Abducted

by David R Lewis

  He didn’t make it. About two thirds of the way up the east side drizzle began. He pushed on. The next surveyor’s stake, complete with its strip of red cloth, beckoned him from the near distance up a shallow slope. As Crockett got to the stake, he was surprised to find a level area, fairly similar to the one that supported his newly graveled driveway.

  Free of old growth trees, it had evidently been cleared at some time in the past, perhaps by hopeful loggers who abandoned their efforts because of the unsympathetic terrain. The flat extended into the property farther than the woods would let him see and he turned to follow it. As he stepped off the shoulder of the gravel road, he noticed two parallel strips at ground level where the weedy undergrowth had been mashed to the earth. Tire tracks.

  Training took over and he abandoned the flat, moving into the trees on the south side of the trail, slowing his pace and keeping to cover. After little more than fifty yards, a glint of blue caught his eye. Wishing the weight on his left side was more than just a staple gun, he left it and the bag he was carrying at the base of the only walnut tree he had seen, switched off his cell phone, and continued on.

  The blue turned out to be a rusty Chevy pickup from the early nineteen eighties. It was parked as far into the property as the lay of the land would let it go, poised on the edge of a rocky cut. In the bed of the truck were several boards and miscellaneous tools. In the rear window was a gun rack containing a compound bow with a clamp-on quiver of six arrows. The sharpened edges of their black broad heads glinted in an evil manner. As he was making a mental note of the license number, the sound of distant hammering reached his ears. He slipped back into the trees and, dry-mouthed, continued on.

  As he got closer to the hammering, it was augmented by conversation, too muted by distance and the woods for him to understand. Crockett pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head and moved slowly onward, being careful of foot placement and branches. A slow sneak of another fifty yards or so revealed two men in their early thirties, hammering two by four board steps in the side of a large oak tree. He crouched in shadow and watched as they took a break for beer. There were two cans left in the plastic rings of a six-pack. Empties lay on the ground around the base of the tree near a chainsaw. A red and white ball cap graced the head of one of the individuals. The other wore a battered straw cowboy hat. Straw hat spoke.

  “Six or eight more steps an’ we’ll up to that big branch. We git up there an’ we can thin out some a them little branches. That big’un oughta hold a platform.”

  He tipped his can of Bud Light back and drained it, punctuating his accomplishment with a deep and throaty belch, and picked up the chainsaw. His partner retrieved a twelve foot two by four out of the ground cover and straddled it, holding the short end up between his legs. Straw hat started the saw and went to work on the wood, cutting it into short lengths for more steps to nail into the tree. The noise and concentration of their efforts were such that an elephant could have walked by without notice. Crockett seized the moment to move within fifteen feet of the two men and took station behind a downed and rotting seed pine. Neither of the men appeared to be armed.

  The sawing finished, Ballcap climbed up the existing steps, a hammer dangling from his belt. When he stopped, about ten feet up the side of the tree, Strawhat started eight-inch spikes in a short length of board and tossed it up. Their backs were to Crockett. He eased out of cover and took three or four steps in their direction. When he was standing nearly beside Strawhat, he spoke.

  “How you fellas doin’ today?”

  Strawhat squeaked and levitated about eighteen inches off the ground, whirling in mid-air, nearly losing his footing when he landed. Ballcap dropped his piece of wood and hung from the tree, flailing for a moment before rescuing himself from what could have been a nasty fall.

  “Who-the-fuck-are-you?” Strawhat blurted, attempting to regain some composure.

  Ballcap scuttled down the tree and stood beside his partner, nursing a scraped hand.

  “Sorry guys,” Crockett went on. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to say hello and see what you’re doing?”

  “Puttin’ up a new deer stand. What the fuck is it to you?” Strawhat replied, bristling a little as his heart rate slowed.

  “Rather you didn’t.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry,” Crockett said. “Can’t do that.”

  “Hell you mean we cain’t do that? I hunt deers out here all the time.”

  “Maybe you used to, but not anymore.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Crockett smiled. “The owner of this property.”

  “Bullshit! The county owns this land.”

  Crockett increased the size of his smile, pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and turned it on. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll call the sheriff and see if he has time to come by and explain the facts of life to you fellas. Maybe you’ll believe him.”

  “The sheriff?”

  “Sure,” Crockett went on, fiddling with the phone. “I just want everything to be clear between us.”

  “Hell, the place ain’t even posted!”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “This land really yours?”

  “Quarter of a section.”

  “You ain’t gonna let nobody hunt it?”

  “Nope. Not even me.”

  For the first time, Ballcap spoke up. “’Spose we shoot a deer an’ it runs on to yer place?”

  “Sorry. No trespassing.”

  “Gawdammit! That ain’t right.”

  “Right or not, that’s the way it is.”

  Ballcap’s smile was sly. “Hell, you wouldn’t know if we come on the place anyway.”

  “I knew today.”

  “You cain’t keep yer eye on this whole place all the fuckin’ time!”

  Crockett dropped his grin. “You willing to bet your future on that?”

  Ballcap puffed up. “Mister,” he said, “I doan cotton to no man threatnin’ me.”

  “And I don’t cotton to trespassers and even less to hunters. This place will be completely posted by sundown tomorrow. Meantime, you have thirty minutes.”

  “Fer what?”

  “To get those boards off my tree and your truck and yourselves off the land. You wanna stop by sometime to have a beer, you’re welcome. We’ll tip a couple and jaw. Maybe even break out the grill and some steaks. You want to hunt, it’s fine by me. You can do that north of here, south of here, east of here and west of here. I couldn’t care less. You sneak back on my place with a gun or a bow, as far as I’m concerned, you’re burglars. Burglars are taking a hell of a chance. You’ve been warned. You’re wasting time. I’ll be watching. Don’t forget your beer cans.”

  Crockett left them standing there and walked back into the woods. When he broke line of sight he dropped to the ground behind a stump and eased down into the leaf litter. As far as the two men were concerned, he just disappeared. He lay quietly and listened to them cuss and damn about the way he treated them, but they did take the steps off the tree, pick up the cans, and leave.

  On the walk home he got a little queasy because of excess adrenalin. Back in the bus and out of what had become a real spring shower, he retrieved his cell phone and examined the pictures he had taken. While they were not suitable for Christmas cards, they were certainly good enough to I.D. his new friends. Jesus. Welcome to the neighborhood.

  *****