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
Tag: Dennis Neely
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…
A Tad Late Tuesday…
Saturday, 23, April, 1763: “Gob-obl-obl-obl-obl-obl!” The tom sounded far off. Elk moccasins whispered down the east face of the ridge. Fall’s oak leaves flexed, but did not crackle. Two steps and a pause…two steps and a pause… The evening air smelled of fresh greenery, with a hint of old urine laced with the tannic aroma… Continue reading A Tad Late Tuesday…
Crushed Soda Cans Slip By…
Black powder overflowed a brass charger. The precious granules trickled down the Northwest gun’s muzzle. Wadding squeaked, resisted, then seated firm with a hickory wiping stick. Lead shot rattled to the breech, secured with thinner wadding, tamped tight. The fowl cackled again. “Kort-kok,” it called, loud and strong, walking closer. Drying prairie grass with a… Continue reading Crushed Soda Cans Slip By…
Not Much Changes…
Muffled wing beats rumbled. A reddish-brown blur rose in the grey soup of morning vapor. The fowl dropped into a thick patch of sedge grass, thirty or so paces east of its night roost. Overnight dew drenched each slender, tawny blade of prairie grass. Silver droplets splashed and scattered as trail-worn buckskin leggins crept along.… Continue reading Not Much Changes…
Big sigh…guilty as sinned…
A chilly breeze held mosquitoes at bay. Light dew glistened on greening grass. The autumn olives’ pungent perfume filled the glade with expectation. Damp elk moccasins pressed north, angled west, then crested a flat-topped knoll. That May, in the Year of our Lord, 1794, was colder than normal but pleasant for chasing wild turkeys. “Whit,… Continue reading Big sigh…guilty as sinned…