Rolland Love's Ozark Mountains
RIVER’S EDGE Mystery Suspense Novel
By Rolland Love
Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2010 By Rolland Love
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
The novel is based on Rolland Love’s experiences growing up in the Ozark Mountains; however, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover photograph Copyright ©2010 George Lyle.
Graphic Design ©2010 Mike Overmyer
Reviews
“Glad to hear a SEQUEL is in the works. I read the Blue Hole to my boys this summer on a gravel bar on Current River, a great book!”—Jim McCarty, Editor–Rural Missouri Magazine http://ruralmissouri.coop/
"To understand Overland Park writer Rolland Love, think Mark Twain."—Nick Kowalczyk, The Kansas City Star.
Videos, Photos and Happenings http://www.google.com/profiles/sunnybiscuitdog
Chapter One
The journey began as a celestial call from a spring-fed river. The power of water brought me home. All I had to do was patch up a long-standing feud with my brother, stop thinking about the murders, and not give another thought to the old man who mysteriously appeared behind our tent in the middle of the night the last time we camped at the Blue Hole. I was that close to having the three best days of my life.
I left Kansas City with my grandsons Jake and Nick at sun up and at noon we arrived in Lewiston, a sleepy little river town deep in the Ozark Mountains. I stopped the car on the wooden bridge my Grandfather helped build in the early 1900s and hung my head out the window. I looked down at a pile of sun-bleached driftwood that had washed up against a concrete and stone support pillar. Basking in the late morning sun on a log close to the water was a grayish-black snapping turtle. Aware of our presence, the turtle stretched its neck out and raised his head.
“Wow, that’s a big snapper,” I said. Jake, the nine-year-old opened the back door and jumped out for a look. “Turtles are prehistoric, you know.”
“Yeah,” Nick, the twelve year old said as he stepped outside the car to check it out for himself. “They’ve been around 200 million years.”
“How do you know?” Jake asked.
“Saw it on TV. Read a story on the Internet.” Nick grabbed Jake’s hand and held it up in the air. “They got jaws powerful enough to bite off a finger, too.”
Jake jerked his hand away and gave Nick a shove. “That true, Papa?” he asked.
“It’s true. They’re tough, mean and fast. Mess with ‘em and they’ll bite ya.”
“That one’s the size of a steering wheel,” Jake said. “How big do they get?”
“Fifty pounds or better,” I said.
Jake ran his fingers through his silky black hair and brushed it away from his forehead. “That’s bigger than me. I hope one doesn’t crawl into our camp tonight.”
When Nick and I laughed, the turtle slid off the log into the water and disappeared under the pile of driftwood.
I squinted my eyes against the bright sun and gazed up the river at what looked like flecks of gold dancing on the surface of the rippling water. I took a deep breath and smiled. I had forgotten how sweet and fresh the air smells on a spring-fed Ozark river. I looked up and watched a half dozen turkey vultures circle overhead in the wide blue sky, big black birds the Ozark locals called buzzards.
“My friends and I used to dive off of this bridge,” I said.
Nick tilted his head to one side and looked at me with questioning brown eyes. “Doesn’t look deep enough to me.”
I turned my head to the right and plain as day, I saw myself as a boy about Nick’s age standing on the bridge railing, waving at my friends who waited in the water below for me to take the plunge. I had a golden tan from a summer of outdoor fun; my blonde sun-streaked hair was blowing in the wind. I had forgotten how much Nick and I looked alike when I was his age.
“What did you say?” I asked when I looked around and saw Nick staring at me.
“I said was the water doesn’t look deep enough. What were you looking at, Papa?” Nick asked as he leaned over the edge of the railing and looked down at the water.
“Thinking about something, that’s all. The water was a lot deeper in the old days. Mother Nature filled in the hole with gravel. Any luck?" I yelled at a couple of kids under the bridge where an uprooted cottonwood tree had washed against the bank and created a haven for fish.
"Got some goggle-eyes,” the taller of the two boys, who wore a straw hat, yelled back.
“Caught myself a nice smallmouth bass," the kid wearing bib overalls and no shirt shouted as he held up a stringer with a half dozen fish flopping their tails back and forth.
"Nice mess of fish," I called down to the young fishermen. We waved goodbye and got back in the car.
“Can we catch some fish like that, Papa?” Jake asked.
“Sure, only ours will be bigger.”
I stopped at the end of the bridge and stared at a list of men’s names chiselled into a limestone rock.
“What are you looking at now?” Nick wanted to know.
“Your great-grandpa helped build this bridge.” I pointed at the cornerstone. “There’s his name at the top of a list of men who worked on the project. Tom Benson.”
“Looks like it’s been here forever,” Jake said. “I can hardly read some of the names.”
“Forever is about right. I used to ride across the bridge with Grandpa Tom in a hay wagon pulled by two black Belgian workhorses. ”
“How old were you?” Nick asked.
“Not quiet as old as Jake. Probably seven.”
As I drove down the main street of Lewiston I noticed there was a vacant lot where the church once stood. All that remained was a gravedigger's shed at the entrance to the cemetery.
I thought about the Halloween night I walked the tree-lined road that wove its way in and out of the tombstones. Sycamore trees that swayed back and forth in the light of a full moon looked like a congregation of ghosts. Halfway though I heard a noise that sounded like someone had scraped a knife blade across a whetstone to sharpen it up for some serious cutting. I ran so fast I fell down on the gravel road and cut my knee. When I got to the gate where my friends who dared me to take the spooky walk were waiting, I was shaking all over. It did not bother me that they laughed and laughed; I figured someday I would get revenge and eventually I did.
Now, I stopped the black Lincoln in front of my younger brother Dwayne’s house and turned off the key. Since he was nine years old, he had been “Dub” to everyone who knew him. He and his wife, Molly, walked out onto the front porch of their impressive-looking two-story log home and waved.
Even though he seemed healthy and fit, Dub’s curly blond hair had turned white since I saw him last. Molly still had the trim figure of a teenager. She wore a long, blue cotton dress, the color of the sky. They waved again and smiled as they started down the front steps. Instead of waving back, I looked down at a package lying on the floorboard that I had picked up the day before at the post office. It had my brother’s return address on it, so I left it in the car, unopened. Since I had not spoken to him more than a half-dozen times over the past thirty years, I could not imagine the contents being anything but bad news.
“You getting out, Papa?” Jake asked. He opened the back door and petted a black and tan coonhound that had poked his skinny head inside the car.
“Sure.” I had a knot in my stomach as I watched Dub and Molly walk across the yard. They smiled at one another and laughed, as if everything were okay between Dub and me.
“Get out. Stay awhile,” Molly said. “Got homemade lemonade for you thirsty travellers. Glad you came. It’s been a long time.”
I got out of the car and stood beside the front fender. Dub walked up to me and I shook his hand. The last time I looked into his pale blue eyes, harsh words had been spoken. “How ya doin’, Tommy?”
“I’m okay,” I said with all the confidence I could muster
“I’m glad. Real glad.”
My mind flooded with memories at the sound of Dub’s voice. Hard to believe with all the good times we had as boys that something went wrong between us. On the trip down I thought about what I would say when we came face to face. Mulled over a couple of things in my mind that seemed right, but the healing words never made it to my lips. The only time Dub and I had been together during the past fifty years centred on death: the funerals of our parents and grandparents. We talked on the phone when we sold our folks’ farm and grandpa’s homestead. The conversations were mostly about business. Sadly we knew very little about each other’s lives or families.
I had called Dub a few days earlier, after a five-year silence. I was bringing my two grandsons down to camp at the Blue Hole. He told me that the road to the river was rough and rocky, then offered to loan me his Jeep. I took it as a sign he might want to patch things up between us.
I walked beside Molly as we started toward the house and Dub followed along behind, talking to Nick and Jake. The boy’s finally bolted and ran across the yard, jumped up and grabbed the low hanging branch of a maple tree. They laughed as they swung back and forth like a couple of monkeys. I remembered what it was like to always be on the move, climbing trees, fishing and swimming in the river. I felt guilty about not making more of an effort to put a stop to a sad situation. It had robbed Dub and me of so many good times.
I looked up at the vaulted ceiling as we walked into the living room. Six hand-hewn support beams the size of railroad ties ran across the open space from wall to wall. I stared at a deer head hanging over a large stone fireplace. I remembered the day Dub shot the ten-point buck with a lever-action 30-30 Winchester that belonged to our Grandfather. Who should get the rifle after our Grandfather died was one of the things we got into a disagreement about. What a stupid thing to do, I thought. Why should I have cared who got the damned thing? At the time we had the heated discussion, I lived in the city and did not even hunt. I looked intently at the dark, glass eyes and remembered the dead animals that hung on the walls of Grandpa Tom’s river cabin.
“What happened to the church?” I asked. “Only thing left is the grave-digger’s shed.”
“Good question,” Dub said. “One night it just burned to the ground. People talk you know. Some said it got lightening struck. Other’s thought it was the work of the Devil. All I know is there wasn’t a cloud in the sky the night it happened. Chalk it up to another unsolved mystery during a full moon.”
“What kind of unsolved mysteries?” Nick asked. “Somebody get killed or something?”
When Dub looked at me and frowned, I changed the subject. “I’ll tell you about it later,” I said to Nick. “Nice place y’all got here, Molly.” I found myself slipping back into a slow, down-home manner of speaking. My Ozark roots, which were still ingrained, had been buried in citified ways for many years and were now branching out.
“Thanks,” Dub said. “Built it ourselves. Cut the logs off Grandpa Tom’s farm place. Saw ya’ lookin’ at the deer head. Remember the day I shot it and we hauled it out of the woods?”
“Like yesterday. Biggest rack anybody around these parts had ever seen before.”
“Or since,” Dub added with a smile.
The boys stood under the deer head and looked up through the antlers into a background of red cedar boards that covered the ceiling. A skylight in the middle of the room looked out toward the heavens.
“Do you still hunt deer, Uncle Dub?” Nick asked.
“Dub hunts and fishes all the time,” Molly said. “We eat a lot of wild game. Fact is I still have jerky from the last deer he shot. You boys like jerky?”
Nick looked at Jake and smiled. “Yeah, sure. I like jerky. Don’t you, Jake?”
Jake wrinkled up his nose and did not comment one-way or the other.
“I’ll gather up a sack full. You can take it on your camping trip.” Molly turned around and walked toward the kitchen.
“You still messin’ with computers?” Dub asked.
I was surprised he remembered. I had only mentioned it in passing many years earlier. “Actually, I sold my company last year,” I said.
“Papa used to travel all over the world,” Nick said. “He even went to China.
“I travelled a lot in the past, but I’ve slowed down,” I said.
Dub looked at me and folded his arms. “Sounds like you’ve had a exciting life.”
“I’ve done well, but there’s been a price to pay. So what have you been up to?” I asked. I tried not to sound overly friendly. Did not want it to seem like I was trying to build back in a few minutes what had been lost for many years.
Dub lowered his head and looked up at me through bushy white eyebrows. “I farm some. Put up hay and harvest a little corn. Run a small herd of Black Angus cattle. Hunt and fish my fair share. Do some preachin’ now too. Got a little country church down by Buck Holler turnoff. Been the pastor goin’ on five years.”
Dub looked deep into my eyes and waited for a reaction. It was obvious the part about him being a minister had taken me by surprise. As a youngster he was the most mischievous boy in town. If anyone had been voted most likely to end up being a troublemaker, it would have been Dub.
Molly broke the silence when she walked into the room. “Dub’s good at capturing the ear of sinners. Come hear him on Sunday. He may say something worth thinking about on the drive back to Kansas City.”
I gave her a startled look. I smiled and agreed to listen to Dub preach before we headed home. I figured I could take anything he had to say so long as he didn’t dwell on repentance and bang his fist on the pulpit when he looked at me.
Dub always could get people to do about anything,” I said. “Too bad there are not more like him to deliver the message.”
“Don’t worry about me trying to convince you to get baptized in the river on Sunday, Tommy. I’m not one to push the Lord’s will on people. Folks come around in due time one way or the other.”
I laughed nervously and was glad Jake changed the subject.
“What happened to your foot?” Jake asked. Everyone looked down at a bandage wrapped around Dub’s foot and ankle.
Dub looked at me and laughed lightly. “You may not believe this, Tommy. I got myself snake-bit.”
“Lordy, how’d that happen?” I asked.
“It was dark. I was giggin’ frogs. I stepped out of the boat onto a gravel bar. A cottonmouth moccasin bit me on the ankle.”
“Did it hurt bad?” Nick asked as he hunkered down for a closer look. “Did you almost die?”
“It hurt real bad and I got sick as sin. I did think I would die. But I’m still here.”
“That’s awful,” I said, thinking at least we had one thing in common. Too bad it had to be snake bit.
“I thought about you after the snake struck me, Tommy. Figured you lived through it, so I would too.”
“Can I see the snakebite, Uncle Dub?” Jake said.
“Sure.” Dub reached down and removed the bandage. “It was all swollen up for awhile, black and blue. Now I’m pretty much cured.”
Except for two small holes that looked like Dub had been stabbed with a lead pencil, his foot seemed to be okay. I remembered the day I was bit. The big cottonmouth moccasin buried his fangs in my flesh and hung onto my leg pumping in poison until I finally shook him loose. I shivered and looked away.
“I think Dub left the bandage on longer to get attention,” Molly said. “But the sympathy’s about to play out.”
Everyone but Dub laughed.
Dub looked down and wiggled his toes. “Hey, you don’t get bit often. You’ve got to make the most of it when you do.”
“You’ve got a couple of fine-lookin’ grandsons,” Molly said.
“Thank you,” I said as I looked around the log cabin and wondered if my travels and hard work in pursuit of the almighty dollar was worth the effort. No doubt I had missed the laid-back times once I moved from Lewiston to the city. Many times I ached for the serenity of the cool, clear spring-fed Ozark River.
“So you’re headed for the Blue Hole, your favorite camping spot,” Molly said. “You’re welcome to spend the night. I’ll fry some ham and eggs for breakfast. You can get an early start with a full belly.”
“Don’t think so,” I said, much quicker and sounding harder than I should have. I softened my words. “Thanks for the invitation, Molly. Like I told Dub on the phone yesterday, the boys and me are camping two nights at the Blue Hole. We’ll come back here on Saturday to tour the town. Get up Sunday and go to church with y’all. Head back to Kansas City around noon.”
Dub looked at me and grinned. “I can go along if you want. You’re not used to driving these roads. The Buck Holler hill is rough and steep. It can be dangerous.”
I shook my head. I knew sure as the world he would make a run at going with us. I figured his approach would be a little subtler.
“Well, I don’t know. I . . . I’ve driven down the steep hill before with no trouble. Doubt it’s changed much,” I stammered and wished I were already on my way. I felt bad turning Dub down on his offer, but not enough to say I wanted him to go along. “The boys and me had this trip planned for some time. Fact is, by the time we set up camp it will be close to dark. We best get down the road.”
I looked at Jake and Nick and wondered which one of them would ask why Uncle Dub could not go with us to camp at the Blue Hole. Neither said a word. I wished they had. Like the endless number of seasons that had slipped away since Dub and I were best friends as boys, another opportunity to patch up our feud had passed us by. It seemed we were destined to spend our remaining days like two lost souls standing at the river’s edge watching the water flow by until time ran out. The brother that remained would wallow in sadness and wonder why he had been such a fool.
Chapter Two
The boys and I got our gear from the trunk of my black Lincoln and climbed into the Dub’s red wrangler Jeep with an open top and a metal roll bar. We headed south of town for a ten-mile drive over a gravel road. We were on the final leg of our trip to one of the best camping spots and swimming holes in the country, at least it used to be. I had not been there in fifty years and my anticipation about going back to the Blue Hole had been building for some time. It was fun driving Dub’s Jeep down the country road on a warm August day. The air was filled with the smell of honeysuckle, purple and yellow wild flowers that grew in the ditch lines waved in the breeze. I looked at the boys and smiled, I felt blessed to be alive.
“How much longer until we get to the river?” Jake asked.
“Not long,” I said, wondering what he and Nick thought about me not bringing Dub along. I would talk to them about the situation between Dub and I when the time seemed right. It was hard to explain something that you do not understand yourself. Our disagreements had been over silly things, like who would get Grandpa’s 30-30 lever action rifle and how much we should get for the sale of our parents’ farm. I, of course, wanted to ask more for it than Dub did. As it turned out, what he had in mind in the first place was a fair price.
“Is this it?” Nick asked when I stopped the Jeep at the top of the hill that led to the river and rose up in the seat to look over the top of the windshield at the steep grade in front of us.
“We’re close. All we’ve got to do now is drive down this hill,” I said, not remembering so many rocks sticking up in the roadbed. I sat down and looked out the driver’s side into a deep hollow covered with large boulders, dogwood and cedar trees. There was only a foot or so to spare before the wheels dropped off the edge of the road. The slope was steep and a couple hundred feet from top to bottom.
“Seems like we’re awful close to the edge,” Jake said as he leaned over and looked around at the steep slope to the side and in front of us.
Instead of answering him, I took a deep breath and eased the front bumper a few feet closer to the top of the hill. Anxious to get to the river, Nick said, “Go on down, Papa. I’m ready to go swimming.”
My heart quickened when I took my foot off the brake and there was no turning back. My first rush of fear came when I heard a piece loose gravel zing out from under the knoby front tire, strike an oak tree sapling and ricochet back into my open side door with a thud. The front bumper dug up a rock that tumbled and scraped its way along the undercarriage, violently tearing at the floorboard as though it might burst through at any moment. It rolled out from under the rear bumper, taking the muffler along with it, and a loud roar filled the cab. A cloud of dust boiled up behind us, a foul smell of exhaust fumes permeated the air.
“Are we okay, Papa?” Jake’s voice quivered.
When I looked over my shoulder and forced a smile, the Jeep tipped up on two wheels, momentarily hanging in midair. Jake whimpered and Nick groaned loudly. I gripped the steering wheel so hard my hands felt numb. The Jeep fell back onto the ground with a heavy jolt. My heart pounded. Sweat burned my eyes. My brain shifted into overdrive. If ever nerves could scream, mine would surely have shattered the windshield.
From the corner of my eye I saw the pale look of fear on Nick’s face. He was obviously scared too, but covered it well with a twelve-year olds stubborn bravado. I had to remain calm. I had to act as if everything was under control.
“We’ve got it now!” I yelled above the roar as I looked at Nick again, then back at Jake through a cloud of reddish brown dust. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Do we really got it now, Papa?” Jake yelled back. “Will we be okay?”
“We’ll be at the bottom of the hill soon!” I shouted as I pumped the brake pedal to make ready for the last sharp curve.
The boys grabbed the overhead roll bar and hung on for dear life. I’ve gone too far this time, I thought. I wished I had never started down the hill—what was I thinking? God help me if I turn the Jeep over with the boys inside! I imagined us tumbling off the side of the road and crashing onto the rocky ledge below.
I tapped the brake pedal once again. I had to be careful not to apply too much pressure and lock up the wheels, which would cause us to slide down the hill out of control.
Finally we came around the last bend and I saw the river a hundred yards up ahead.
The racing engine and grinding gears quieted down as I eased the back wheels of the Jeep off the hill and onto the flat gravel road. After a wild and frantic ride, we had arrived at a place called Buck Hollow.
“We made it, guys,” I said with a half-hearted smile. “Did you have any doubt?”
Nick shook his head. “That was tight. Good thing you can control this Jeep.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. I leaned back in the seat and thought about how lucky we were to have survived. I was proud of myself for being able to maneuver through the potentially deadly situation while remaining calm, or at least give that appearance. I was even prouder that Nick recognized I did a good job.
How could I know the road would be in such bad shape? Loggers used it all the time when I was a kid. Of course, that was over fifty years ago. A lot of heavy weather had come and gone since those days.
“Sorry about the rough ride, boys.” I grabbed a blue bandanna off the dashboard and wiped the sweat from my eyes.
Nick patted me on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Papa. I was freaked when the Jeep got up on two wheels. But I’m okay now. It was like a ride at Worlds of Fun, only for real.”
Jake laughed nervously and wiped the sweat from under his chin with the back of his hand. “Actually, now that it’s over, it was a lot of fun.”
“I had it under control all the way,” I said, still feeling nauseous with a stomach full of quivers. “You saw me bring the Jeep back to the ground. That takes a lot of skill.”
I looked across the river and listened to the sound of fast-moving water splashing up against the base of a limestone bluff. A half dozen buzzards circled overhead like big black gliders in airborne freedom. I remembered an experience Dub and I had where a flock of buzzards were feeding on a dead deer. It would be one of the many tales I would tell the boys before we headed back home.
The smell of sycamore trees and fresh clean air helped clear my senses of the lingering exhaust fumes. I was on my way to recovery—much quicker than I figured I would be.
“What are you thinking about, Papa?” Jake asked as I stared at the tall bluff across the river.
“I was thinking about the rope swing we had tied to the limb of a sycamore tree at the Blue Hole.”
“Will the swing still be there?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know. If it’s not, we’ll tie on a new rope.”
“Cool,” Nick said. He looked back at Jake, who was bouncing up and down in the seat, and they laughed.
It seemed like only yesterday that Dub and I ran up and down the riverbank, free spirits having the time of our life. I looked out the side window at myself in the mirror. Even though gray hair and wrinkles told a different story, inside I felt like I was still Nick’s age and I never grew up. I squinted my eyes and smiled back at my reflection. I could not have asked for more than to spend three days on the river with my two favorite boys.
“Let’s get goin’ Papa. You said we needed to set up camp before dark,” Nick said and Jake agreed.
“You got it boys. We’re on our way.” I fired up the engine, shifted into low gear and we headed toward our destination.
We drove across a spring branch, eased our way around a fallen oak tree and came to a stop when the gravel road ended a hundred feet or so up river from the Blue Hole. In front of us was a large cottonwood tree with dried brown leaves and sun-bleached driftwood piled up against the massive trunk—a result of Mother Nature’s housecleaning during the last flood.
“We’re here,” I announced as I shut off the engine. “But hold tight. I’ve got something important to say before you get out of the Jeep.”
“What?” Nick grabbed the door handle ready to let the fun begin.
I pointed up ahead. “See that cottonwood tree? I’ve seen plenty of snakes in those havens. Be sure you’re careful not to take a blind step.”
“What’s a blind step, Papa?” Jake asked and settled back down in the seat.
“Taking a step without looking where your foot will land. That’s a blind step. Snakes consider driftwood piles and weed beds part of their home. A cottonmouth moccasin doesn’t take kindly to people walking into his living room. If you crowd ‘em they’ll bite you. Which would put a damper on our trip. If an old river rat like Uncle Dub can get bit, anybody can.” I spoke slowly and deliberately, since I was talking to young boys who thought they were invincible.
Jake looked at me and frowned. “I’m afraid to get out now.”
“I don’t mean to scare you—I’m just saying look where you plant your bare foot. If you see a dark brown snake, back off. A cottonmouth moccasin has a mean streak wide as the river. They fear neither man nor beast.”
“Why are they called cottonmouth moccasins?” Jake asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“When they open their mouth, it’s as white as cotton inside. That’s where they got the name.”
I looked back at Jake and he was staring at me with eyes the size of quarters. ”Maybe I should put on my shoes.”
“You don’t have to do that, Jake. Just be careful. When Dub and I were kids, we never wore shoes all summer long.”
“Okay, we will,” Nick said as he and Jake followed me out the driver’s side. Standing almost on top of one another they looked all around before taking another step.
“Is this the place where Uncle Dub got bit?” Jake asked.
“Not sure. I didn’t hear him tell where it happened.” I should have asked him where the snake attack took place, I thought.
“How old were you when you moved away, Papa?” Nick asked.
I looked across the gravel bar at the river. “Seventeen. I was seventeen years old when I left the country.”
“Why haven’t you brought us here before?” Jake asked.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “You’ve talked about this place forever.”
“Because of some strange things that happened. I’ll tell you more later.” I walked away, figuring I would wait until we were sitting around the campfire and the mood was right. What I had to say was an important lesson to be learned and I needed the boy’s serious attention.
I looked up the river and saw a rope swing tied to the limb of a sycamore tree. I heard the gurgling sound of spring water running from the mouth of the Cave. Nothing had changed in all the years I had been gone.
“Look.” Nick pointed at a flock of buzzard’s overhead. “You said they only eat dead stuff. So why are they circling us?”
I chuckled. “Maybe they’ve got nothing better to do than wait.”
When we walked to the back of the Jeep, Nick picked up the tent and proclaimed he would be responsible for the set up. Jake and I gathered the rest of our gear and headed down the gravel bar toward our camping spot. There, alongside the spring branch, Nick pitched the tent in less than five minutes, and we were set for the next two nights.
“How does that look?” Nick said.
“Couldn’t be any better,” I said. “You really did learn something in the Boy Scouts.”
“Kack, kack, kack,” the harsh rattling call of a bluish-gray and white kingfisher winging its way downier caught my attention and I followed the bird in flight. A rush of cool air from the mouth of the cave felt good on my sweat-soaked T-shirt. I cupped my hands and scooped up some cold spring water and splashed it in my face. I stared at the rope swing hanging over the deep pool of water and wondered how many ropes had been replaced in the past fifty years? Even during dog days when most of the river warmed up, the cold spring water from the cave and a towering limestone bluff that shaded the Blue Hole until mid morning kept the deep pool of water cool.
“What kind of bird made all that noise?” Jake asked.
“It was a kingfisher. One of my favorite birds on the river,” I said.
Memories of the last trip were etched in my mind. I felt like a kid again, standing on the gravel bar barefoot in the hot August sun. It was as if I had been in a time warp and it was still the summer of l950. I looked at Jake and Nick and savoured their freedom, not a care in the world and even more I envied their age of innocence. Never giving a thought that someday they too would grow old.
The boys turned around and walked away, tossing a Frisbee Nick had pulled out of his backpack. I stepped off the gravel bar onto a rock ledge to look at a hand-painted sign nailed to the trunk of a sycamore tree. In red letters painted on a gray oak plank someone had scribbled the message: “Hundreds of Snakes. KEEP OUT!”
Obviously, the work of some boys who wanted to scare away intruders—something my friends and I might have done years ago. We never wanted people snooping around and disturbing the private setting of our favorite swimming hole. I walked over to the sign, pulled it off the tree and tossed it behind a clump of cedars. I had preached at Jake and Nick enough to watch out for snakes. There was nothing to be gained from them seeing a sign about hundreds of snakes all around, even if it was just a prank.
I walked over to the place where we would build our campfire and sat down on a big log, five feet in diameter and ten foot long. In a few hours a full moon would rise above the towering bluff and fill our campsite with white light. The sounds of crickets chirping, whippoorwills calling and the jug-o-rum of bellowing bullfrogs would fill the air. Nick and Jake came over and sat down on the log, one on each side of me. I gave the boys each a pat on the knee and felt like the luckiest guy in the world.
“What kind of log is this, Papa? It’s a big one,” Jake said.
“A old white oak, probably lived a hundred years or better. Nice it came to a stop right here during the last rise of the river, so we could have a nice seat at the campfire,” I said.
“What’s the first thing you remember, Papa?” Nick asked.
“Not sure. Let me think back a ways.”
“Was it catching a fish?” Jake asked, knowing I spent a lot of time trying.
“Good guess. Actually, it was getting into trouble for not doing what my Dad told me to do.”
“How old were you?” Nick asked.
“About three years old. I walked into the garden and stepped on a ripe tomato. I laughed as the red juice squished up between my toes. Dad picked me up and carried me to a picnic table in the backyard. He told me to stay put. A few minutes latter I waddled back into the garden again, stomped on another tomato and laughed even louder.”
“Did you get a spanking?”
“Funny you asked, Jake. Yep, the second time Dad swatted my behind. I cried and my dog Trouser licked away the tears. That was the only time Dad ever spanked me. Even when I accidentally broke a kitchen window with a baseball, twice in the same day. Even still, when I look at a tomato, sometimes I think about what happened. As it turned out, we had more tomatoes than we could eat that year.”
“How can you remember so far back?” Jake said. “That was ancient times.”
“I remember a lot from when I was a kid. You’ll probably get tired of hearing about it by the time we head back to Kansas City.”
“No I won’t, Papa,” Jake said. “I never get tired of your stories.”
“What about you, Nick?” I asked.
“If I haven’t heard them before.” Nick picked up a rock and skipped it across the water. “Some of the really good ones would be okay, I guess.”
“I’ll try to tell the best of the lot,” I said as I watched the ripples from the rock spread across the surface of the water and come to rest at the river’s edge.
“I know one story I don’t want to hear again,” Nick said. “Can you guess which one?”
I smiled. “No, but if I start to tell it you can stop me.” I figured it was either the one about the dead opossum that walked away, or the time I got bit by a snake.
“Okay, I will.” Nick jumped up off the log and waded barefoot into the water where the spring branch that flowed from the mouth of the Cave ran into the river.
“Oh! Oh!” Nick yelled as he ran out of the water up onto the gravel bar.
I laughed. “Cold enough for ya?”
“It’s like ice water! I never felt nothing so cold!”
Jake jumped off the log and waded into the spring branch up to his knees. In the time it took for Nick and me to look at one another and smile, Jake turned around and high-tailed it back to the bank. “My legs are frozen!” he yelled, his lips trembling.
Still laughing about how quickly Jake got in and out of the cold water, I looked up when I heard a loud screech and saw a pair of red-tail hawks circling overhead, soaring effortlessly on the thermal updraft.
“When I was a kid I’d lay in the yard and watch red-tailed hawks for hours. They mate for life, so the same pair would return each year. Sometimes they would fly around each other and turn cartwheels in the air. Even free fall air hundreds of feet and recover just before hitting the ground.”
“How come those two aren’t doing all that stuff?” Jake asked.
“They only act like that in the springtime when they’re mating.”
Nick and Jake looked at me without saying a word. I figured the subject of mating had raised some questions, but they were too embarrassed to ask and I was not well enough informed on the sensitive subject to launch off on a diatribe about the mating habits of hawks.
“I’d like to see hawks doing that sometime,” Nick said and Jake agreed that it would be a cool thing to watch.
“Next spring we can drive to the country and see them do their dance. I had something really weird happen to me once after watching a couple of red tail hawks. Hardly anybody knows about it so if I tell, you’ve got to promise it stays between us fellas.”
The boys quickly agreed that my secret was safe with them for the rest of their lives.
“I had been watching the hawk dance off and on for a couple of days wishing I could fly. So I made some wings out of cardboard, jumped off the roof of the barn and broke my leg.”
I figured there would be a barrage of questions, starting with how old was I, what did my mom and dad say and other stuff. Instead, Jake just frowned and Nick simply said, “I wouldn’t want anybody to know either, Papa.”
“Yeah, well that’s why I haven’t told anybody before,” I said in disbelief because so little interest was shown in what was a really daring thing to do.
“I’m going to check out what’s up there.” Nick jumped off the log and started up the spring branch toward the cave with Jake close behind. The boys stopped when they reached the spot where a crumbling dam made out of concrete and limestone rocks ran from one side of the spring branch to the other. From there the boys climbed up to the top of a big boulder in front of the cave.
“Wow, this is incredible,” Nick yelled.
“Come look at what we’ve found, Papa,” Jake said.
I smiled, knowing what an unusual site it was seeing the cave and a deep pool of crystal clear spring water for the first time. As I hurried along, my footsteps fell silent on a layer of spongy green moss that was shaded by willow trees growing along the water’s edge. “What do you think of this place?” I asked as I climbed up the boulder and stood behind Jake as he stared at the astonishing work of Mother Nature.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my whole life,” Jake said as he pointed at the mouth of the cave, a dark hole in the side of the bluff the size of a small house.
“I used to be afraid of this cave when I was young. I never walked up here by myself until I was at least ten years old,” I said.
“How come?” Nick asked.
“I thought there might be something living down deep down in the bowels of the cavern that might like to feed on the flesh of a tender young boy.”
I realized that was the wrong thing to say when Jake looked at me and wrinkled up his nose, so I changed the subject.
“After I was older and not afraid of what might be living in the cave anymore, I used to think it would be a good place to hide if I ever ran away from home. Plenty of cool water to drink and the air would be the same sixty-degree temperature all year long. I figured I’d get along just dandy living on fish, squirrels, watercress and wild berries.”
“Why would you want to run away?” Nick asked.
“I wouldn’t when I was a kid. I might be tempted now to get away from the rat race. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to go. If you want to come along you’re both welcome.”
“What’s the deal on the dam?” Nick asked.
“Now that’s an interesting story.”
“Anything you don’t have a story about, Papa?”
I patted Jake on the top of his head. “Not I can think of off hand,” I said. “Let’s climb down and I’ll tell you the history of the dam. It’s a good one.”
Standing in front of the crumbling limestone remains that held back the deep pool of spring water, I pointed at a rock with the date 1896 chiselled into the face and started my story.
“More than a hundred years ago a man named Bob Madison and his two sons built this dam.” I stopped when I heard a noise off to my right that sounded like the snap of a dead limb. It could have been a squirrel chewing on a hickory nut or a wild hog running through the brush. More likely it was the announcement of the Madison’s spirits. As in the past, there was a strange feeling like something had thinned out the air. The first time it happened I thought it was just my imagination. Later on there was no doubt about what it was and now, all these many years later, the same closed-in feeling has come back. It only lasts for a couple of minutes and then goes away.
“What are you looking at, Papa? Did you go to sleep?” Nick asked, being cute like twelve-year-old boys have been known to do.
I looked at Nick and squinted my eyes but did not say anything.
“So why’d they build a dam here?” Jake asked as he walked out into the spring branch, stood there for about five seconds and hurried back to the bank complaining that the water was so cold.
Before I could answer, Nick turned around and started to walk toward camp. “Why do we even care? I’m going skip rocks.”
“Why care?” I said, louder than need be. “You’ll care plenty when you find out how the Madisons died. Fact is, what I’ve got to say might just save your life.”
Chapter Three
Nick looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “Come on, Papa. Quit trying to scare us. Let’s go cook hotdogs.”
“We’ve got time. It’ll be plenty light even after dark.”
“How can that be?” Nick asked.
“Once the full moon rises above the top of the bluff. It will be almost light as day. Sometimes people do strange things during a full moon. You boys ever heard that before?”
Jake brushed off my reference to a full moon as if it were not worth talking about. “What about the Madisons?” He asked.
“So, you want to hear more about the Madisons.” I paused and looked around. “They dammed up the spring branch to power a water wheel, which would turn a grinding stone and crush corn into meal.”
“It takes dirt to grow corn,” Nick said. “There’s nothing’ around here but hills and hollers and gravel.”
“That’s true,” I said, wondering how Nick knew to call the valleys between Ozark Mountain ridges hollers, a term normally used only by local residents. “However, the Madisons had a good plan.”
“Like what?” Jake said.
“Farmers would haul wagon loads of corn to Rocky Ford- that’s a crossing ten miles up river- float it downstream on flat-bottom barges to the Blue Hole. After it was ground up they’d float the meal down to Ashbury, from there it would be shipped by rail to St. Louis and Little Rock.”
Nick grunted. “Sounds like a wild idea.”
“Wild ideas are what created the nice things you have, Nick. People thought Ben Franklin was off his rocker when he tied a key to a kite and discovered electricity. You’d miss not having electric lights and your computer I bet?”
Nick cocked his head to one side and stared at me. “Where did you hear the Madison story?”
“Grandpa Tom knew old man Madison. He told me. No way he’d make up such a story.”
“Just wondered. So what happened in the end?” Nick said.
“Grandpa Tom said their idea would have worked. Except a month or so after the dam got built, the Madisons died.”
“All of them?” Nick said.
I nodded my head. “All three.”
“What happened?” Jake blurted out. “Did they die right here, Papa?”
Before I could say anything, I heard a noise in the brush that this time sounded like the crack of a whip.
Nick looked at me and his eyes got big. “What was that?”
“Could have been a limb snapped. More likely it was the ghost of the Madisons. I’m sure they don’t like us tromping around in their space. Stepping on their ghost toes.”
“Come on, Papa. You're trying to scare us,” Nick said.
“Can’t think of any reason I’d do that, Nick. Once it gets dark, you’ll scare your own self enough. You won’t need any help from me.”
“So what happened?” Jake asked. “What killed them all?”
“Tick fever. Common ol’ deer ticks killed the whole bunch. You boys best check yourself good before you go to bed.”
“You serious?” Nick looked at his arms and legs and brushed a brown speck of dirt off his knee.
“As a heart attack. That’s why I told the story. There’s some things to watch out for on the river and that’s one.”
Jake shuddered. “I don’t feel very safe.”
“You’re safe as can be. All I’m saying is check for ticks, especially in places where the sun don’t shine. Don’t reach into a driftwood pile. Don’t put your barefoot where you haven’t already looked. Do those things and you’ll be fine?
A spray of gravel flew into the water as Nick kicked the ground. Minnows darted over to investigate. “If I’ve already been tick-bit. What good will it do?” he whined.
“None,” I said grimly. “That’s why I said keep your eyes open. Catch the little creatures while they’re crawling around.”
“Darn you, Papa,” Nick growled. “I hated that story—true or not.”
Jake pulled the front of his bathing suit away from his belly and looked down. “Not all ticks cause tick fever do they, Papa?”
“That’s right. Fact is, most don’t. I’m just saying an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
I looked across the river at the ridge covered with cedar trees and remembered what I saw the last time Dub and I camped at the Blue Hole. A white headed old man with a long beard stood in a beam of light. As usual, Dub thought I was trying to fool him. That was until latter that night when the mysterious old man showed up behind our tent, where a fire burned brightly. I looked down and there were goose bumps on my arms.
“What are you looking at, Papa?” Jake asked.
I turned around. “Nothing. How about we gather some wood? We want a blazing fire, don’t we, boys?”
“Yeah, a really big one,” Jake, said.
“You look pale, Papa. Are you sick? Please don’t say you saw a ghost.”
“I’m fine as a fiddle,” I said to Nick as I started to walk down the riverbank and the boys followed close behind.
Dub used to think I was tying to fool him. Now Nick did the same thing. I had been known to pull a trick or two but, not enough anybody needed to guard against becoming a victim.
I stopped in front of a driftwood pile and looked at the sun-bleached limbs and dry leaves that were stacked up at the base of a cottonwood tree. A survivor of Mother Nature’s abuse for a century, the giant tree would soon be dead. Erosion had exposed the roots; during the next flood the power of rushing water would rip the tree out of the ground. Downstream, it would come to rest against a bluff or a rocky bank and provide shelter for the fish and other river creatures. One day the last of the trunk would rot away. The gentle giant would be consumed by the earth from which it came and a sapling would sprout and take its place.
“Lots of wood here,” Jake said, not making any sudden moves.
“Enough to burn ‘til we go to bed.” I took a step so the three of us were side by side.
“Who’s going to pick up the first piece?” I asked. My heart raced as I stared at the driftwood pile. The sting of a cottonmouth moccasin’s sharp fangs as they sank into my flesh was something I would always remember.
“Let’s make some noise. Throw rocks and yell—that would scare the snakes away, wouldn’t it, Papa?” Jake said as he reached down and grabbed a handful of gravel.
My mind flashed back fifty years. I saw Dub and me standing side by side on the riverbank when we were kids. He yelled and kicked gravel in front of him toward the driftwood pile. Only back then, it was after dark and we were both so afraid we were numb.
“Are you scared, Papa?” Jake asked when I did not answer him, catching me off-guard.
I looked at him and thought about what Doc Barnes, the old country doctor in Lewiston, told me after I got snake bit. He said I had to face my fears. If I didn’t, I may be scared for the rest of my life. I did what he said and it worked.
“Tell you what, boys, people scare themselves for no good reason except fear itself.”
“Don’t try to fool us with words, Papa,” Nick said.
I tossed my head back and got a little defensive. “Have I done that so far? I didn’t mean to if I did.”
Nick frowned. “I don’t know. I guess not.”
Once again I thought about how much Nick was like Dub when he was a kid- both thought I was trying to fool them much of the time.
“Tell you what, Nick. I won’t make up a story and play like it’s for real, okay? I may stretch the truth some but, that’s what storytellers do.”
“Okay, Papa. If you say it’s so, I’ll believe it. But I’m pretty grown-up now. Not easy to fool like when I was ten years old.” Jake looked at Nick and frowned. “I didn’t mean you, Jake. I was talking about other kids.”
Jake reached down and picked up a rock the size of a baseball and threw it at the driftwood pile. Nick and I laughed. Nothing stirred. To my amazement, Jake bravely walked up within wood-picking range and stopped. When Nick and I stepped up beside him, Jake reached into the woodpile and grabbed a limb the size of a baseball bat and he tossed it onto the gravel bar behind us.
“What made you so brave all of a sudden?” I asked.
“I’ve always been brave.” Jake reached down and grabbed another stick. “Just don’t talk about it like some people.”
Nick and I smiled at one another as we picked up an armload of wood.
“When Dub and I camped here last time a tree frog jumped out of a driftwood pile. The thing scared me so bad I wet my pants,” I said.
“Did Uncle Dub laugh?” Jake asked.
“No, he didn’t. It was dark and there was too much spooky stuff going on for us to think anything was very funny.”
Jake snickered. “Can’t believe you told Uncle Dub you wet your pants. I wouldn’t tell anybody.”
“I only did it because I was so happy to be alive. I said if he ever told anyone I’d be mad forever.”
“What kind of spooky stuff was going on?” Nick asked.
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s dump the wood and seine some minnows. We’ll go down river and catch a some fish for dinner.”
The sound of gravel crunched under foot as we walked toward camp with and armload of firewood.
“What all we doing tomorrow?” Nick asked.
“We’ve got great adventures,” I said as we dumped the wood. “One thing is we’re going upriver a quarter mile to explore Leatherwood Cave. Last time your Uncle Dub and I were there we found a dead man.”
“Did you really, Papa?” Nick said. “What happened?”
“It’s a gruesome story. I’m afraid to tell it so close to bedtime. You’ll have nightmares.”
“You keep saying you’ll tell us things later. I hope we don’t run out of time. We might miss some stories.”
“We won’t run out of time. I’ll make sure of that, Jake.”
Nick pointed at the mouth of the cave and said “Why don’t we explore this one? Why go so far away?”
“You can only go inside maybe fifty feet because it’s filled with water. Leatherwood Cave has a lot of crawl space and deep caverns. It would take days to explore.
Jake looked at me wide-eyed. “Will there be bats flying around?”
“Sure there will be bats,” Nick said. “Mr. Hodges, our science teacher said bats carry rabies.”
I patted Jake on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about. You’d stand a better chance of being fluttered to death by bat wings than be bit. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.”
“Let’s see what all might bite us: There are killer snakes and ticks, snapping turtles that can bite off a finger, and now there are bats. Anything else?” he asked.
Nick sounded so cocky I wanted to give him a swift kick in the butt.
“Nope, that’s all,” I said calmly. “Just do what I said, you’ll be fine. If people were bit on a regular basis there wouldn’t be anyone left alive in this part of the country. Look at your uncle Dub, he hunts and fishes about every day and in sixty-odd years, he’s only been snake bit once. He’s had gobs of ticks on him and been around bats all his life. Probably been snapped at by a hundred turtles.”