The "DOORWAY" Buck...

[CM Sackett]

The following is a piece from an upcoming book... I'll post in stages.

Hope you enjoy...

NOTE: The following is copyrighted material. All applicable international laws are to be observed concerning this material

copyright 2005... CM Sackett
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AT THE DOOR...
“Was you… aiming for his butt?”

Now, even in the best of times that wouldn’t have been very funny. But coming from a voice I’d never heard before, only inches from my ear, in the middle of a thicket where I just “knew” I was the only living thing for miles… it was down right cruel. And how in the world had he gotten so close to me without so much as the whisper of a sound in all these leaves and branches and brambles and briars? I spun around, powered a bit by reflex and a good bit more by embarrassed anger. And I was ready for anything.

Anything, that is, except him .

As my eyes began to lay hold of the body behind the breath on my neck, I saw a man looking intently past me (literally 4” from my shoulder) at my buck laying there on the ground, with my arrow still sticking out of his ham like an antenna on the quarter panel of an old Dodge.

His nose was sharp and short, kind of like you’d see on a pixie, or an elf in some Santa Claus print. His hair was as white as the first snow that would come the next mornin’, and was standing up like shocked bundles in front of the short-billed “woolie” he had tilted back on his head. His eyebrows, just under a wrinkled forehead were every bit as hoary and thick and unruly as the tangle we were standing in.

As I took in the rest of his frame at that moment, I noted that his head was stretched to the end of his time-chaffed neck as he studied the scene (hmm, I can't help but chuckle now, thinkin’ back on it… he looked like a turtle reaching for a treat…). His shoulders didn’t even seem to fill out the faded CPO jacket he wore, but they were soldier-straight. And his arms were back, with his hands past his hip pockets like a skier getting ready for a jump. The man was honestly intent on what he was lookin’ at.

And then, with that same intensity, he turned and looked me over.

Under those wild white bushies were the greyest eyes I’d ever looked into… pale and cool, almost like wet granite. In them, I saw a combination of curiosity (as crisp and genuine as that of any child), humor (not malicious, mind you, but damn mischievous nonetheless) and something else, that made me instantly glad I hadn’t challenged him, sight unseen. Yessir, these were the eyes of a MAN. I hadn’t had much practice at being one yet, but instinctively I recognized one when I saw him.

“You still ain’t told me, son… is that where you were aiming?”

Now why did he have to go and say that again?!

[CM Sackett]

___________________________________________________________

“Of course not! What do you think I am, an idiot?!”

He cocked his head a bit and said, “I’m still making up my mind on that point.” As he said it, the right corner of his mouth drew back, ever so slightly, into a dimpled grin. Nothing else in his posture and demeanor changed at all… ah, except his eyes. I did notice a flash of fire in them, just for an instant. Then he turned and looked back at the buck.

“How’d you find me, anyway?” I said.

“Oh, I’ve been following your trails for almost a mile, son. You stuck with him longer and through thicker stuff than some men, who know how to track. That says somethin’ in your favor.”


“What do you mean… ‘who KNOW how to track?!” I was getting mad again.

He just smiled.

“I don’t think I mean anything boy, except what I just said. Take his tracks, now… they made sense right off; yours took a minute or two to figure. But when I did, it was pure pleasure seeing you stick with him. Like I said, a lot of fellas who know how to track wouldn’t have gone through half the crap you just did… to find this deer. That says somethin’ for you, for sure.”

I was just beginning to enjoy his company. Then he had to go and say “ this ” deer… the way he said it.

“Mister” says I, “for an uninvited ‘guest’, you sure are full of opinions (for a moment, in my youthful arrogance and ignorance, I had forgotten that “something else” in his eyes).

He straightened then~~ turned full to me, and with the same soft, unassuming lilt in his voice, but with the fire-flash dancing in those greys, he said, “And for an inexperienced, unschooled tenderfoot who can’t even hear an old man with nylon swivels for knees coming up on him… you’re awful full of ****-n-vinegar.”

[Al Kidner]

Good to see your on here Mr Sackett. Tell us more about the book. I'm always on the lookout for a good read.

Alan. (Aussie_longbow on Tradgang)

[CM Sackett]

Evenin' My Friend, good to see you, as well.
Here's more...

___________________________________________________________

We stood there for a moment just staring at one another. Me with my best imitation of “You’ve gone too far, now BACK UP!” look (well, you remember what it was like to be a kid just comin’ into a man’s world ~~ when you had no clue how you were supposed to look or act in this type of situation, yet doing your best to act like you did… yeah, THAT look). For his part, the fire was still dancin’ in his eyes, but then they began roaming the whole of my face, as though they were searching for something they’d lost. Or forgotten.

And suddenly, they softened. He shook his head, and said, almost to himself, “I’m sorry son. Let’s get this one back to camp.”

And without another word he stepped lightly past me and grabbed one side of the rack. I turned and watched him in dumbfounded silence, then found myself moving toward the same task. Void of any conscious thought. Overflowing with a myriad of feelings.

I knew something unique and strange had just taken place... stranger still, because I found myself glad that he was there, this funny little man with the nylon knees and the fire in his eyes. Little did I know that at that moment, because of this little buck, I was standing at the door of one of my wildest adventures... and the richest of friendships.

[Tuffcity]

Nice to see you've come back to spin us a new yarn. Looking forward to the rest of it.

RC

[CM Sackett]

Evenin' RC...

__________________________________________________________

The Door Opens…
As we came up out of the thicket and stepped onto the field edge I asked him, “Hey, aren’t we going to gut this thing or something? I mean, wouldn’t that make dragging him easier?”

He never even broke stride, “If’n he had any size to him that might be a consideration.”

He turned his head and gave me a wink.

I had to chuckle at that one, my own self. For now that I’d laid hands on him, he wasn’t NEAR AS BIG a buck as he’d seemed when he was working the trail that doe had come down. But with steam lifting off the mornin' frost… his nose on the ground like a bloodhound and his bleached rack a bobbin’ with every step, he had seemed to be every bit the monster trophy my frantic nerves had made him. I suppose him being the first buck I had ever been close enough to pull back on had something to do with it. But I wasn’t about to let the old man know that!

“Besides” he went on, “if you’re willin’ to learn, I’ll show you how to take care of a critter in the field without making a mess, losing any meat, or taking much time. And there’s times, son, when keeping those three to a minimum can save your life.” And then he turned and looked me full in the face, “Learn to keep such things in mind, boy… even when you think it won’t matter.”

I found myself listening intently to his every word as he spoke of things “…to know” and pointed out features and facets of the fields and thickets that I’d never noticed. Funny, he didn’t ‘act’ like a “teacher”, but I gleaned more on that walk back to my camp than I’d learned from all the books and experts I had sought out to help me feed knowledge to this passion I had growing inside me. And in spite of myself, I found myself hoping he’d stay on for coffee and rations once we made camp.

I needn’t have worried…

[CM Sackett]

_________________________________________________

As we approached my camp he turned us South into a small draw that led away from it and the seep I’d set up next to.
“Hey, where you going? My camp’s that way!”

He didn’t speak until we stopped, on the lee side of a huge blown-down sycamore near the feeder creek at the bottom.

“Yessir, it is. Now stop a minute, and think. Which direction is your camp?”

“North… and a bit East, I think.”

“Yep. What else?”

I could see he was trying to teach me something. And while, for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what, I went along with it. “UPHILL!”

With a slight sigh he said, “Yes… what else?”

“A LONG WAY UPHILL.”

He was looking straight at me now, everything in his visage coaxing me on to recognize and grasp the rest of the pieces to this puzzle he’d put before me. But the only things I could see at the moment were that I was tired, I was cold, I was at the bottom of a draw that didn’t have to be gone down into and that I was going to have to drag my deer right back up out of. And I was standing in it with this odd little man whom I had never met, never seen, had no clue who he was… and quite frankly, was beginning to think I wouldn’t give a damn if I never did.

“Mr.” I says, “I don’t know. I don’t know what else it is you want me to ‘see’. I don’t know you… and I don’t know what the hell we’re doing down here!”

He just grinned, looked from me, back up the draw and said, as softly and gently as if he were paying me a compliment, “Ignorant. Ignorant as Hell… but honest. A man’s gotta like that.” And then, without waiting for me to decide whether I was angry or not, he went on with the ‘lesson’…

[CM Sackett]

__________________________________________________________

“Your camp is on a sweet little knoll, just off the flat we used to call Lost Lodge, over that way.” As he pointed, he turned back to me and said, “You chose well, by the way. Most folks head on up to the flat and use one of those old cabins. Never understood that, myself. Their scent and sound spread all over the gaming grounds, up there. They can’t hear the night sounds around ‘em, and can’t see the stars when they’re out. Why would a man do that to himself?”

As he came to that last question his voice trailed off in almost a half whisper. And then he seemed to catch himself, and went on… “That seep you’re watering at travels through nearly 800 yards of shale before it pools up there. It’s the sweetest water in 400 miles, son… that’s a fact. It’s an underground capillary of the aquifer that forms Ben’s Branch, a little east of here, and the Buffalo that cuts its way through the mountains back to the west. That aquifer also feeds this creek down here. And with you parked at the seep, this is the nearest water for 2 miles for all the critters. Do you understand now, boy?”

I didn’t. And he knew it. So, he went on…

[Paul]

C.M. I love to read a good story and Mate you sure can write one.......

With stories like this you would be welcome at my campfire any time.

I love that Patriarchal guidance. It reminds me of being taught in my youth by my Grandfather, Father and Uncles.

The suspense is killing me and I'm waiting with eager anticipation to read the rest.

[CM Sackett]

Thanks Paul... the honor would be mine.
____________________________________________________

“The weather’s changed, son. This is the second mornin’ in the 20’s… and snow’s coming. Lots of stuff ain’t holed up for the winter just yet. And there’s things in these mountains that’ll need what we leave of him to keep their own fires a-burnin’."

"And some of them won’t be bashful about getting their share."

"You leave it anywhere near your camp, where a cross-wind n-such like can ring the dinner bell far and wide… they’ll come for the leavin’s and leave you with a ‘thank you’ you just don't need in this country... 'specially this time of year.”

“Taking care of him down here makes a friend of the wind, the trails and the nature of things. They’ve got cover. They’ve got water. They’ve got no added reason to come up and investigate your camp.”

It did make sense, but I wondered why we hadn’t done all this at the thicket. That was almost a mile as the crow flies from camp. I mentioned as much.

“Well, you do as you decide, boy. If that’s what you think best, then drag him back out there and have at it. I just figured you might want to hunt that ground again over the next 2-3 days. After all, there’s some benches, just past that thicket, that this young’n’s granddaddy calls Home.”

“And while Death is a part of the livin’ up here, the added traffic of coyotes, cats and ol’ Blaze nosing around all this might bump that log-racked monster off his pattern just enough to spoil your getting him.”

“But, like I said… you do as you decide.”

As he finished, he reached for something I’d noticed before hanging from the front of his belt. In one fluid motion, and almost as if by magic, there appeared in his hand a thing of wonder, the likes of which I had never seen before. As he knelt by my buck I stepped closer to look over his shoulder.

[NCArcher]

I was going to say "It's very cruel of you to stop now C.M." but i guess it is about 2am in Arkansas
Hope those fingers are refreshed when you wake up so you can get straight back into telling the tale.

Tony

[jindydiver]

great stuff

[CM Sackett]

Mornin' Gents, at the time of this post (on the forum 'clock'...) it is 1:28 AM CST (US). Sometimes my fires burn into the wee hours... so glad you're finding a measure of "smile-time" in this piece.
________________________________________________

I could tell it was a cutting piece of some sort, that much I made out fairly quick. But its shape, design… and what it was made from were a complete mystery to me. And I had a strong affinity for blades.

“What in the world is that?” I asked in naked amazement.

He held it up for me to get a better look.

“One of the finest cutting instruments in the world, son. It’s an ulu, made from Russian Jadeite and scrimshawed ivory from a walrus bull that nearly made my first trip to the Sakhalin area of the Bering Sea… my last trip anywhere.”

“Here, hold it. Just be real careful of the edge.”

As he handed it to me, I was as surprised by its heft as I was by its exquisite craftsmanship. The blade, a good 4 inches wide, was shaped like an opened fan. The jadeite was a vivid, rich translucent green… I could actually see through its pearlescent beauty. It reminded me of a South Sea wave, caught and frozen in mid-curl.

The handle fit almost seamlessly with the stone where the fan narrowed. It was ribbed, polished, heavy, and etched with a scene that clearly showed a man drawing a bow… on a HUGE walrus.

I looked up to ask him about it as I handed this piece of heaven back. He was kneeling on one knee and looking off down that dark draw, like he was peering into another world, or another time.

He spoke just as I started to form the words of my question…

[erron]

Good to see you still writing CM, and thanks for another great read

Erron

[CM Sackett]

Mornin' erron, good to see you, as well.

____________________________________________________

“At 22, it didn’t occur to me that a ‘blob’ without legs would get so het up over me stepping between himself and the object of his affection, or that a 3,000 pound animal could move like he did.”

His shoulders shook as he chuckled over that.

“But I’ll tell you, now… that twin-pillared behemoth covered 75-80 yards of pack ice like water popping and skipping across a red-hot skillet. And me, being as young and dumb and sure of myself as I was, I just kept sending arrows his way. Got 4 in him… before my 1st lieutenant streaked across that red-eyed demon’s path and tackled me like a freshman tight end!”

“The man saved my life, for sure.”

“And lucky for all of us, one of my arrows did the job and ended the bull’s rage. Seems that in that frozen second of Eternity, one of my sendings happened to catch the beast in mid-lunge, dead center of the chest. The hit was good. And as his massive bulk came forward and down on what remained of the shaft outside his body, instead of breaking it… his own weight drove it the rest of the way home.”

With a final long sigh he brought us both back to the present moment, and the task at hand, as he said, “So, you see boy, we ALL started where you are… full of the Desire ~~ and hungry for the Experience.”

“And right now, I’m hankering to experience my fill of this little fella on the end of a hickory stick, over a warm fire and a cup of steamin’ hot jo. What say we get to it?”

[CM Sackett]

_________________________________________________

He stretched out his arm to hand me his ulu, and said, “I'm sorry boy. I’ve gotten so caught up in this whole thing, I plum forgot my manners… this is your buck. You want to use this?”

“Nossir. I wouldn’t know where to start with that thing.” says I. “Besides, you promised to show me how to butcher a deer without gutting it.”

I could see that pleased him some.

“Well now, so I did, son… SO I DID.”

In the time it would take to tell it fair, the old man worked magic with that blade. It was like watching a dance, really. Like one of those expensive ballets that womenfolk make over so much.

Not overly quick, and definitely with no waste of motion his hands and that flash of emerald green flicked and floated through their task. He made initial cuts down the inside center of each limb to the knee. It seemed the blade barely touched the hide at the groin as he moved along the belly side, and the skin opened like a well-oiled door, all the way to the brisket. Instantly, that sea of glass disappeared under the hair, and with sleek sweeping motions freed the entire body cape up to the back.

After duplicating those results on both sides and around each limb, he grabbed and lifted the tail, and with one flick set it free. The entire skin was laid up over the neck out of the way as he made short work of cutting the quarters, straps and loins loose from their hinges, leaving the spine and the vitals sack intact.

Slick as buttered salesman!

[ssga]

Unbelievable read, great stuff CM Sackett, tell me will the story tell me why there was an arrow in the bucks butt?? Supence is killing me

SSGA

[CM Sackett]

_________________________________________________


The morning was past full-grown and giving way to noon as we made our way out of the draw and up the trail that crossed the benches shouldering the mountain. As we climbed, we threaded through upshots of rock, standing like fierce, ragged sentinels among the oak and hickory. The old man was taking a trail I’d never noticed. And along the way, he continued to open my eyes to a world I’d walked through many a time, but never seen like this before. With a calm, matter-of-fact comment he would point out a plant or a track or an elevation change that wasn’t there until he slowed to show me. And yet, his voice was just as often full of wonder and excitement over some new thing to show me, as if he’d just re-discovered it for his own self and couldn’t wait to share. Later, I would reflect back on how easily he taught, and how easy he made it to learn. He was, I later realized, the first of very few people I ever met who were quite comfortable housing within their heart the wisdom of a sage AND the undying wonder of a child. He was indeed, a MAN.

When we broke through the last canopy of old growth, we came past a massive tangle of wild blackberry and honeysuckle at the west edge of the knoll clearing. At our appearing, the cardinals and blue jays, fluttering among the branches chattered their disapproval at our ‘rude’ interruption of their colorful commerce.

As we stepped on into the clearing the sun was standin’ proud and full on the top step of its angled climb across the early November sky. And the crystal wonderland formed by the mornin’ frost, while maintaining a foothold only in the deeper shadows now, still sparkled like the crown jewels on parade. My Lord! How I loved this land!

[CM Sackett]

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CHAPTER 2

It’s funny how some of the richest gifts and most treasured items of a man’s walk on this land don’t always come wrapped and packaged in such a way that they’re seen as such… at the time. Like high-grade ore, hidden under the muck and grime of rotten quartz, the strength to succeed, sometimes intertwined and unlocked with the challenge a crisis brings… or the healing and Purpose brought to life and given wing in the wounded and lonely, through the soft ‘need’ sounds and honest love of an infant-child... some treasures don’t show their value till they’ve been mislabeled a time or two.

This one was shaping up the same way.

[CM Sackett]

_________________________________________________________

We came into camp and I walked past my fire-ring to a tarp I kept over the supply of wood and sundries (ax, saw and a small can of kerosene). Lifting a corner of it, I picked up a large double handful of kindlin’ sticks and shavings to start the fire with. The old man’s eyes were taking in the whole layout, his head nodding ever so slightly in what I took to be approval of my choices. I didn’t mind that none.

I dropped the kindling in the center of the ring and headed back for the kerosene.

I’d just picked up the can and turned back toward my fixin’s when I saw a fire blaze up in full vigor, devouring my meager offering of twigs and sticks. That old man was sitting there on his haunches, like he hadn’t moved and hadn’t a clue how it happened.

“What?” he said in a tone of innocent surprise.

“You know what.” I said in a tone equally full of confusion and consternation… “How in the world did you do that already?!”

“I’ve been COLD before, boy. Made a promise to myself years ago not to repeat the experience.”

He pulled back the edge of his CPO jacket and reached into a war bag hanging off his right hip that I hadn’t seen before. He called me over and motioned for me to hold out my hand. Into it he dropped three small chunks of dark, heavy, richly aromatic wood.

“What’s that?”… that seemed to be the main thing coming out of my mouth this day.

“Well,” says he, “It’s been called many things over the centuries… “splint light” (the Indians used slivers of it for candles ~~ produced a flame as pure and bright as any lantern), “fatwood”, “devil’s drip”… and “lighter” wood. That’s the term I’ve heard used for it most of my days.

It comes from the heartwood section of nearly all old piney-wood trees. The best I’ve found though comes from what the French call “Pin a feuilles rigides" (the pine with rigid leaves), we call it Pitch or Bull Pine ‘round here.”

“You go ahead and keep those, son. Next time you need a fire, you may not be that close to your tarp… or your kerosene.”

“Oh, and by the way, you better put somethin’ bigger than wishes on this fire, son, before it goes out.”

“I’M NOT YOUR SON!”

[CM Sackett]

_______________________________________________

The words seemed to just hang there in the crisp air, like dirty laundry hangin’ from the campus flagpole. And instantly, I was just that ashamed of them, too.

He had been looking at the fire… my eyes were already locked on him. He turned and looked at me over his shoulder and was smiling like I’d just offered him a marshmallow.

“I know that, son… oh, sorry. Would you rather I called you Travis? That is your name, isn’t it?”

Well I’ll be damned! For about the hundredth time that morning he had just floored me again!

“How… h-how do you know that?”

He reached over to his left and picked up a limb and started breaking it up and feeding the fire.

“Travis, how in the world do you ever expect to conquer these mountains, or what you’re dying to accomplish with that bow there, if you don’t learn to settle down… and observe?”

He grinned… and sighed… and went on.

“I suppose I could keep you in suspense a while longer, thinking I’m some type of clairvoyant or IRS investigator. But truth is, two years ago when you first came up here, you stopped in at the DX station, just out from Mt. Judy. Remember?”

I did.

“You bought hotdogs, a six-pack of RC, a bag of Lays, a Heath bar and a county map. Oh, and $3.12 in ethel.”

“As you were leavin’, you asked about ‘good hunting places’. The fella standing next to the cig machine told you about Lost Lodge, then asked you your name. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember all that. But where were you?”

“Do you remember, as you came out, you walked over to that ol’ yeller Ford truck with the buck laying on the tailgate?”

“Yes sir. That monster is the reason I keep coming back here!”

He was still smiling… and giving me that intent look, like there was something I wasn’t getting. There was.

“Well son, uhm… Travis. That was my truck."

"My buck."

"...And you’re standin’ on my land.”

[ssga]

How much for postage and handling to OZ for the rest of the book??

I need to have it, CM Sackett. The story is great and no doubt the rest will be just as great

SSGA

[CM Sackett]

________________________________________________

Those last words obliterated whatever memoried scene his conversation had brought to light, and turned every single atom of conscious thought in my brain into fine stardust, blowing now across a black void of stunned shock. Yessir, you might say I was frozen stiff, and speechless.

Ever been there?


It’s not like I hadn’t tried to get “proper” permission… you can bet your last arrow with 12 days left to hunt I DID! Ever since that fella, Mr. Parks at the DX told me about Lost Lodge, about the spring and the meadows ~~ and the game. I had asked him who owned this ground and where I could find them to ask. He just told me what everyone whom I had asked thereafter said, “Don’t you worry ‘bout it son, I’m pretty sure you got permission. You just go ahead on.”

I asked at the café in Judy (nobody from the area calls it by its ‘proper’ map-name, Mt. Judea… they all just call it “Judy”). I asked at the hardware store, the little corner grocery. I asked the Hefley’s, the Greenhaws, a mister Foster… heck; over the last 2 years I must have asked everyone along Hwy. 123! And always, it was the same thing … I’d get some sly grin, sometimes a shake of the head, and then, “I’m pretty sure you got permission son…” It was almost like it was a conspiracy.

Little did I know how close to the truth that was.

[CM Sackett]

_____________________________________________

“Travis.”

“Travis, son?”

The old man was breaking through the fog.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you look about like a deacon, his first three seconds in Hell.”

He had stood up and was reaching for my right hand, hanging limp at my side. As he shook it (like he meant it), he was saying, “I suppose we could have done the introductions sooner, but it didn’t seem to be mattering much. My name’s Daniel Tucker Arnold. Most folk just call me ‘Tuck’”.

“I…I…err…I mean….um….I’m sorry sir….uh… I mean…”

[CM Sackett]

_______________________________________________________

Looking back, I realize he must have been enjoying this VERY MUCH. But that old coot acted like we’d just been discussing the ingredients in a saltine.

“You get that fire stoked a bit more, Travis, and I’ll set the coffee to makin’… if you’ll point me to the pot-n-such.”

Sitting there, under a clean blue sky, we handed first one side of ourselves, then the other to the warm embrace of that fire. The occasional popping of an ember and the soft gurgling of the coffee making were welcomed and calming sounds. The rich, dark aroma of its brewing told me that Mr. Tuck definitely liked it strong, which suited my growing appreciation for this basic necessity of outdoor livin’ just fine.

The Dutch-oven biscuits he had whipped up were posting their own sweet, heady welcome sign right at the front door of our taste buds.

And the main course? Mr. Tuck had seasoned the tenderloins with some ‘secret recipe’ he brought out from a wrap of foil, told me this would make them “some mo’ better!”. As we turned them bit-by-bit with the finesse of hungry men who were enjoying the hell out of the whole experience, it was smelling like he was right… again.

It had been quite a day, already.



...to be continued.

[CM Sackett]

_________________________________________________

CHAPTER 3


If there ever was a king or emperor who even once, experienced a finer feast or richer time than we did that day on a mountain past Cave Creek… I don’t believe they survived it.

The fire had been pitched high, twice. Every morsel of tenderloin (and a smidgen of one back strap), a good bit of molasses and all but 2 biscuits had passed the pallet and pleased the soul. A camp pot of hot-black and a couple of Heath bars later, I thought we were done. And then he pulls out the cigars… this old man was going to ruin my figure AND my upbringin’!

As he handed me my first wrapper’d delight he said, “Some men don’t cotton to a good smoke after a meal anymore… damned savages!”

He winked as he reached for an oak stick at the fire’s edge. Being a closet novice, I watched closely and followed his lead in getting my own started. Well, at least I thought I did. That second tug to get her lit and I felt like someone had glued my lips to the tailpipe of a Rambler! The more I choked and hacked and gagged, the more of that smoke I dragged down to my virgin lungs.

“Turn it loose, boy! TURN IT LOOSE!!”

It took me a minute or so to get my airway clear and some semblance of my composure back. When I did, I just sat there, staring first at this smokestack in my hand… then at the wicked old pixie who’d given it to me. He was sitting there blowing smoke rings across the fire and smacking his lips like it was chocolate cake. Then he had the audacity to turn his gaze on me with the most pleasant look on his face.

“Good, ain’t it?”

I almost joined the ranks of “damned savages” that day.

[CM Sackett]

_______________________________________________

“Mr. Tuck”

“Yes, son?” (that became a habit he just didn’t seem to be able to break… I found myself more and more thankful he couldn’t.)

“I want to tell you how that arrow wound up where it did. You see, I….”

“You don’t owe any man an explanation. Life happens to everyone, son… except legends and liars. I’ve seen you shoot. And I’ve watched how careful you are to work out a critter’s patterns before you set up on them.”

I gave him a look, at that one.

“Well, you DO leave sign young’n. And, I’ve come across you a time or three as you roamed about. You’ll do, boy… you’ll do.”

The fire was still warm, but had settled down under a flickering blanket of coals. The cardinals and jays had moved on to other fussin’ spots. A lone mockingbird, along with a gang of finches had taken their place in the tangle of briars. The clouds that would bring the first snow (and the real beginning of our adventure) in the morning were crowding in overhead like kids at a Christmas store window during the Depression. And I had just taken a dizzying step towards growing into myself a little more, as a hunter… and a man.

In just 4 short hours, Mr. Daniel ‘Tuck’ Arnold had scared the bejeebies out of me, angered the fire out of me, embarrassed the hell out of me… and brought out a desire to be the best in me. I had come into these Ozark Mountains to get a deer, hopefully a buck. It seems that I had also found a friend and a mentor… hopefully for life.


...there's much, much more


copyright 2005 CM Sackett

[jindydiver]

This is great stuff

when will we be able to buy the book

[pedro]

geez, loggiing in here every coupla days reminds me of the early morning stories on the radio. sitting down with a cuppa and tuning in for half an hour before school.
top stuff, ill buy a copy myself.
pedro.

[CM Sackett]

_________________________________________________________

We whittled the rest of those afternoon hours away as easy as a couple of young’ns with brand new Barlows and a lifetime supply of balsa wood. We joked and laughed and talked about everything… and nothing. We cleared the seep basin of leaves and debris and stacked up more wood and kindling against the coming snows. I noticed that we were gathering a good bit more than I could ever use in a couple of outings, mentioned as much to Mr. Tuck.

“You ain’t the only soul that finds value in this spot, son. Besides, in places like this, leaving a camp ready to come back to while you got the time and inclination and strength, might just save your life sometime… or someone else’s.”

And so we kept warm gathering, cutting and stacking. And the clouds rolled in darker and bluer against the mountain. At one point I noticed the old man was just standing there, staring toward Lost Lodge flat, his head slightly tilted and the beginnings of a smile on his weathered face.

“What’cha looking at?” I said.

“The ever-changing wonder of it, boy. Only God could darken the canvas and brighten the colors on this grand a scale.”

I followed his gaze up to the flat, with that dark muslin backdrop of snow clouds ~~ hedged to the west by the shoulder of the mountain my buck had called Home, and spilling out to the east over the flame-crested tips of the timber that formed the next ridge line. This wasn’t a particularly ‘rich’ Fall for colors. But with those clouds a-broodin’ behind them and the sun still finding ways to light their trembling cheeks, the trees were indeed a pageant of beauties. And we were getting to see it all for free.

I looked back at Mr. Tuck. His eyes were still glowing as he turned and said, “If you can stand an old man’s company, I’d be obliged to share the fire tonight. I’ve got a bedroll and outfit cached behind the seep.”

And then he leaned forward a bit, “And tomorrow, we’ll see if we can’t get you within shaft-sending range of ol’ LogHorn.”

Now what’s a man supposed to say to that?!

“YOU BETCHA!!!”