Strange Perceptions (14 page)

It was one of those lazy summer days where time moves slower than molasses. If you don’t have nothing to do, you can sit and relax for hours. We sat on the Mill Road Bridge over the creek, our legs dangled over the side, and our fishing line dangled between our legs. The fish weren’t even nibbling. I didn’t care, but I think Duffy was getting a mite itchy for some action.

“Wanna play Injun?” Duffy asked.

“And do what?” Playing Injun meant either tracking or scouting.

Duffy had this grin that was one part trouble and two parts fun. I call it his “shit-eater.” When he used this grin, you knew an adventure was coming. He flashed his shit-eater at me, saying “My old man says he saw a grizzly in the woods north of the creek.”

“Ain’t no grizzlies here. Brown bears, maybe a few black.”

Something I got to tell you about Duffy. A body couldn’t ask for a better friend. He was the best friend I’ll probably ever have, but he had it rough. His old man distilled fruit, mostly apples, to make liquor. He drank most of it but sold some to make money to buy more apples. Duffy’s old man was a mean drunk. Duffy was always coming to school looking like he had played chicken with a locomotive—and lost. One time he had a broken nose, a broken arm, and an eye so purple and swelled up there weren’t nothing but a slit for him to look through. He said he fell down the cellar stairs. Nobody believed him, but nobody said nothing about it. What a person did to their kid, as long as they didn’t kill them, was their own business.

Duffy’s brother, J.J., weren’t no better than his old man. J.J. was a thief and spent some time in county lockup down to Spokane. His mom wasn’t so bad, but when his old man was on a bender, which was most days, she’d go stay with her sister in Deer Park, leaving Duffy with his old man and good-for-nothing brother.

So when Duffy said his old man saw a grizzly, I knew there weren’t no truth to it. His old man was probably lit up like Chinese fireworks and seeing all kinds of things that weren’t there.

“Let’s go find the grizzly’s tracks,” Duffy said.

I started bringing in my line, spinning the reel fast so the wet line sent water drops onto my face. Refreshing. “What’ll we do if we find the grizzly? Poke him in the eye with our fishing poles?”

He pulled out his prized possession, his pocket knife. It had two blades, a big one and a small one. Duffy kept it sharp enough to shave with. Of course, neither of us had no whiskers yet.

I laughed. “If a grizzly sees you chasing it with a three inch blade it’s going to plumb fall over laughing.”

“No, dumb-ass, we use the knife to make some spears.”

We stashed our fishing gear under the bridge, found a couple straight branches, and sharpened their ends to points. The spears wouldn’t have been much protection against a barn cat, let alone a bear, but they were good enough for the game we were playing.

After we had our spears, Duffy had the idea to follow the creek. Bears had to drink and we might pick up tracks. We went upstream, not seeing a thing.

“You know what bear shit looks like?” I asked.

“It’s black but depends on what they’ve been eating. If they’ve been digging at roots and stuff then you’ll see some in their scat. If they’ve been eating berries then you might see some undigested bits. Hard to say.”

One thing about Duffy, he knew his shit.

As we kept moving upstream, the woods varied from sparse trees, easily navigated, to underbrush so thick we had to walk dozens of yards out of the way to get around. At one of these detours Duffy looked back at me and stuck a finger to his lips. We crept to the edge of a clearing. In it, four men sat around a campfire.

Duffy wore his shit-eater again. He whispered, “Let’s spy on these guys.”

I nodded and squatted down next to Duffy. They were a rough looking bunch. Definitely outlaws. The back of my neck shivered.

Duffy kneeled down next to me. “I can’t believe it. The man with the beard is Dry Gulch Davis.”

My look told Duffy I had no idea who Dry Gulch Davis was.

“The bank robber? His picture is up in the post office.”

“Oh that Dry Gulch Davis,” I said.

“You don’t know who he is.”

“Sure,” I said, “He’s a bank robber.”

“What bank did he rob?”

“I can’t remember.”

“What have we here?” came a man’s voice from behind us.

I sprung sideways. There were two of them! One grabbed for me and just missed. Duffy wasn’t so lucky. The butt end of a rifle connected with his forehead. I was off like a hare, glancing back once to see Duffy crumple to the ground.

They chased me, but I was smaller and able to squeeze under a large fallen tree and run toward the stream. The men pursuing me had to go around. I ran like I had never run before, dodging branches, leaping over deadfall, and ducking under obstacles too high to jump over. When I made it to the stream I ran down it, trying to stay to the shallow, rocky bottom. I sprinted right past our fishing spot without slowing down. Once on the road, I had to stop running and catch my breath. I kept walking fast, head twisted around, checking if the bad guys were behind me.

Was Duffy okay? They gave him a pretty good wallop upside the head. He must be hurt, or worse.
I had to get him help. And fast.

After I caught my breath I took off running again. The bridge over Trundle Creek was a mile from town. Covering the distance in record time, I ran down main street and into the Sheriff’s Office.

When you walk into the building the Sheriff is to your left; the Post Office is to your right. I barged in, went left, and looked around for the Sheriff. Not a soul in sight. This couldn’t be. When you needed the law they were nowhere to be found.

“Can I help you?”

I spun in my tracks. It was Mrs. Yates, standing behind the Post Office counter. In my rush I hadn’t even seen her.

“Oh, you’re the Widow Hennessey’s boy. William, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Where’s Sheriff Rawlings?”

“He’s out to the Taylor’s place. Seems Ol’ Bishop Taylor’s got himself a barn fire. Probably started it himself, you ask me.”

Behind Mrs. Yates, several wanted posters plastered the wall. Smack dab in the middle was the evil looking, black bearded, Dry Gulch Davis. They offered a $1500 reward for him alive, $500 dead. I couldn’t believe it, Duffy was right.

“What do you want Sheriff Rawlings for?”

“I need him. Duffy Jenkins was—”

“I knew that boy was trouble. Just like his father and brother. No good.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Why God burdens us with people like that, I’ll never know.”

For a minute, I didn’t say anything. When Mrs. Yates assumed Duffy had caused the problem, I realized what was going to happen if I did find the Sheriff. Sheriff Rawlings would think Duffy was at fault too. They didn’t understand that a kid could have a no-good father but still be somebody’s best friend. I made a decision then. I would save Duffy myself. Mrs. Yates stared at me, waiting for me to agree with her. I turned and headed out the door.

“William? What happened?”

I ignored her. I’d go get Buster Daniels to help. He was a friend to Duffy and me, and a great shot with a .22. We’d spent many afternoons in his back field, shooting groundhogs as they popped their heads out of their holes. Buster lived half a mile away. With renewed energy I ran toward his place.

I found Buster behind his house with Eugene Fitzgerald, playing marbles. Most people call Eugene “Tubs”, on account he’s fat. I don’t much like him. Not because he’s so fat, but because he always does stupid things to get you to like him. One time at school he brought a bag of nickels. Kids formed two lines in front of him. Each person from the head of the line would come up and he’d toss a nickel in the air. Whichever kid called heads or tails right got to keep the nickel. Kids eagerly took their nickel and ran back, getting in line to have another turn. I made $1.15 that day which I then spent at Sanfordson’s Mercantile buying so much candy that I puked on the way home. Tubs must have spent a small fortune trying to buy friends. As soon as he flipped his last nickel everyone left. A couple of kids were even mad at him for running out of money.

I ran to Buster and Tubs, right into the circle they had drawn in the dirt.

“Out of the way you stupid git,” Buster said.

Leaning over, I put my hands on my thighs, panting and trying to catch my breath. “You got to help me. Duffy’s been captured by bank robbers.”

“What?”

I explained how we had been playing in the woods and came across Dry Gulch and his gang. How they ambushed us, conked Duffy on the head, how I had escaped and ran back to town, and how the Sheriff wasn’t around.

“Let me grab my .22,” Buster said. “You can use it and I’ll use my dad’s .30-30 Winchester.”

I figured Buster’s Dad would tan his tide for borrowing his new rifle, but I wasn’t going to say anything.

“What about me?” Tubs asked.

“You’re not going,” I said.

“Come on guys. Let me come. I can be your lookout.”

Buster and I exchanged a look. “Okay,” I said. “But if we have to make a run for it, it’s every man for himself.” I figured running might scare Tubs off.

“What about my gun?” Tubs asked.

“No.” Both Buster and I said at the same time.

“That’s okay.” Tubs pulled a slingshot from his back pocket. “I got this.”

Lotta good a slingshot would do against a wanted bank robber.

We started off toward Trundle Creek. Tubs, as usual, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He asked questions about where we were going, how far was it, who the bank robber was, and what our plan was. He was huffing and puffing so much you’d of thought he’d stop flapping his jaw, but no.

I couldn’t take it no more. “Eugene, you got to be quiet.”

“Why?”

Buster cuffed him on the back of the head. “This is life and death, you stupid git.”

We made it to just before the clearing in the woods. Tubs hadn’t made another peep.

I held up my hand to stop and motioned them in close enough I could whisper. “Here’s the plan. Eugene, you stay here on the creek. If something happens you run as fast as you can back to town and get help. Buster, you head up the stream a couple hundred yards and then go straight left about fifty yards and turn and come back this way. That should put you behind the clearing. Wait for my signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

I made three whooping cries. The sound of a loon.

Buster’s eyes went wide with what I took as appreciation of my skill. He gave me a thumbs-up before turning and trudging upstream.

I worked my way to the edge of the clearing and hid behind a large bush. I parted the branches and looked around. The campfire was still there, but the men, and Duffy, were gone. I examined the perimeter in case Dry Gulch Davis left any men behind to ambush us. I couldn’t see anybody.

I stepped out of the woods and made my loon call. Buster crashed through the brush on the other side of the clearing, rifle raised, moving it back and forth like he was trying to cover ten men at once. He looked at me, confused.

I shrugged my shoulders and headed toward the campfire in the middle.

He met me there. “Where are they?”

“How should I know. They were here.” I knelt down by the campfire and held my hand over the ashes. The coals were still warm.

I heard a loud crack like a bullwhip being snapped. Inches from my hands a puff of ash erupted into a small cloud. I jumped backwards, almost losing my balance. It took a moment for my brain to register what happened. Gunshot.

“Good bird call, kid.” One of Dry Gulch’s men stepped into the clearing. He held a rifle, leveled at Buster and me. “I didn’t think nothing of it. Hear them loons all the time. But Mr. Davis, he’s always suspicious. He tells me to come check it out. And I find a couple little boys playing with guns.”

Buster’s pale face and wide eyes told me he was as scared as I was.

“You want should I kill you now or are you going to drop those guns?”

Buster and I dropped our rifles to the ground.

From the woods came the sound of branches cracking, something moved toward us, fast. I hoped it wasn’t Tubs. When he heard the rifle shot he should have taken off running to get the Sheriff as fast as his chubby little legs would carry him.

Dry Gulch Davis and two other men—a large brute and a small man with a black cowboy hat—stepped into the clearing. Good. Not Tubs.

In person, Dry Gulch looked twice as menacing as his poster. His black beard covered his entire face. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a rodent poke its head out of that thicket of hair. His eyes were blacker than his beard. He wore a dirty grey cowboy hat pulled tight down on his head.

Dry Gulch marched over to Buster and me, looked back and forth from one of us to the other, and started laughing. His laugh, deep and gravelly, was as frightening as the man. He stopped laughing for a moment, looked at us again, and started into another laughing fit. He took off his hat—and I got a surprise. Black hair straggled around the edges but most of his dome looked like polished granite. I hadn’t expected him to be bald. He wiped his forehead with a shirt sleeve before putting his hat back on.

Once Dry Gulch’s laughter was under control, he spoke. “Figured you would’ve brought the law.”

I puffed up my chest, trying to look more confident than I felt. “The Sheriff’s on his way.”

Dry Gulch smiled. His brown teeth hadn’t seen a toothbrush in years. “What are you? Deputies sent ahead to capture us?”

“Boss,” the man with the black hat said, “it’s almost time.”

From inside his jacket, Dry Gulch retrieved a pocket watch. He looked at it for a second and started giving orders. “Graves, you and Hutchins grab these kids. Put them with the other one. Make sure you tie them real good.”

I made a mental note of the names Graves and Hutchins in case I had to identify them later. Graves seemed to be the small one with the black hat and Hutchins the big man.

“I think we should just kill them and leave them here,” said Graves. He looked down at his boots, as if he were sorry he had spoke.

Dry Gulch spun around and backhanded Graves, knocking him off his feet. “You think? Do I pay you to think? Then what do you think is better, for their bodies to be found here, or for their bodies to be buried under five ton of rubble from the bridge?”