Hunter James Dolin

by Bret Lee Hart

  Jebediah wasn't doing much better. When the slugs hit the bear, it dropped down onto all fours, pushing Jeb's horse backward past the edge of the swamp water, knocking Jeb off his mount. Water splashed all around him as he landed butt first and legs out stretched. His horse took off at a run, following behind Walt's horse that had already made his hasty retreat from the battle.

  Walt was rolling around on the ground trying to get to his feet, unintentionally leaving Jebediah to fend for himself. The giant grizzly was now wounded and totally enraged. Teeth bared, the bear lunged towards Jebediah...

  Evidently, the Lord still watched over this man and gifted him the precious seconds he needed to save his skin. From his sitting position and the depths of the black-swamp water up to his waist, Jebediah aimed quickly…

  "Bang...chick, chick, bang…chick, chick, bang…" the cracking sound of the rifle echoed through the swamp. Two of the bullets hit the beast in the chest, the third one entered his left eye then exited out the back of his thick skull. The bear was dead when his large snout landed in Jeb's breadbasket, hard enough to knock out all his wind.

  He grabbed a hold of that bear's big old head, attempting to keep himself upright in fear of snapping backward and possibly drowning. Jebediah could do nothing but sit there and struggle, that bear's head face down in his lap. He was breathing hard from the weight and trying to catch his breath, when he heard a familiar voice.

  "If you two wants to be alone, just say so."

  Jebediah looked up to see Walt standing there with the eight gauge cradled in his arms, wearing a big ole grin on his face stretched from ear to ear.

  "Git this gol-dang bear off me," attempted Jeb with a yell, "before I suffocates down here."

  Walt set his shotgun down and sloshed around to Jebediah's back, grabbing him under each under pit.

  "Boy, I wish one of them there plate photo-tog-rifer's was about," Walt grunted as he struggled to slide his partner out from under the weight of the grizzly, "'cause nobody's gonna' believe this shit."

  "Shut up and pull, you old coot," begged Jebediah breathlessly.

  They managed to get out of the bog and up onto the bank. Jebediah laid down on the grassy terrain, trying to catch his breath.

  "You all right?" asked Walt, still unable to wipe the smile from his face.

  "Yeah, I'm all right," said Jebediah.

  Walt threw him his soaked hat. "You take all the time you need, Jeb, then git a fire started. We got a lot of butcherin' and skinnin' to do. I need to go fetch them lily-livered animals of ours."

  "Mine will be close by," assured Jeb. "That black and grey of yours, I ain't too sure about." Jebediah evidentially found his breath along with his sense-of-humor, and he broke out in laughter.

  "I guess you'll be all right then, smart-ass," said Walt, while trying not to laugh.

  It didn't take too long for Walt to round up their horses, but Jebediah was right, his black and grey was a lot further away than Jeb's chestnut Cracker horse. There was no way Walt was about to mention or admit this ever, come hell or high water.

  The old hunters spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening skinning and butchering the great bear. They split the meat evenly between them; they cooked and ate the innards as they worked and packed the rest in salt for preserving. The fur would bring big money, which they would sell to an outpost along the way and, as always, they would divide the payment right down the middle. These two old-timers were brothers in every which ways but blood; they drank whiskey and smoked cigars in celebration late into the night.

  With that grizzly carved up and packed away, and not one bit going to waste, Walt and Jebediah slept soundly for the first time in a week, with little worry of being mauled or devoured in their sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Birdie rode hard and fast, rounding up Montgomery's men who were spread out around the countryside. He was instructed to only find the men within a day's ride, order them to drop what they were doing as soon as possible, and return to the home front. The home front was what they all called Richard Montgomery's big house.

  The skinny young man called Birdie returned late the night before, slept a good four hours, and now found himself at Bodie's side on the third floor of the large home. Barely eighteen, he did not always see the big picture. "I don't git what all the fuss is about. What can one pissed off half-Injun man do, anyhow?" squawked Birdie. It wasn't just his beak-nose that earned him his nickname, but also his voice – a high-pitched, crow-like sound.

  "You did like I told yah, right?" asked Bodie, "You didn't tell the boys why they were being called back to the home front, did yah?"

  "I didn't tell no one nothin'. They asked me, I told them the boss talked to Bodie and Bodie told me to round y'all up, that's all I know."

  "Good, Birdie," said Bodie, as he patted the boy on the head, "that's a good, Birdie."

  "Oh, come on, Bode," said the boy as he jerked his head away in annoyance. "I don't see what the big deal is, anyhow. One half-breed against twenty of us, he's as good as dead, the way I see it."

  "Did your bird brain already forgit the bodies in Myakka and what was left of Scooter Johnson in the gator pit?" Bodie asked, as he walked across the room of the third floor. They'd been pulling rifles from crates and checking ammunition for the last hour, at Richard Montgomery's order.

  "Well, hell yeah, I remember. I'll never fergit that boot with the foot left in 'er, and that shinbone stickin' outta the top. But Scooter was lily-livered; Mr. Montgomery's men are the meanest I've ever seen."

  Bodie was doing inventory on the new Henry repeaters, and checking the action for defects. His mother had been a teacher when he was a boy, so he was one of the few men around who could put pen to paper.

  "Boy, you just need to remember two things," said Bodie, raising his voice at the younger. "This man is more deadly than a cornered rattler and twice as fast, and when he comes, you stay close to me. That's an order, you got that?"

  The boy was a little surprised by Bodie's outburst. He was a man that never raised his voice. "Yeah, sure, Bode, whatever you say."

  "Good," said Bodie, back to his normal tone. "Let's git this work done, and I'll buy you a drink to whet your breakfast appetite."

  "Yes sir," Birdie answered. "I ain't had a drink in two days. I was feelin' like my tongue was beginin' to swell." He then made a smacking noise with his mouth, looking even younger than his years to Bodie, for just a moment.

  "Well, all right then," said Bodie with a grin.

  They worked together in silence, both men feeling good about themselves. Bodie feeling like a concerned father and Birdie feeling like a young man someone might just care about.

  The she Montgomery was waiting for at the dock was the same battleship Hunter had seen on the big water. The name on the steamboat read, THE MISS LILLY. Richard Montgomery would say he loved the young girl he had imprisoned for his own, the same girl he had shot in the head for her disloyalty to him. Richard was a smart man, but he confused love with infatuation. There was a huge difference between the two that he could not, and never would, understand, It was not in him, not who he was.

  Hunter had only known love for a very short time, that feeling now replaced with hate and revenge. This was something Richard Montgomery understood very well.

  Richard was out on the dock this morning, smoking a cigar and sipping on a tin cup filled with whiskey. The fog coming off the lake was very thick, visibility near zero.

  Since Richard had heard the news of Hunter James Dolin's survival, and the savage's sinister torture of Scooter Johnson in the gator pit, his appetite had been weak. The sour feeling in his stomach was not fear or even nervousness, but more like anticipation. He could not believe that this ghost of a man was still haunting him. After all, he was Richard Montgomery, soon to be the most powerful man in the South. His plans were to fall on the right side of the war, the Union could triumph or the Confederacy, it did not matter which. What mattered to him was the states would be
weak and broken in the end and, with his political ties up North, Florida would be his.

  Richard stood on the dock, thinking of how wonderful it would be when he became king. He heard a bell ding, the sound barely reaching his ears through the fog. He immediately felt excitement in his chest as he quickly walked over to the other end of the twenty-foot dock. There were bollard pilings five feet above the deck for the docking of boats; the one on the end having a large torch wedged in a hole on the top. Richard threw what was left of his whiskey, soaking it. He then took a match from his pocket and, all in one motion, struck it on the back of his pant leg and touched it to the torch. The fire came alive with a flash. Ten seconds went by before the bell began to ring in a signaling fashion: one, two, three, pause; one, two, three, pause; one, two, three.

  THE MISS LILLY had found her way home. Richard couldn't see the steamer as of yet, but they could see the lit torch mounted on the dock piling, as the bell told. A minute passed; Montgomery could now hear the huge paddle swishing the water to its will. It started as a black shadowy mass as it busted through the fog twenty feet off the dock; the steamship looked like a sea monster as she became visible. The ship bumped into the dock, forcing Richard to take several steps backward and two steps forward to maintain his balance.

  A tall thin man with a foot-long, salt and pepper beard walked out the doorway onto the deck of the ship, dressed all in dark blue. His sailor's hat was the same color of black as the eye patch that covered his left eye. Tucked into his black belt was a single Colt Navy revolver, hanging from his right shoulder with a leather strap was a wood stock attachment which could be quickly connected to the pistol for distance shooting.

  "Land ho!" yelled the Captain, and he pulled the pin that held up the ramp, located at the center bow of the railing. The heavy wood ramp slammed onto the dock with a bang, two feet from Richard Montgomery's silver tipped, leather boots.

  The Captain walked straight down the ramp, stopping a foot from Richard – they locked for a moment in a three-eyed staring contest.

  "Monty!" said the captain, with a big smile, showing off his yellow and brown, jagged teeth. "Still same as ever, I see."

  "That's right, Captain. It's good you remember what a pain in the ass I can be." They both broke out with laughter as they shook hands, seeming to be two old friends reunited at last. Good news for them, bad news for anyone who would oppose them.

  "You're late," said Richard.

  "Yeah, I'm late, 'bout a week I expects. In case you didn't know, there's a war goin' on out there."

  "I'm not concerned with that for the moment, we got a local problem a brewin' right here."

  "What's goin' on?" asked the captain.

  "We'll talk on that later," said Richard. "Where is she?"

  "I got her locked down. Do you know what two months at sea does to a man?"

  Richard was suddenly irritated. "You made my wife a prisoner on my own ship?"

  "Easy Monty, it was for her protection. I got ten drunkin' cowboys on this boat, I damn near had a mutiny on my hands."

  "Captain," Richard said sternly, "You will refer to me as Mr. Montgomery in front of the men, you got that?"

  The Captain took a step back from Richard.

  Richard put his hand on his revolver as they resumed their staring contest from earlier.

  "So that's how it's gonna' be, then? All right, Monty, this is your show for now."

  "Bring her to me, please, Captain." This came off as a polite order from Richard.

  The Captain pulled a skeleton key from around his neck and then waved it at Richard as he turned and walked up the ramp, disappearing through the doorway.

  Chapter Nine

  The half-breed gunslinger had traveled north to the top of the lake, and then turned west for two days. He was now heading south and following along the shoreline of the big lake. Approaching noon, the fog was finally dissipating as the sun attempted to force its way through the cloudy morn.

  Before Scooter Johnson dropped into the gator pit, he told the gunslinger about Montgomery's house located on the north side of Lake Okeechobee. Hunter could travel south for days and still be on the north side of the lake. The temperature was in the nineties, and the humidity was at full throttle; the good news, the overcast continued to block the potent rays of the Florida sun.

  Hunter was chewing on a piece of deer jerky and watching an Osprey fly by with a river mullet in its talons when he heard horses moving fast from behind him. He maneuvered the Appaloosa off the shoreline and hastily headed for a small clump of cabbage palms. This was a bad area of the lake to be caught in. The thickness of the woods was a good half-mile to the west, leaving nothing but knee high grass and palm meadow bushes. His only choice was the spread out cluster of palm trees, he decided as he steered Zeke toward it at a dead run. Hunter jumped down from his horse when he reached the backside of the refuge and pulled his rifle from the saddle-sheath. After cocking it slow and as quiet as possible, he aimed it in the direction of the coming riders, steadying it over Zeke's back.

  Five men, running strong, passed him by speedily. Had the riders looked toward the trees, they would have spotted the half-breed and his horse; but they were moving too fast for their peripheral vision to catch up, clearly heading for their destination with a purpose.

  Hunter leaned his Henry rifle against one of the cabbage palms and dug out his spyglass from his leather saddlebag. Putting it to his eye, he focused on the diminishing horsemen. They were certainly hired guns; the two leaders in his circular view had whips on their saddles, an indication they were Crackers, once running cattle. The other three that followed were sure as hell Missouri Yankees. Hunter knew this from the red leather they wore around their boots. These men were known as Red Legs, they were murderers, pure and simple – bands of Union soldiers formed to hunt down and kill rebel guerillas, which led to raping, pillaging, and burning down southern family homes. What were these Red Legs doin' down this far south in the Florida swamps? thought Hunter. Unless they were workin' for Montgomery...

  The gunslinger put away the spyglass and grabbed his rifle from its resting spot against the palm tree before climbing onto Zeke's back. He slid the Henry rifle in its saddle-sheath as he spurred the Appaloosa to a run, in the direction of the horsemen.

  Hunter followed the men, careful to keep a safe distance, stopping every once and a while to get a closer look with the telescope. They had slowed their horses to a walk for their much needed rest, so Hunter did the same, shadowing them at every turn. In their arrogance, they did not attempt to cover their trail, making them easy to track. Nightfall was driving the men inland towards the cover of the woods.

  Hunter would let the men set up their campsite for the night before he set up his own, picking a strategic location and then deciding on his next move. The half-breed would not strike a fire this evening for the light could reveal his presence. His dinner would be deer jerky and water from his leather pouch and Zeke would have to settle for swamp grass for his nourishment, his supply of grain all but gone.

  Hunter made sure they were upwind from the Red Legs' camp; at this distance, their horses' sense of smell would alert them of his presence. The gunslinger pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, knowing he only had precious minutes to rest. Time went by quickly; he was compelled to view the sun sink into the lake, bringing on the night. Hunter never grew tired of watching the sunset, especially over the water.

  It didn't matter whether he was at the ocean, or this big lake. Sunset was the only time he seemed to be able to clear his mind from the clutter, leaving nothing but awe. This night, the awe was replaced by anticipation of the task ahead.

  Now that it was dark and the bugs buzzed his ears relentlessly, his attention was diverted to the tree line, finding what he sought – the glow of the gunmen's fire pit. Hunter checked his revolvers for the freedom of their mechanics by spinning the loaded cylinders then stopping them quickly, being aware of the sound that might carry. He broke the
shotgun, the little brass balls stared back at him from the center of the shells, confirming their readiness for the welcome strike of the firing pin. He slid it back into his side-holder and mounted his horse turning north, then east toward the tree line. He entered the woods, still upwind from the camp, dismounted, and carelessly tied Zeke to a skinny branch of a scrub oak.

  "If I don't make it back, boy, you pull loose and move on."

  The horse nickered like he understood as the half-breed soundlessly made his way through the thicket toward the gunmen's camp. Hunter purposely positioned himself to the north of the encampment. There was a steady warm breeze tonight, and the gunslinger could already smell the sweaty leather from the horses and their riders, the odor getting stronger as he moved closer through the brush. He approached, swift but silent with one pistol drawn, stopped, and went to one knee behind a pine tree surrounded by some palmetto bushes when he heard voices. From this position, Hunter could see them clearly, as they ate metal plates of beans, talking and sharing whiskey.

  "One more day's ride and we should be at the home front," said one Cracker as he bent down to the fire, pulling from it a burning stick, and lighting his cigar.

  "Well, it's about damn time," complained a red leg. "We been pushin' hard, and I'd like to know why?"

  "When Montgomery tells you to do somethin', you don't ask why," replied the Cracker.

  There it was, thought Hunter. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek when he heard Montgomery's name, and he continued to ear-drop.

  "You must have an idear why we been called back in such a rush?"

  "Rumor is that the half-breed, namely Hunter James Dolin, is alive and comin' for Montgomery."

  "I killed lots of men," boasted the red leg. "One more Injun won't matter none. Maybe Montgomery ain't so tough as they say?"

  "This ain't no normal Injun; he's partway white after his father; means he's smarter than a normal Injun. He killed fifty men and burned the city of Myakka to the ground. Montgomery wants him dead once and for all. Now let's git' some sleep – Jimmy, you take first watch. I'll spell ya after a while."