by Bill Russo
With a throaty grunt, Rip walked behind Mr. Markens. The handle of the weapon was held tightly in his jaws with the blade pointing out straight like the sharpened horn of a charging bull.
The night seemed to get darker and frostier as the hundred pound hulk casually eased his way along the outer edge of the circle. Mr. Markens shuddered as Rip walked by. The other three young men shifted uncomfortably in the same manner when the wolf-dog went by them before settling in next to Santini.
Joe reached into his shirt pocket and drew out another treat which he tossed to Rip. When the faithful dog opened his mouth to catch It, the knife dropped to the ground and Santini put it away.
“You fellas are pretty quiet all of a sudden,” Joe smiled. “Do you want to turn in or would you like to hear another story?”
“I’m up for another one,” Bobby said. “I’m not scared by this you know.”
“I am very interested in hearing another yarn,” agreed Mr. Markens. The young history teacher was beginning to feel that he could learn more in a few hours from the white haired old man sitting at the campfire, than he had picked up in his four years at Boston University.
“What about you, young Bill Ricci?” asked Santini. “Would you care to hear another adventure?”
“Yes sir Joe,” replied Bill picking up the fire blackened coffee pot from the coals and offering a fresh cup to everyone. An experienced trail cook, though only 15 years old, he poured carefully so that the grounds would stay in the bottom of the pot.
One after another he filled the mugs of the men huddled around the smoky campfire.
“Only half way up for me,” chuckled Joe Santini as he reached into a vest pocket and plucked out a silver flask; using part of the contents to give a little extra strength to his coffee. “Mr. Markens? Care for some?”
“No thanks Joe. The coffee itself is plenty strong enough for me.”
“How bout you Freddy? You turned 21 this year.”
“No Joe, Mr. Markens is right. This horrible coffee that Bill Ricci brews up is more than strong enough for me.”
“Hey, I’m over here you know Joe, did you forget about me,” said Bobby Butterworth, rising from a crouch and extending his cup towards Santini.
“You’re 18 Bobby. You got a while to wait before you can add anything to your coffee,” Joe replied.
With the fire replenished by the addition of several more stout logs, the group of five plus the wolf-dog settled in for another tale.
