Struggles of a Country boy Read online

  On the first day the smell wasn't very strong, but by the third morning the hall leading to the bathroom and his room was so foul and strong Brad could no longer stand it. He would go out through the side porch door and around the outside of the house to come in through the pump room door. It was the long way around, but easier on his stomach.

  While the school bus carried him closer to the source of his anxiety Brad was desperately hoping his mother felt better and was out of bed so he could go squirrel hunting. He was sorry his mother had a bad headache but he really didn't want to hang around the house to hear and smell her agony.

  The yellow school bus rounded a sharp bend then followed the blacktop down a short hill. They were entering the grove of ancient oaks where Brad hunted squirrels when George, the burly bus driver, hollered over his shoulder.

  "Hey, Brad!" George's deep voice made Brad leave his thoughts of his mother.

  "Did ya see' m, Brad? He crossed the road right in front of us!"

  "What, George? I didn't see anything." Brad got interested in a hurry and his mood immediately switched gears.

  George was a hunter and fisherman. He and Brad often talked hunting and fishing on the long rides back and forth to school. Brad knew if George hollered about seeing something it would be of interest to him also.

  "Biggest damn cat I've seen in years. And he's crossing roads in broad daylight no less. You'd best get your rifle and go after 'em, Brad!" George was shaking his head vigorously in disbelief.

  George drove the big, forty passenger school bus faster than he normally did. When he swung it around in the mouth of the French's driveway it leaned heavily into the turn and its rear tires slid on the gravel before George got it stopped with the mud splattered front step hanging over the Burgess’ flagstone walk. George was anxious to get Brad on his way after the big cat.

  George ignored the French boys. They had crowded up behind Brad, and were fighting with each other, as usual, to see who would be the first off the bus. Brad knew George wouldn't open the door until he was through talking. For some reason Brad could never comprehend, the Frenchs didn't get the message. No matter how much of a rush they were in, Ernie and Robbie wouldn't get off the bus until George wanted them to.

  Brad didn't think George liked them very much, but George never said much out loud, good or bad, about anyone.

  "I think that cat is headed for the big ledge behind Ballou's sawmill. That's where people have been seeing him crossing the state road at night.

  If you go over the ridge Brad, and come into the ledges from the top, you might get a shot at him. But be real quiet and take your time."

  George swung the shiny metal door handle with the flourish of Arthur Fiedler bringing in the strings section. A gentle slap on his small backside from George's work worn hand hurried Brad on his way.

  "See ya, Kid, and good luck!" George hollered after him as Brad hit the flagstones on the trot and an instant later threw open the front door.

  Brad thought of his mother lying in bed barely in time to catch the heavy maple door and prevent it from slamming open. A quick look down the hallway towards his parent's bedroom and with an equal mixture of dread and hope he realized she was still in bed behind the closed door. He stood stock-still in the doorway dreading the moment when her plaintive cry would summon him to do her bidding.

  Brad was mentally hurrying George and his bus on their way. He was anxiously aware that his mother might have heard the bus and would already be wondering where he was.

  When he heard George shift the bus into fourth gear and the bus's rumble fading up the hill Brad slipped back outside closing the door quietly behind him. He hurried to the corner of the house and cautiously looked towards the French's. The boys were out of sight so he stepped around the corner.

  He stood on the old granite stonewall which ended at the house under one of his bedroom windows. He felt lucky for the moment. There was no one around to wonder why he was going into his house through a window. Mentally crossing his fingers and hoping the window wouldn't screech out an alarm Brad slowly pushed it up. He also hoped his bedroom door was still closed. The last things he had done this morning, before running out to catch the bus, were to hid his .22 rifle under his bed and to close his bedroom door. The good natured George had kidded him about crowding his luck since it was a seven mile walk to school in Wilmet if George should take it into his head to leave without Brad.

  It had been well worth the kidding from George and the dirty look from fat Greta for holding the bus up. He wanted the door closed in case he had to slip in to his room after school. He thought he might want to change his clothes and get his .22 rifle without his mother knowing he was there.

  The door was still closed. Now the chances of his mother hearing him come in and go out through his bedroom window were slim. He would just be extra quiet.

  Brad had already decided if she called out for him he would pretend he was not there. She could not be sure whether he had got off the bus or not. For all she could tell, only the French boys had been on the bus.

  Besides, sometimes I wait in Wilmet for Dad instead of riding the bus. Anyway, Greta will be here before long. Brad rationalized. She can wait on Mom and clean-up the kitchen before Dad gets home.

  In under fifteen minutes Brad was quietly climbing back out of the window and onto the stonewall. His rifle lay in the grass where he had lowered it out of the window with the piece of nylon parachute cord which was still attached to the stock.

  He was ready to go after George's cat.

  It was a hard forty minute climb to the crest of the ridge. Brad went over the top picking his way through the low bush blueberries and head high birch and beech saplings.

  The chill of the cool fall breeze blowing on the east side of the ridge hit him as he broke over the rocky spine. The wind was light, but it held a strong promise of frost before morning.

  With the slowly setting sun on his back he kept going down the east slope until he hit the upper part of the granite ledges where he could rest before descending further down the ridge. His shadow on the ground ahead of him had grown in length and he knew that he was running out of daylight fast and could only halt for a minute or two. Before he started to hurry down the ridge again the sun was barely hanging above the purple hills forming the southwest horizon.

  A fast, quiet quarter of a mile more and Brad could see Ballou's sawmill. The mill sat next to the highway a half mile as the crow flies from where Brad was and five or six hundred feet lower at the foot of the mountain.

  Between Brad and the mill were a series of vertical faced ledges with massive piles of jagged granite boulders at their feet. The smallest of the rocks were the size of fifty-five gallon oil drums, while the largest ones were as big as good sized houses. All were aged dark gray and streaked with green and silver-gray lichens. The rocks had been broken off the face of the ledge and stacked haphazardly by the last glacier as it crept southward. The great sheet of ice had slowly receded thousands of years ago leaving a unique architecture of tunnels, crevices, and holes in its wake. These natural structures became the homes and sanctuaries for countless animals. The foxes, bears, bobcats and any other creatures which needed shelter from January's sub-zero cold and deep snows or the torrential spring rains had sought refuge here over the ages.

  Brad reached the garage-sized slab of granite he was seeking. The huge block of igneous rock appeared to be teetering on the very top edge of the tallest cliff on the ridge. It also sat the highest up on the ridge. This vantage point next to the gray giant was one of Brad's favorite spots on the mountain. He looked off to the southwest thinking about the rapidly sinking sun as he caught his breath.

  Darkness was approaching faster than Brad cared to think about. He contemplated hurrying down the ridge to the next ledge. This ledge was the closest to the gravel road which ran along the bottom of the ridge next to the sawmill.

  I don'
t believe the tom is up this high, he's down below. Brad thought. At that moment he had no doubt in his mind the big cat was below him and hurried down the ridge to find him.

  Brad reached the lower ledge just as the last sliver of a faded orange sun slipped out of sight behind the distant Pack Monadnock Mountain.

  The lower ledge was the second largest in a series of cliffs. At its foot lay the biggest pile of fractured granite slabs on the mountain.

  Brad had tracked a smaller bobcat, one he was sure was a female, into these catacombs last spring. He thought there was a good chance she had a den and maybe a kitten or two hidden down there.

  He and George knew the big cat was a tom. So either he was out scouting for a mate, or had already found one in the rocks below.

  "Come on, Kitty. Come visit your girl friend," Brad called softly to the cat, but more to himself, from where he was sitting on the very edge of a vertical face, among a few mountain laurel branches which were clinging in desperation to the bare granite. He was sure the next snow or heavy rain could uproot them and send them hurtling down onto the jagged rocks sixty feet below.

  Lower down the slope, the night shadows were rapidly eating up what little daylight remained, and the ragged edged boulders were beginning to merge together in the diffused light. Brad stared down at the base of the cliff where he had stopped tracking the little cat in the spring snow. He imagined a liquid shadow pouring across the flat top of a slab of granite. It was a little off to the right of where he had been watching. Not even his teenage imagination would accept what he was seeing. Not until a second, smaller shadow, bellied across the same slab did Brad believe what he was looking at.

  Brad nestled his single shot .22 rifle against his shoulder. He swung the front sight across the rocks towards the flowing shadows. A hound-sized lump appeared in front of his sights. It was crouched on top of a white quartz streaked block of granite less than seventy feet from Brad.

  Even in the rapidly failing light Brad could see the fire in the huge yellow-green eyes. He was intimidated by the flash of large white canine teeth between sneering pink lips.

  As he watched an intense yellow eye in front of the knife blade rifle sight Brad squeezed the slack out of the trigger. The intensity of the eye forced him to look over the top of the rifle barrel and full into the cat's fiery eyes.

  The fire flashed brighter in his eyes for a fraction of a second. Then the cat broke his stare as he casually turned his head towards his mate.

  As if on orders from the male the little she-cat dropped from sight between two slabs of the dark gray granite.

  Brad watched the small white patches on the tom's ears disappear when the cat laid his tufted ears down against his head and spit noisily with a flash of long canines just before he too faded into the deepening shadows.

  He swung his rifle around anxiously. Brad couldn't see anything but dark lumped rocks and the deepening dark void where the cats had disappeared. All the time Brad was searching the emptiness below him he wondered why he hadn't shot the cats. They were each worth twenty dollars in bounty money. He could not come up with a satisfactory reason for letting them escape, especially the huge male bobcat.

  Off in the distance, the bulky square shadows of the stacked lumber stood out in Ballou's mill-yard. Brad watched a set of yellow headlights hurry across the straightaway in front of the bulky shadows and heard the hiss of the car's tires cutting the quiet of the night.

  "Now what?" He spoke out loud in a quivering voice while he wiped first his right hand and then his left on the leg of his dungarees. Even after going through the ritual twice his hands were still slick with nervous sweat.

  "Too bad I didn't bring a flashlight. It sure would help." Brad spoke louder this time, as if he were talking to a hard of hearing friend.

  His knees felt weak when he stood up and his first few steps were clumsy. He tried to make a lot of noise to be sure the cats heard him. He wanted them to leave or stay hidden deep under the rock pile.

  "You guys stay there!" Brad hollered out at the cats. His voice puffed full of bravado.

  His hands were shaking while he tried to uncock the stiff springed hammer on his rifle. The serrated knob on the hammer bit deep into the soft flesh on the inside of his thumb.

  "Oh, the hell with it!"

  Being scared was making Brad impatient, but he knew it wasn't safe to crawl down through the thick brush and over the rocks in the dark with his rifle cocked and ready to fire.

  He didn't bother to aim. It was just a matter of pointing the .22 towards a big white pine and pulling the trigger.

  The quick flash of fire from the short barrel momentarily ruined his night vision. For several seconds it made the night seem even darker.

  In the evening quiet the sharp crack of the .22 echoed off the hills and reverberated up and down the valleys.

  When the quiet returned it was quieter than before. The rustling of the small nocturnal animals and the twittering of the birds while they were settling down for the night had stopped. It was if all life on the side of the mountain was holding its collective breath and waiting to see what would happen next.

  Gradually, the scratchings, peeps, and chirps increased in number and volume. There were even a couple of hearty tree frogs joining into the chorus far below in the creek bottom.

  I guess no one told them it was close to freezing and was going to frost.

  Brad started to pick his way through the thick brush and around the jagged rocks going across the slope.

  It took him several long minutes stumbling around in the growing darkness to find a place on the steep-sided ridge where he knew he could descend through the grove of mixed red oak and beech trees with an occasional fir sapling. The forest floor was just as steep and rock strewn, but in the shade of the two and three hundred year old hardwoods, the laurel and juniper bushes couldn’t get a foothold. Once entrenched, the bushes would have spread into a head-high, almost impregnable mat as they had over a lot of the mountain’s West and North sides. Even in the dark Brad could see the outlines of the larger rocks so he didn't stumble as often as he had when he was traveling in the brush.

  When he came to Stoney Creek he stood on its steep bank for several minutes listening to the rush of the water. It was not a friendly burbling stream. Thirty feet across the creek was the dirt road he wanted to be on. If he crossed here, instead of upstream on the old wooden bridge, he would save himself over a mile of hiking in the dark of the night.

  The instant he plunged his right foot into the icy water Brad was sure he had screwed up. As he put more of his weight on that foot the swift current tugged at his leg threatening to sweep him off his feet and the water was far colder than he thought it would be. The blackness of the night made it impossible to see where he was stepping.

  The rounded stones on the creek's bottom were slick and offered no traction to his worn sneakers. Each step was like putting one ball bearing on top of another. The knee deep torrent kept tearing at his calves trying to upset him. By shuffling slowly along he managed to travel the thirty feet to the far bank.

  Finally after several tries he got his right foot planted against a small boulder next to the bank.

  He was clutching his .22 in his left hand with a white knuckle grip which was cramping and hurting his fingers.

  One more time Brad lunged for the steep roadside bank. His right hand grabbed for a hand hold in the whip-sized willows growing on the bank above him. Struggling to get a hold on the bank's face put Brad on his knees against the rocky slope.

  Two more tries to lift his right knee higher up the steep bank failed. On the third try he made it by forcing his knee against a rough, oval shaped stone. He felt the burning of skin peeling from the side of his knee.

  Pushing with his knee and with a hard tug on the handful of willow stems in his right hand pulled him out of the creek's icy grip.

  He felt the asphalt road through the squis
h of his wet sneakers and hoped in vain that it was not yet six-thirty. He was sure it was well after supper time. Even though he had made good time since crossing the creek he knew from times before it was a twenty minute walk up the dirt road to the State highway. He couldn't see his "Big Ben" pocket watch, but he was sure that it was at least quarter to seven.

  He knew the sound of the engine and the look of its tired headlights. His father's old Chevie was coming around the curve a quarter of a mile or so down the State highway behind him.

  Brad's first thought was elation. It isn't as late as I thought. It can't be, Dad is just getting here. But his better sense and instinct for time told him his first thoughts, before he heard the Chevie, were correct. It was almost seven o'clock and his dad was also running late.

  Brad thought seriously about a way to delay the inevitable confrontation. At least he could postpone it temporarily. All he had to do was to step into the roadside brush before the yellow beams of the headlights hit him. He still had plenty of time to disappear into the gloom. But Brad admitted to himself he was really afraid of the dark and enough was enough for one day. His heart had finally settled down to its normal slow tick and his hands were no longer shaky and sweaty.

  The faded brown interior of the old car smelled musty. Like old, rotten grain sacks. Brad thought and took a chance on opening his window an inch or so to get some fresh air.

  "Close it! As wet as you are, you'll catch pneumonia."

  Harold shifted into third gear and allowed the hot smelling engine to smooth out into a dull throb before saying any more. "You're out kind of late aren't you, Brad?"

  "Did you work overtime, Dad?" Brad ignored the question which didn't really demand an answer. He had trouble understanding why his father asked those kind of questions. He does it all the time, to everyone.

  It really smells in here.

  Brad turned the window crank slowly and allowed the window to drop down less than an inch. He hoped it was an acceptable distance.