight a quart plastic bottle half full of lamp oil. Moving back to the stove I pulled the door open and tossed the remainder of my torch inside. Making sure the lamp had a good wick I quickly filled and assembled it. The small sense of accomplishment seemed to lessen the stabbing pain in my head. I now had light for the coming darkness and could move on to the second priority item on my checklist. I hurried outside and dropped the shutters over the windows then brought several armloads of wood in to dry by the stove. Food was going to be a big issue. My hasty search revealed a few jars of old canned items that had turned so dark with age I could not make out the contents in the poor light. The energy bars in my pocket had been calling out to my stomach for the last thirty minutes and the other end of the conversation was a loud growling protest. The urge to accommodate one of the two was unsuccessful. I had attempted to drown the louder of the conspirators with half of the contents of my water bottle. I was rewarded minutes later for my assassination attempt with a bodily function that exposed my private parts to the sub-zero wind chill for several minutes.
The cabin looked to be about seven or eight hundred square feet and one big room with a low vaulted beam ceiling. There were various storage cabinets and a fair size opened faced closet on the back wall between two double beds. The mattresses were upended and the linens in a pile on the floor. At the end of one of the beds was an old wooden rocking chair and behind it prominently displayed on the wall was a large dust covered bearskin. The bearskin testifying to the fact the bear’s meeting with another Alfa predator didn’t work out so well. In front of the window was a wicker loveseat with an old feather pillow hanging off of it. On the floor by the love seat was another oil lamp I had not noticed until now. I leaned down to pick it up, and it felt like it was half-full of oil so I lit it. The resulting illumination showed the extent of Bonnie’s search. There was a hook on the wall next to the rocking chair. I assumed Charley spent his evenings reading by lamp light and enjoying the quiet solitude. I hung the lamp on the hook and could now see the smoke from the wood stove and my torch in the air but not my breath. I peeled off my heavy hunting coat and hung it over one of the four chairs around the small kitchen table.
I did another quick search of the items I was stumbling through and set most of them all on the long L shaped counter in the kitchen area. So far I only came up with an old can of cooking lard a dented can of chili beans and a can of tomato soup. I would risk the canned jars last. I decided it was time to eat and an expiration date from five years ago wasn’t going to stop me unless the opened can revealed a stinking pile of sludge. There was a set of pots on the counter next to a dry sink. I selected the largest from
the stack and headed to the door. I steeled myself for the temperature change and quickly yanked the door open and stepped out into the blowing wind and snow. The wind howling through the trees around the cabin took on a freight train like crescendo compared to the subdued note from inside. The strength of the old cabin was a testament to the maturity of the logs, and the quality of construction that went into building it.
I quickly packed the pot with as much snow as possible and stepped back to the door. I took one last look at the unbridled fury Mother Nature was unleashing out of the north. I was not raised going to church every Sunday like some folks. The closest church was more than thirty miles away. We had gone there occasionally on Sunday for picnics and such, but there were usually chores to be done on the farm, Sabbath or not. My grandparents did not cotton to the religious fervor that drove some folks to pray and beg atonement for their sins on a weekly basis. My grandparents told me there was a God in heaven and I accepted the fact because of the source. As I stared out into the blizzard, I prayed to God Will and Bonnie made it back.
The warmth that met me inside the cabin was a welcome relief. The large clock style thermometer hanging over the closet on the other side of the room said a less than balmy forty degrees. I set my pot of snow on the stove and grabbed the driest looking logs to put in the fire box. In the silverware drawer that was on the floor, I selected a reasonably clean spoon not displaying the mouse dropping ornaments decorating the majority of the utensils. One of the other finds in my earlier search was an old bottle of dish soap that had dried to the consistency of paste. When the snow water in my pot got to the proper temperature, I would donate some to the cause of reviving the dish soap. Dangling from the upper cabinets down past the countertop on a heavy piece of twine was a multipurpose can opener. Apparently, Old Charley did not wish to suffer the loss of that utensil ever again.
I plunked my prized can of soup on the counter and grabbed up Old Charley’s cherished opener and proceeded to crank open the soup. It gave a little pop as the cutting tab sank home and made fast work of the top. I peeled it back and was not greeted with a stench that said do and die. It was kind of metallic vinegar scent that implied, do and possibly puke. I bulled on to the visual inspection process that would determine if the chili beans were my next victim. There was a viscous brackish colored liquid on top and definitely red goo in the bottom. I decided to work on the dish soap and get some usable utensils.
The snow in the pot was all water now, so I added a small amount to the soap bottle and shook it. I poured some of my water in the hot skillet on the back of the stove and added the soapy mixture. Then I set it all in the dry sink and washed myself a clean spoon and another pot from the stack. I wiped the pot dry with a stiff well aged dish towel that was looped through a cabinet pull. I figured any soapy taste left over could only improve the vintage soup. I spooned the mess into the pot and set it on the stove then added some water. I had once read that canned goods can spoil and you can get Botulism poisoning. I just hoped it was filling.
The fire in the stove was crackling quite well, so I turned the damper down some and noticed a significant rise in temperature. I took off Bill’s revolver and my hunting knife and laid them on the table. I looked at the small bandolier of six extra cartridges. Along with the six in the pistol I would not have a shot to waste if it came to hunting for food. The temperature near the stove was enough to make me shed my coveralls and my heavy hunting boots. I set the boots on the far side of the hearth and caught sight of the little utensil decorators scurrying in and out of my drying firewood pile. I groaned at the thought of how many mice that might be living in the cabin. I wished them no ill will because they staked their claim fair and square years ago.
My soup was at a rolling boil and it was time to eat. I had rummaged up a small glass shaker with a mixture of salt and rice in one side and pepper on the other. Figuring it could only help, I gave the soup a generous amount of both and set the pot on the table. I dug my half bottle of water out of the pocket of my jacket and sat down at Old Charley’s table. It was nice of him to leave at least one meal behind when he left years ago. Staring into my steaming pot of soup I hoped it would not be my last. The soup had a bland tinny taste that did not stop me from eating the entire contents of the pot.
It was time to see what Charley had in the foil wrapped box from the stove. I picked the package up by its fragile foil cover quickly discovering it was still plenty warm and dropped it on the table. With my hunting knife I peeled the layers of foil back to reveal a scorched rusty tin box that may have held cookies at one time. I grabbed the damp dish towel and pulled the lid up, confirming that yes, the box was full of gold. I stirred the gold with my knife seeing some of the flakes were the size of dimes. Somewhere on the property was a gold mine. Whoever decided to abandon it had made an expensive mistake. Then again, there was always the possibility Charley discovered another vein of gold in the surrounding hills. It was not hard to figure out what he was doing out here.
I waded through the mess on the floor and put the beds back together. I took the musty smelling blankets, shook the dirt and mouse droppings out of them, and laid them out neatly on the beds. I went back to the stove and loaded the damp firewood onto the blazing fire. Then I closed the damper until smoke started backing up into the cabin and then opened it back up just enough for it to breathe. With that done, I closed the heavy bolt on the door. I noticed an old bristle rug next to the hearth and put it over the crack at the bottom of the door. I turned one of the oil lamps down just enough to keep it from going out and grabbed the pillow off the wicker loveseat. I walked over to the rocker and blew out the other lamp. Then I sat down on the bed, turned the pillowcase inside out, put it back on the pillow. I lay back on the bed pulling the old quilts over myself. Looking up at the old beam ceiling, I said another prayer for Will and Bonnie then fell asleep in a matter of minutes.
I awoke the next morning early and did not feel rested. The occupants of the cabin had made more than one trip across my bed during the night. I knew it was mice and for the most part they were harmless but my mind would not leave it alone. Each awakening conjured fist sized spiders tramping towards my throat and face. I guess it was not totally unreasonable to investigate a trespasser. Then my mind shifted in a different direction completely. Now I was wondering how Bonnie could stand mice crawling around her all night. I recalled the condition of the cabin; I was thinking she had not slept at all. She probably stumbled across a jar full of gold and went crazy with gold fever.
Then I recalled the way she screamed at me when I said we were not leaving. The gold was worthless in the bush but back in civilization it could buy her whatever it was driving her to steal from her family.
The winter storm was still raging outside and heeding natures call was a bitter business. I managed to get the rest of the firewood off the porch and stacked around the hearth to dry. I had been working with wood stoves for months now and knew I had about a week’s worth if I used the wood sparingly. I opened the window shutters for the added light so I could search every inch of the cabin and clean up the mess. I started in the kitchen and proceeded to pick up everything off the floor and put it back to where I assumed it went. My methodical search started paying off immediately. I found another can of chili beans under a plastic bowl and then a box of mac and cheese lying flat on a shelf in an upper cabinet. I found another small tin box on the floor with sugar cubes in it but nothing more. I would have to venture out and hunt for food if I had to stay here for more than a week.
Bill, Callie and Karl should be back in Seratook unless the storm delayed them. If Wisener and Bonnie got back Tom would know where I’m at. As soon as the storm let up some very unhappy people would be out to get me. If Will and Bonnie did not make it back, there would be a massive search once they were reported missing. Then the thought struck me that Will and I would be reported missing. I was convinced no one knew Bonnie was out here. The worst part of that revelation started sinking in to
my knotted head. I was well over a hundred miles southeast of our known flight path and unless Wisener made it back, no one would know where I was. I yelled and cursed myself so loud I could hear several of my current Landlords scurry for cover. I felt dizzy, nauseous, and weak in my knees. I went and lay across the bed and stared up at the ceiling of the cabin. The queasy feeling was so overpowering I thought the soup I ate had poisoned me. My actions ran through my head like water. Hearing my grandparents talking to me in the back of my mind was just now dawning on me as the memories of a kid not knowing what to do. Fear had stranded me here and now that decision was swiftly coming to a reckoning. I grabbed my head with both hands and cursed again at my stupidity. The act of doing so sent me a painful reminder. The still sizable knot on my head was just another repercussion of my rash decision.
I got up off the bed and walked to the window staring at the snow. It was only pea-sized flakes, but it was still driven by forty mile an hour winds. The storm should break soon and hopefully the right people would start asking questions. Either Wisener would lead them here or the search for us would begin. My quest for food ended when I had everything in the cabin put back in good order. I faced the grim fact there would be nothing else to eat until I was rescued or I managed to kill something with Bill’s pistol. I had two cans of chili beans, a box of mac and cheese along with four jars of very questionable home canned food I had yet to identify as edible. That night I took a small portion of the mac and cheese and ate it for supper along with another small slice of energy bar I had already eaten half of during the day.
The next morning it stopped snowing but the wind never let up. I decided to go to the boathouse and determine if anything there could improve my living conditions. What I found was of little help. There was a wooden canoe hanging from the rafters and a couple of oars setting in the corner. I did find an old broken fishing rod lying in the canoe but the reel would not turn and the line was balled up in a knot. I knew the ice on the lake was at least a foot thick. I had no idea how much energy it would take to hack through it with the ax. If I did manage to get a hole through the ice, I would still need hooks or lures which was nowhere to be found. There was one benefit to my excursion; I found more firewood stacked alongside the boathouse. The wind was blowing hard and bitter cold as I made several trips back and forth carrying the firewood to the cabin. If Wisener made it back the wind would not keep Karl or Bill from coming to get me. I already knew what my Grandma thought of the word if, but I also recall her telling me hope gives courage to the helpless, and right now I was pretty helpless. I was seriously hoping somebody was going to get me the hell out of here.
First of my Kind Page 5