I mentioned on an earlier post about a story that has come into my possession. I am going to present my uncle’s work here. I don’t know if it was ever published anywhere else, but I think it is fair to put it here at this point. I have actually had some other story parts that have been inspired by reading this work. I may reference parts of this story in some of my upcoming work. Until then, the story in parts:

Part 1

One and a half miles southeast of Three Cross Bog, a small campsite was neatly tucked against the side of a knoll. A lean-to made from pine boughs had been lashed between two sturdy tree trunks. There were numerous gaps in the roof, offering little protection from the bitter New England weather. The cool, crisp air flowed easily through the crude structure with its open sides. The floor was bare except for the figure of a boy, who was curled up inside a sleeping bag made from old green Army blankets fastened together with huge safety pins. A man stood twelve feet in front the shelter. An old man. He was white haired and sported a bushy porcupine mustache, all but covering his lower lip. He had a slender figure for a man, almost five feet tall.

Stooping over their rekindled campfire, a frying pan in his left hand, Gramp Willard saw young Ron Powers wipe sleep from his eyes.

“Better shake a leg and get out of that bedroll,” the old man said. “We’ve a full day of hunt in front of us. Food’s up.”

“Coming,” said the youngster.

Ron pulled on and laced up his calf length boots that he’d retrieved from the bottom of his sleeping bag, slipped on his baggy brown hunting jacket and shucked off his blankets. The boy picked up his double barrel shotgun, a twelve gauge Knickerbocker, and opened the breech to inspect the bright brass shell ends. Convinced his gun was loaded, he closed the weapon with a sharp snap. The fledgling hunter tucked the butt of the shotgun under his arm. He tried out the carrying method Gramp had recently taught him and felt the rounded walnut gun stock fit comfortably beneath his limb.

While watching the boy handle the gun, the elder huntsman recalled his own first experiences with arms and his own associated sensations of fear and excitement. Most of all, Willard recalled his sense of power. His potency.

“Boy, the true mark of a hunter,” the veteran woodsman said, stopping to pause, “a man eats only what he can kill and he kills only what he needs to eat… and boy…”

“Yes sir,” said the youthful pupil, watching his grandfather toy with the spatula in the skillet.

“You can’t shoot no egg.”

They both laughed.

“Gramp,” said Ron, crossing to the campfire, “if we’re here to hunt partridge, why didn’t you bring Peppersauce with us? She’s a good bird dog.”

“Well,” said the senior hunter, leaving the frypan sputtering over the fire and walking to his worn wicker knapsack, “she’d had been no good on this hunt.” Gramp rummaged quickly through his pack. “Here lad,” said the ancient poacher, tossing Ron a box of shells.

“Buckshot! Deer?! We’re going to hunt deer? Out of season? Gramp…”

“Hush up,” the old man snapped.

“But ~”

“No buts! I wouldn’t tramp narry a step for any ordinary stag. No siree. We’re out there to get us a might special deer. Mighty special.”

“Not Old Buck,” the youth quizzed.

“Straight on the mark,” came Willard’s reply.

“Gramp,” said Ron.

The old timer crouched and removed the heated breakfast from over the red heat and said, “Bring your mess over and shove some of these eggs down ya.”

“Gramp. Gramp, nobody’s seen that deer in better than two years. They say a hunter over in Groveland got him.”

“That’s right. That’s right, lad. Even had a proper write up in the Gazzette. Picture and all. Group of businessmen standing ’round congratulating each other. Cut it out to save it. Have to chuckle every time I see it.” The shrewd deerstalker laughed and said, “Move your plate ni closer. I don’t want to slop no fat on the fire.”

“But Gramp, if that was…”

“Damnation! Sometimes I suspect your mother’s raising a tree stump instead of a boy! I wouldn’t have brought you out here if I wasn’t sure that Buck still runs right through here and up past Three Cross Bog.”

“Certain,” the youngster asked.

“Certain,” came the reply.

“Why haven’t you bagged him before now,” Ron persisted.

“Wasn’t time. It just wasn’t time, boy.”

Squatting and sitting precariously on a small wood pile, Ron cut into the egg yolk, oozing out from under the fork’s pressure. He lifted the steaming mouthful and had his first taste of nourishment.

“Three Cross Bog,” the boy inquired.

“A mile or so off to the left’s the cranberry bog. I’ve a stand picked out for you. A place where you can wait for Buck to come to you. Runs right by there. Easiest way for him to skirt that fathomless pit. Heed me, now. That bog’s swallowed up three grown men and I don’t want no fourth. You just stay in your spot. Are you listening, lad?”

“Yes sir,” said the younger Powers.

“Certain,” the elderly woodsman asked.

“Certain,” came the response.

Both sat eating slowly in silence.

“Why,” asked Ron, after downing his last bite, “didn’t you say Old Buck was still alive? You could have told me.”

“You know the Morrisons,” the old man questioned.

“They live over on Parish Road? The house that sits way back off the road?”

“Aya,” Willard said. “The old man. Ben,” he continued while looking intently at Ron. “Crazy. Crazy, blind Irish bastard. Been after my tail for… for years. Blames me for his brother. We were hunting deer. Buck. He jumped a doe and winged a hind quarter. Fool. Fool followed her into the bog. Couldn’t do nothing. No rope. Was nothing of either when we got back. Out of sight. Sank right out of sight.”

“And he blames you,” Ron uttered.

“Deserted him,” Willard snapped. “Hell! I went for help boy, help! Was nothing there when…” The old man stopped suddenly and looked into the deep, dark woods. He seemed to be straining, straining to hear every sound, to see every bit of movement. Turning away from Ron and focusing his eyes on a spot far from their encampment, Gramp studied the slight movement. It was nothing. He looked back at the boy and said softly, “Morrison’s a hunter. A patient hunter. I suspect he knows that Buck’s still alive. Figures one day Gramp would go back into the woods. Back to the bog”

The young hunter had been as still as a granite monument marking some historical event. He was learning to become a good listener.

“Old Buck,” the veteran deerstalker said, “He’s your prize. One that’ll set these folks around here on end. They’ll take notice of ya.”

Ron looked sheepishly down into his dented tin plate and nervously stirred one small morsel of burnt bacon with the tines of his fork.