Crossing The Burn

Indian Park in 1956 was a quiet place, a mountain place, a slice of Appalachia where people were private but their affairs were mostly common knowledge. The town was situated in a small, flat valley amid ancient, rounded peaks, with an assortment of rooftops clustered wall-to-wall. Twin spires of the Baptist and Methodist churches stood in mute competition, prominent landmarks as one arrived via the pass from Cherokee City. A light rain fell, clouds hung low over the basin, and a piercing whistle from the afternoon freight train sounded shrill in the distance, then faded away into a prolonged and pervasive stillness.

Rough clattering from a flathead automobile engine once more shattered the dreary gray autumn silence. The vehicle was blocky and black, a vintage 1949 sedan from Ford Motor Company. It chugged up a rain-slickened hill toward a modest white house on the edge of town. The machine fell abruptly quiet after it rattled into an unimpressive yard and slid to a stop, its whitewalled tires painted dirty orange by sloppy mud from the rutted road. A cotton-topped boy hurried to a window in the house and flung back crisp white curtains, then wiped away condensation for a better view outside. The driver�s side glass of the car was open, despite brisk cold and a drizzling rain, and a red-faced man could be seen behind the steering wheel. He was smiling broadly and waving, while moisture and cigarette smoke billowed from his mouth.

�Mama, it�s H.K.!� shouted Travis Jackson. �He told me he�d come by next time he was going quail hunting!�

�Mm. Don�t know about this,� Ruth Jackson muttered as she hurriedly tidied up her living room. The worst disorder rearranged, she glanced at herself in a hall mirror as she headed for the door. She was a beautiful woman, with smooth skin the color of fresh cream, brown eyes that seemed to clash with her light complexion, and a slim, appealing figure. Her hair was a tangle of natural blonde curls that seldom needed much attention. Her face looked flushed and her tasteful makeup had worn thin in the course of a hard day�s work at Indian Park Diaper Factory. Adjusting quickly, she joined her boy at the door.

�Howdy, Ma�am,� said the visitor cordially in a coarse voice, removing his hat in greeting. He let his eyes linger only briefly on the pretty lady before turning to the youngster. �Travis, ye wan� go huntin�, son?�

The boy looked at his mother with the look of a hungry puppy, big eyes pleading. The woman was already shaking her head instinctively.

�Can I, Mama? Can I?�

��At boy sho� �nuff needs t� go, Ma�am. We jes� might brang home a mess o� birds. How �bout it?�

Ruth surveyed H.K. McCard warily, deliberately weighing her options. H.K. was lanky and balding, and sported a moderately big belly hanging over his belt. He always smelled of men�s lotion, and kept his thick facial hair cleanly shaved. Today he wore a bright hunting cap, which rode on his head slightly askew. There were little blue veins visible in the temple area of his face, prominent enough that one couldn�t help but notice them. His red nose was oversized, deeply scarred by skin problems, and sported a few squiggly surface blood vessels as well. He had a very slight droop of his upper eyelids, a condition that masked the upper half of his hazel eyes. Overall, H.K. wasn�t much to look at, but appearances were of little concern to her boy, who loved this middle-aged hunter much like a father. Ruth sometimes let the youngster accompany H.K. on raccoon hunts and other outings, but usually only when there were other respected people along. H.K. had a notorious rowdy streak, and Ruth just naturally didn�t trust him. Being a product of these mountain environs herself, she fancied herself a pretty good judge of local men.

Ruth�s husband was, in fact, a son of this same part of northern Georgia. He was now a retired serviceman, but he had taken his whole family all over the country and half the world since World War II. After retirement from the army he had continued to work for the government, and he was on the road constantly when he wasn�t overseas, where he happened to be at the moment. Masculine attention to her maturing son should have been most welcome, though quite often she found herself worrying. H.K. was reputed to be a little heavy on liquor, a habit for which she harbored strong disapproval. Today the man seemed steady on his feet and his speech was as tidy as a sermon. She glanced again at Travis�s intense eyes, and found herself wavering.

�Maybe so, H.K. Done your homework yet, Travis?�

�Yes, Ma�am. All but a little. And I can do the rest when I get home.�

�Back by dark, H.K.?�

�Won�t be gone more�n two hours. Jes� wan� t� show Travis whur �em quail is. An� how a bird dog like Petunia works th� stuffin� out�n �em.�

�Okay, I guess so. Son, you be careful. Please don�t shoot H.K., or anybody else.�

�Aw, Mama, you know I wouldn�t do that,� said the youth as he spun to leave the room. As he disappeared he added, �Thanks, Mama. Be right back, H.K.�

In a dark corner of his bedroom closet stood Travis�s spanking-new 12-gauge shotgun, which he quickly retrieved. Younger brother Bobby was playing a board game on the floor with his little sister, Sue, and they paid scant attention while their sibling pulled on his worn high-top clod busters. Travis bulged his jacket pockets with a dozen or so shotgun shells, then scampered back to the living room. He kissed his mother on one cheek and burst through the screen door into the chill and dampness. He slid his shotgun into the car�s back seat, and then climbed aboard the old Ford. Its heavy door slammed shut with a firm, metallic thump, and black exhaust smoke fumed as H.K. pushed the accelerator.

The car smelled of whiskey and tobacco and dogs and leather and gunpowder, but to Travis�s young mind such fragrances conveyed rampant excitement. He had ridden in this same vehicle on quite a few �coon hunts with H.K. The man had a �coon dog for which he had paid $500 cash, and he was fond of describing how he had counted out twenty-five twenty-dollar bills for that purchase. Such a price seemed unimaginable for a mere canine, nearly enough to buy a car, but most locals acknowledged that H.K.�s dogs were good, really good. And oh, how those dogs could make some awesome music, baying up and down every creek and hollow in the mountains, while campfires roared, and boasting and bragging and tall tales lasted deep into the night. The boy felt a little shiver of excitement as he recollected. But on this day H.K�s dogs would be English pointers, not Walkers or red bones or blue ticks.

�Where are your dogs, H.K.?� he asked over the engine�s din.

�In th� trunk, same as always. �Ese bird dogs don�t make as much racket as �coon dogs, son, e�en when �ey�s ridin�. Not usually, nohow. Stink jes� as bad, though.�

�Yeah, I can smell them. Where are we going?�

�O�er t� ol� Sion Holman�s place. Saw �im in town yestiddy, an� �e swears �ey�s two coveys jes� befo� ye git t� th� creek. If�n �at�s so, we�ll be eatin� bird fer supper, boy.�

The two companions bounced down the dirt road, easing along in places so as to avoid deeper furrows carved into the sticky red clay while still maintaining the vehicle upright and out of yawning side ditches. H.K. shifted deftly between gears as necessary, the floorboard stick transmission intimately familiar. Down the steep hill they plunged, past a drab tan house where Poss and Tot Wilson lived. Its joyless windows were without curtains, and a good number of glass panes were cracked or completely missing and replaced with cardboard. The tacky patchwork stared at the world through unchanging walls framed in fake brick tarpaper. Smoke curled skyward from a slightly tilted chimney, indicating that someone was home, but no light could be seen in the windows. Probably the power company had cut off their electricity again, Travis thought to himself. A sagging, rotting sofa spanned much of the front porch, and a potpourri of straght-backed wooden chairs were randomly scattered about. One crippled chair with a missing front leg still leaned idly against a big chinaberry tree just beside the porch, where it had been since the previous summer.

Ruth Jackson had been uncomfortable moving into a house in close proximity to such people, but when they had moved to Indian Park a year before, there had been no other rental property available. Her husband had wanted Ruth and their kids to be near his own family during his upcoming overseas tour.

Usually the boisterous Wilson men, old Poss and his two boys, were out sipping beer and spitting tobacco juice into their cluttered yard. They had a worrisome habit of casting a menacing eye toward any passerby, and sometimes making catty comments to whoever was in the road. Seeing no one at the house, Travis couldn�t help but seize the opportunity to stare at the ramshackle dwelling as they idled past. His unruly neighbors had never really threatened him, even when he walked past their house, but there was still a sense of tension, and he was relieved that none of the Wilson bunch was in view.

�I don�t see any Wilsons out today, H.K. Unusual. I guess all this wet and cold is keeping them inside.�

�Reckin so, boy. Ain�t much t� �at bunch, nohow. �Ceptin� ol� Tot, an� she�s �bout three ax han�les �crost th� rear.

Travis chuckled a little. Tot did carry a little extra weight, in stark contrast to the rest of the family.

Smooth pavement lay dead ahead, and after crossing some rough railroad tracks there was considerable improvement in the ride. The hamlet of Indian Park was coming up, with its old buildings nestled into a cleft in the mountains on three sides, and a broad valley tapering away to the west. Neither man nor boy spoke as they passed the jumbled, disorderly complex of structures that was Wheeless Lumber Company on their left, and a now-defunct marble finishing plant on their right. Next came a whitewashed building that housed the Bank of Indian Park, a community landmark and main commercial center in town. The institution was situated on one edge of an old Cherokee Indian meeting ground and ball field, a place that was said to have been the only flat, open ground for miles around before arrival of the white man. Their course then carried them down Main Street through the center of the village. H.K. waved at several acquaintances as they passed, including Banker Barksdale, president, owner, and chief officer of the bank. As far as the boy knew, Banker was actually the man�s name, because nobody ever referred to him by anything else.

They rolled past a big brick two-story building that was Tinley Furniture, run by Don Tinley. Don�s son, Hooter, was Travis�s best friend, and they did have some good times together. Travis�s thoughts flashed immediately to a wooden boat he and Hooter were assembling in the Tinley basement. The craft was being created from massive boards and tongue-and-groove one by four lumber, held together with nails, glue, and sticky black tar. Many weekend hours had been invested in that boat, and still there was much work to do. Prospects of trying out their fabrication on the nearby Etowah River were never far from Travis�s mind, and he and Hooter talked about their ideas constantly.

There were several grocery stores in town, as well as a drug store and barber shop. Graham Motor Company, a Ford dealership, was the flagship business of Indian Park, and its yard was freshly raked and its shrubbery was cut back neat and trim for the winter. A shiny new �57 Ford coupe sat in a showroom window, and two gleaming new pickup trucks were parked on thick, frost-browned grass out front. The local school, where Travis was an eighth grader, came into view next. There were only eight grades at Indian Park School, and after finishing there students moved up to high school at the county seat. Or else they dropped out altogether, an option that was exercised with too much regularity.

�Yo� mama sho� �nuff watches out fer ye, boy. Ye�d thank I�m th� devil er somebody, th� way she tawks when we wan� t� go huntin�.�

�Naw, it�s not that, H.K. She just doesn�t think I�m old enough. I guess she overlooks how many rabbits and squirrels I bring home. And this here shotgun has a heap more kick than my little old .22, so maybe she�s scared of it.�

�A kick it sho� �nuff has, li�l buddy. �At it does. Sho� �nuff be right keerful wi� it. Be min�ful o� where ye�s pointin� �er an� she�ll brang in th� groceries, though. Handy as a switch on a cow�s tail, by golly.�

Indeed the new shotgun was plenty powerful. And its double barrels were a new item for the boy. It was somewhat of a trick to master two different triggers, and he had discovered for himself that you don�t put a finger on each at the same time when shooting. It�s an index finger on one trigger to shoot, after which one moves that same finger to the other trigger for the next shot. Mistakenly putting an index finger on the front trigger and a middle finger on the back trigger had caused him considerable grief just a week ago. He had been crossing a footlog in a burned-over forest behind his home when a covey of quail had burst from a grassy ditch underneath the downed trunk. He had never even shot at one of the fleet birds, but this had seemed an ideal chance. Travis had swung his shotgun toward them, but instead of a succession of two shots he had inadvertently detonated both barrels at once, cleanly missing the birds and thumping his shoulder so hard that he had lost his balance and fallen backwards off the log.

He had landed miraculously intact but extremely shaken, and somehow he had missed numerous rocks and sharp spikes that filled the small ravine. He had laid for several minutes contemplatng a pointed stump between his left rib cage and his left arm, a natural daggar that was tapered and black and awful, a waiting skewer that could have easily pierced completely through his body. He had sustained a nasty scratch on his arm, and as they motored along he fell silent for a time, reaching under his arm to feel a hard, healing scab through his flannel shirt. He shuddered as he contemplated his close call once more.

That he was still alive seemed more than a chance occurrence. The boy was convinced that there had to be more to it than that. He shivered again as he reviewed that incident in his mind, and for several minutes he said nothing as he and H.K. traveled. He couldn�t help but wonder how one explains such things to a hunting buddy. Would H.K. understand, or would he indeed want to? Travis decided not to mention it, since there was that aspect of the episode that revealed his own total inexperience, evoking fear he might be thought stupid. On the other hand there was a mystical aspect as well. Stupidity he was comfortable enough discussing, even his own�but supernatural�no way he could bring that up to H.K. Yet the boy couldn�t deny that he had sensed some kind of unfamiliar personage nearby while he had lain there, a new and pleasant and comforting closeness to...what? Maybe it had been a guardian angel. Whatever it was, it had provided him protection, and that was all he knew for certain. And the whole affair seemed almost like a dream now, receding in memory like mist on a moonlit night. He had discussed it with no one, and had been afraid to mention the matter even to his mother.

�Yep, �at�s fer sho� a fine shotgun, aw-rite,� said H.K., breaking into the boy�s reflection. �Sears makes a good �un, Daddy always said.�

�Your daddy has a shotgun?�

�Well, naw, �e ain�t got no shotgun. �E likes Sears rifles, I mean. �E bought �at ol� Savage pump �e�s got fum Sears nigh onto a hunnert years ago. Ye know �e ain�t no shotgun man. Lawd, �e gives me enough fits o�er mine. Shotguns an� bird dogs an� quail huntin� is fer sissies, t� heah �im tell it. But in �at regard, I ain�t m� papa�s son. I love seein� m� dogs point an� �en brang �em birds t� hand adder th� shootin�.�

The shotgun was a gift from the boy�s parents for his thirteenth birthday a few months back. He still loved his old .22 rifle, and he sure as heck wasn�t going to let H.K.�s father, Hank McCard, know he was using a scattergun these days. Hank was the boy�s squirrel-hunting buddy and another of his best friends, and like many mountain men he held strong opinions on almost everything. One of his favorite prejudices was the virtue of rifles and the absolute uselessness of shotguns. It was cowardly and even dumb to use anything but a rifle on squirrels, or on anything else, as far as Hank was concerned. If you couldn�t use a rifle on it, it wasn�t worth hunting. Hank would adamantly declare this with a frequency and a finality that left no other word to be spoken on the subject.

While they talked, H.K. reached inside his hunting coat, felt around tentatively, and shortly he deftly produced a brown paper sack, crumpled tightly around the neck of a concealed, flat bottle. Taking both his hands momentarily from the big steering wheel, he opened his bottle, laid a coal black cap on the worn leather seat between them, and guzzled a long swig. The burn of alcohol in his throat felt familiar and comforting, and as soon as the sensation subsided he took another long swallow. H.K. glanced over at his companion, who watched him intently. He shoved his bottle in Travis�s direction without replacing the cap, and then on second thought retracted it.

�Got t� give �er a try sometime, boy, but not whilstye�s wi� me,� he said with a wheeze. �Least not �til ye got �nother year er two b�hind ye. Mighty good wildcat stuff �ere, grow hair on yo� chest faster�n a �coon kin climb a tree. An� �at can�t be nothin� but good, I figger.�

�No, thanks, H.K.,� replied the boy after an awkward hesitation. He was glad his friend had already withdrawn his impromptu offer. His mother espoused that there was a dreadful wickedness to this thing called alcohol, an attitude cemented by her trials in coping with an alcoholic father and brother. There was no room for middle ground between teetotalers and those who seemed enslaved to brew. The boy was conditioned to avoid a first-hand encounter with such a malicious liquid.

On leaving the main section of Indian Park, they passed by several more residences before wet pavement once more gave way to muddy country road. The worst sections had been shored up with coarse gravel, but still it was slow going. The rain gradually subsided to a very fine mist, and then stopped completely. By the time they reached an overgrown, fallow field on the Holman place, the air held a hint of clearing weather, though everywhere vegetation still dripped and ditches yet ran with water.

�Hot-o-mighty! I wuz �fraid we wuz gon� hafta sprout fins t� hunt,� said H.K. as they pushed open the Ford�s creaky doors. �Looky at th� blue sky up �ere!�

The car was halted in an acute curve next to Sion Holman�s field, and H.K. took one additional deep swig from his bottle before they got out. They opened the trunk, and two sparkling white pointer dogs sprang forth, brimming with pent-up enthusiasm. They shook themselves briskly on hitting solid ground, took care of postponed business for a minute or two, and then quickly disappeared into the weed-choked field. A very business-like metallic sound of loading shotguns punctuated the chill air, and right away the man and boy ascended a muddy red embankment adjacent the parked car.

�Hunt �em, Petunia! Look close, Daisy!� yelled H.K. at intervals, while the boy tried to imitate the man�s encouragement to the dogs. Those snappy pointers quartered back and forth, seeking their quarry intently, appearing and disappearing at intervals, while the pair of hunters followed with dedication. Every waterlogged hedgerow, every dripping plum thicket, every drenched patch of kudzu drew the dogs� scrutiny, but all to no avail. The boy longed to see for the first time that mysterious canine phenomenon known as �pointing,� indicating that the dogs had found their quarry, but it was not to be this day. Maybe so much precipitation had kept the birds in hiding all day, or perhaps the driving rain had simply scoured away all scent. For whatever reason, the field was sterile, except for an occasional meadowlark or towhee, which the dogs disregarded with dutiful disdain. Ever so often, H.K. stopped and reached for his liquor bottle, imbibing yet another gulp of whiskey before shouting at his busy dogs and moving on. The boy noticed that his friend�s step had become a bit unsteady, but he tried to ignore it. His thoughts were much less of H.K.�s drinking than of a fervent desire to experience his first taste of a real, dog-assisted covey rise.

An hour of searching produced nothing at all, except for wet feet and a complete soaking of the boy�s jeans all the way up to his knees, the inevitable result of dragging through interlacing, dripping vegetation. Finally, H.K. motioned blankly toward the car, and they began their retreat, accompanied by the dogs, whose eagerness seemed not in the least diminished. Still, light was just beginning to fail, and it was no doubt time to call it a day and come back some other time. By now H.K.�s speech was as thick as sorghum syrup, his eyes had lost their sparkle, and his facial muscles had relaxed so that he was almost devoid of expression.

��Tain�t like ol� Sion t� lead me wrong. Betcha �em birds is here. We�ll hit �er again in a few days, boy,� he mumbled indistinctly as they approached the car. �We won�t let �em whup us.�

Travis broke open his shotgun, slipped both shells from the chambers, dropped them into his pocket, and then descended the steep bank first. Just before he took a final leap to the road, there was a loud cry from his friend, followed by a totally unexpected shotgun blast. H.K. almost knocked the boy�s feet from under him as his slid into the miry ditch, groaning like a combat casualty. Blood gushed from a fist-sized wound on the right side of his chest, where innumerable pellets had ripped away his jacket and reached underlying flesh. H.K.�s shotgun stood impaled barrel first at the bottom of the red clay bank, and there was a gruesome trail of crimson smeared into the wet soil.

Horrified, Travis tossed aside his own gun and knelt beside his friend, who was conscious though badly wounded. H.K. groaned and writhed in the ditch, cursing with each breath at his ineptitude in losing his footing. The shotgun had fallen first on its butt, discharging its potent load, and then had cartwheeled away. How could things go so wrong? Perplexed bird dogs gathered around, as if trying to help, getting in the way and licking H.K. in the face even as blood spurted in a ghastly flood. Travis ripped open H.K.�s jacket, and there was sticky hemorrhage everywhere. While the man writhed and moaned, the boy wadded up his handkerchief and with shaking hands stuffed it into the torrential flow, only to see his pitiful cloth quickly inundated.

�Go git he�p, boy,� coughed H.K. with difficulty. His eyes rolled back revealing white sclera, while blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. For a brief moment the man seemed to go limp and lose consciousness, and the terrified boy wondered if he was dead.

Travis looked around frantically, but there was no traffic on the remote road. Desperate, he tried to rouse his friend with cries and vigorous pats, while the terror of the situation nudged him towards outright hysteria. He could hear himself breathing a distraught prayer, half-saying the words, half-thinking them. He didn�t know how he managed it, but as he worked to stop the massive bleeding he calmed down significantly. H.K. opened his eyes once more, sending a course of relief through the boy. He found himself telling his injured friend, in an oddly tranquil voice, that he was going to the Holman house for help. He thought he heard someone behind him, and as he stood up, he even looked around expectantly. There was no one visible, but he distinctly felt that he was not alone. He concluded that it was absolutely necessary to leave H.K. and go for help, so before he left he looked in the car and located an old cleaning rag, which he added to the packing he had already placed in the wound. H.K. once more appeared momentarily unconscious, but roused as the boy stood up once more to leave. Travis broke quickly into a run, sensing that time was against his friend, who continued to bleed at an alarming rate.

�Take th� car, son,� the wounded man called weakly, his failing voice clearly pleading.

The boy ignored his advice, knowing full well that a straight shift transmission was far beyond his driving abilities. He had practiced some in his yard at home with the �55 Mercury his mother drove, but its automatic transmission was entirely different from the clutch-shrouded mystery of H.K.�s car. His own legs would have to run for help.

Down a steep, muddy hill he went, skidding with each step but covering a mile to the Holman house in minutes that seemed like hours. He developed a sharp stitch in his right side as he pushed himself along, but he shut his mind off to incidental pain and kept on running as hard as he could. The road led through ominous rushing waters at Sharp Mountain Creek, which was high, unbridged, and threatening. The raging current appeared uncrossable as he approached.

�Oh, God,� he cried out loud. �Help me!�

A confidence surged within him as he splashed through unscathed, using whatever rocks protruded, and continued his critical dash for help. The Holman home was disappointingly quiet as he entered the yard, and repeated yells as he approached went unheeded. He banged briskly on the door, hoping, praying. Nobody was home.

His uncertainty began rising once more, and he thought of breaking in and using their phone. He wasn�t sure they had one, however, so he quickly chose the only other alternative�there was another house a half-mile down the road. His hands ached from pummeling the unyielding wood of the Holman�s front door, but his breath had caught up some, and he felt a new surge of vigor course through his frail frame. He took off once more as a gray twilight descended, running as hard as he could run, pushing his body past its limit, and refusing to feel tired. Soon a colorless, unpainted house loomed ahead, and like a racer sprinting for the finish line he used every ounce of his strength to reach its low, sagging porch. There was a beaten old Studebaker parked out front, missing its back windshield and one headlight. Gone also was the front bumper, the driver side door was bent inward, and one rear fender was slightly crumpled.

Travis knocked loudly again, wincing with pain and yelling and making as much noise as possible while praying aloud that someone would be home. To his great relief, two inquisitive young men opened the door. In bated breath he attempted to explain H.K.�s plight. They yelled something to another person inside the house, and pointed the boy toward their delapidated car. An older woman appeared at the door as they prepared to depart.

�Git in, kid. �Is Studebaker�s faster�n it looks. It wuz doin� o�er a hunnert miles a hour las� weekend comin� back fum Florida. It�ll git �is guy t� th� hospital quicker�n quicksand. Cherokee City�s closest. Maw, call th� sheriff an� tell �im we�ll be blowin� through like a stock car racer!�

In seconds, it seemed, they had slipped and slid up the road, blasted through the angry waters of Sharp Mountain Creek like a speedboat, and were back at the parked Ford. H.K. had managed to erect himself since Travis had hurried away, and there was a trail of blood from the ditch leading around the back of the car to the driver�s door, as well as a broad smear of crimson on the window glass. He was now sprawled prone on the ground, still conscious but lacking enough energy to rise. He rolled slightly while trying to raise his head, and smiled weakly as the Studebaker skated to a stop.

�I be dog if�n �e didn� find somebody. Mighty glad t� see ye, boys,� H.K. said hoarsely. He managed to make it onto his side as the trio jumped out, and with difficulty he wheezed, �Whynja take th� car, Travis?�

�I can�t drive a straight shift, H.K.,� the boy explained meekly as the rescuers lifted and tugged to get the injured man into their back seat. The two were most considerate and were apparently oblivious to copious blood and mud being daubed into their vehicle.

�I�ll take �im t� th� hospital, an� ye take th� kid home,� said one of them, obviously the oldest. The second boy nodded in agreement, and with a growl of its engine and a spinning of muddy tires the Studebaker was gone. Travis gathered up both discarded shotguns, loaded a pair of terribly confused bird dogs back into the trunk, and then indicated to his benefactor that everything was ready.

�Whur ye live, kid?�

�Indian Park. I�ll show you,� said Travis, a slight tremble in his voice, as the youth started the Ford and expertly manipulated the gear shift. Shortly they were retracing the route back home, while the boy�s heart rate subsided and hope for his friend revived. H.K. had ceased to bleed actively and had looked like he just might make it. But all that blood certainly made it seem mighty bad, and he couldn�t be sure.

�Yo� gut-shot friend�s drunker�n a boiled owl, ain�t �e, boy?�

�He drank some. Probably too much,� said Travis. He paused before adding, �Actually, way too much. And he�s not shot in the guts, it�s his chest.�

��At hard-drinkin� likker�ll git a man in trouble e�er time, Maw sez,� replied the driver, ignoring Travis� anatomy lesson. �We�s Holiness an� we ain�t much on cussin� an� hard likker. �Ceptin� �round New Y�ars and the Fo�th o� July.�

The car of Sheriff Hoke Hatfield was parked in the boy�s yard when they arrived. Ruth Jackson rushed headlong outside and embraced Travis as he descended from the vehicle, pulling him to herself warmly. After a prolonged embrace under the porch light, and a few tears from both of them, she pushed him back and looked at him eye-to-eye.

�Did you shoot H.K., son?�

�Me? Heck, no, Mama. He fell down and shot himself.�

A distinct measure of relief covered Ruth�s face, and she turned to the sheriff.

�There you have it, Hoke. Shot himself. And they say he�s going to be okay?�

�The deputy who escorted them says he�s got some damage, an� he�s in surgery, but he�ll survive. Glad your boy�s not at fault. Good work in getting help, Travis. I�ll take H.K�s shotgun, if you don�t mind. I�ll get your driver back home, and I�ll make sure somebody picks up H.K.�s car.�

While cleaning his own shotgun that night, the boy pondered. He was normally a light sleeper, and this would doubtless be a difficult night. His mother had already talked to H.K.�s wife by phone, and the boy had by now been reassured that his friend�s life was out of danger. There was much comfort in that realization.

The alcohol issue resurfaced in his mind as he contemplated, and so did that treacherous muddy bank. Then he considered the dropped shotgun and a seemingly random blast that could have gone in any direction. He relived repeatedly his desperate and reckless dash for help. He shuddered as he considered far worse possibilities that had not occurred.

And that sensation he had felt so strongly�was that the same Presence he had felt when he fell off that log? It had seemed so real, so close at hand, and apparently very powerful�and so

supportive and caring. And H.K. could very likely owe his life to it.

But what was it? And was there any way H.K. could be aware of it? The youngster honestly didn�t know, but he would visit his injured friend at the hospital tomorrow night. And he planned to ask him.

DOWNLOAD CHAPTER ONE FREE! Set in the northern Georgia mountains in the 1950s, this book brilliantly highlights the best and the worst in the mountain folk that constitute its main characters.