Such is the Mystique…

Gusty winds swirled ground fog. The air smelled of late March, not November, yet plain and ordinary. Dark clouds delayed first light. A large cedar tree, not eighty paces from Msko-waagosh’s humble wigwam, served as a temporary lair. The mist grew thick, then changed to a light sprinkle. Such was the agony of that sunrise,… Continue reading Such is the Mystique…

A Gobbler Dubbed “Black Bart”

Skin stung; eyes watered. The cedar bough bobbed in arrogance, celebrating its humble victory. Trail-worn elk moccasins staggered, then slowed. Thick clouds, coupled with night’s unforgiving abyss, shrouded the moon and stars. The glade demanded a heavy toll on that pre-dawn April morn in the Year of our Lord, 1794.   Despite the flogging, the… Continue reading A Gobbler Dubbed “Black Bart”

Chasing the Makings of Squirrel Stew

Black granules tumbled. The tarnished brass measure filled. Two taps against the Northwest gun’s inner bore freed stragglers, more habit than need. Two palm-sized maple leaves, yellowed and dry, rolled to the size of a death sphere, squeaked as the wiping stick eased them down the bore. Three hard taps pounded the wadding flat and… Continue reading Chasing the Makings of Squirrel Stew

Only a Sentence or Two…

Daylight waned. Two gray squirrels frolicked, uphill, forty paces ahead. Half-hidden by boughs, a plump fox squirrel leaped from cedar top to cedar top. The hired hunter did not glance up, but detected the movement. A blue jay perched on a twisted lower branch of a shagbark hickory, cocked its tufted head, but did not… Continue reading Only a Sentence or Two…

The Probability is Minimal

Monday, 25 April, 1763: “Ccttt…,” “To the right, by the tipped maple with emerging greenery,” Mi-ki-naak surmised. The second sharp “click” proved the first was not imaginary. The returned white captive fought the urge, did not turn, did not steal a glance. Brown eyes squinted. Muscles prepared, but did not tense. An eager thumb bumped… Continue reading The Probability is Minimal

A Chance for Rabbit Stew

Snowflakes drifted in calm air. The white blanket, laid upon the glade an hour or so before dawn, proved a pleasant surprise. A hint of aromatic red cedar teased the nose. Two square-cut trade shirts, a wool sleeveless waistcoat and a linen hunting shirt seemed proper attire for that mild January jaunt, in the Year… Continue reading A Chance for Rabbit Stew

A Bag of Beads and Silver

A Mini-Monday Missive… A solitary gobble beckoned. Cedar by cedar by cedar elk moccasins crept along, below the ridge crest, in the shadows. The woodsman’s course meandered east. The steep hillside leveled. Cedar trees gave way to oaks. One red oak in particular, short trunk, broad limbs and hollow, broke apart in 1791, the summer… Continue reading A Bag of Beads and Silver

In the direction whence he came…

Saturday, 17, December, 1763: Frozen oak leaves crunched. Spotty snowflakes whisk about.  Wool-lined moccasins tread light, slow and deliberate.  The still-hunt progressed into a blustery southwest wind that sliced to the bone.   Two years prior, a summer thunderstorm broke a modest red oak high up, below the main fork. One limb came to rest… Continue reading In the direction whence he came…