I wrote this story a couple years ago and can't remember if I ever published this revision. With the end of summer bearing down on us, I figured now would be as good a time as any. See you in the fall.
Last Day of Summer
Matt Coughlin
Sunshine streamed in through the bedroom window screen, the day’s heat and humidity already ratcheting up.
I looked over the rail of the top bunk at the alarm clock on my dresser below: 8:15.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered. Even at the age of 11, I had a pretty advanced command of profanity.
I vaulted out of the bunk bed and into a pair of cut off jeans. By the time I hit the bedroom door, I'd pulled on my tennis shoes and a t-shirt. I glanced back to see my little brother Stephen still fast asleep. As gently and quietly as possible, I shut the door, wanting to be sure and get out of the house before he woke up.
I smelled something good and headed for the kitchen. The radio was turned to news on National Public Radio, and the reporter was saying something about the guy who'd shot President Reagan earlier that year.
"Last day of summer," my mother said, turning from the stove and smiling.
I grunted and opened the refrigerator. Mom gave me a look when I started to tilt the milk jug to my lips, and I put the jug on the counter and took a glass out of the cabinet. Milk in hand, I sat down at the kitchen table.
"What are you gonna' do with your last day?" Mom asked.
"Going fishing."
"Where?"
"Tommy and me are going to that pond over behind the baseball field, the one where Dad caught that big bass in the spring."
"Be careful," Mom said.
"Dad come home last night?"
"He did," she replied, her smile disappearing. "Not sure what time though... I thought you were going to get up before he left today."
"Wanted to," I said. "I thought the alarm was set, but it didn't go off."
"Maybe you set it for 6 p.m. again."
But I had recently reached the point in life at which anything that came out of my parents' mouths was of so little importance that I often didn't even acknowledge it. The back door slammed behind me as my mother continued speaking.
“Make sure you’re home for dinner!” was the only thing I heard.
My Daiwa spinning rod and reel combo stood in the shed where I always kept them. I grabbed it and my Plano tackle box and went to the outdoor pump to fill up the World War II surplus canteen I carried on hot days. With it on my utility belt and an urgency that bordered on anxiety in my step, I set out to walk the dusty two miles down Little Mountain Road to Rt. 50 where my friend Tommy lived on a goat farm beside the highway.
Late summer crickets roared in my ears as I made my way up and down the hills, past woodlands and crop fields and shacks that I knew had dirt floors although I'd never been inside them. The air got hotter and thicker by the minute. About halfway I paused for a drink from the canteen. I stood at a high point on the road that served my hillside home and peered through the haze. Even then, in the early 80s, buildings about 30 miles away in Reston were visible from that spot on Mercer Mountain on clear days. But the haze cut visibility to a few miles on this late August day, the last day of summer vacation. I couldn't tell what was out there.
Which reminded me a lot of how I felt about what would happen the following day: my first day at Simpson Middle School. And no, I wasn't new to the area. Mercer Mountain was the only home I'd ever known, and I'd recently finished fifth grade at Mercer Elementary, where I'd been in a class with, for the most part, the same 11 other kids since the age of five. Middle school would be a whole new ball game.
First of all, Simpson was located in Leesburg about 12 miles north of Mercer. As far as I was concerned, it might as well have been two miles south of the moon. I didn't deal real well with change.
Adding to the stress of starting middle school, my heart was full of anxiety about the problems my mother and father were having. We didn't see much of the old man anymore, and when we did, he and my mom usually fought. I had a couple friends with divorced parents and a strong feeling I would soon have something in common with them.
I wasn't sure if women were supposed to change their name back when they got divorced and wondered if my mom would keep Murphy as her last name. I'd also thought a few times about where my dad might live if he and my mother split up, but the thought of her, Stephen and myself leaving Mercer Mountain had never crossed my mind.
Refreshed by the water from the canteen, I put aside those dark thoughts and pressed on toward the highway. Some distance behind me, gravel crunched under truck tires. I looked over my shoulder and saw an approaching cloud of dust.
The old Chevy pickup slowed as it drew alongside me.
"Need a ride Santos?" an old farmer named Bobby asked.
"Sure," I replied. "I'm just going down to 50."
I set the rod and tackle box in the truck bed. Bobby reached for the passenger-side door handle, but before he could reach it I'd jumped into the bed myself.
"You can ride up here," he called from the cab.
"To tell you the truth, I could use the cool breeze."
"Suit yourself."
Again, I swigged from the canteen. Sweat evaporated as the air rushing over the cab roof hit my forehead, cooling me off as the truck bounced along the remaining mile or so of New Mountain Road.
Bobby stopped where the gravel met the hard surface, and I hopped over the side. I hit the ground with renewed energy, ready to catch some fish and enjoy the last day of summer.
"Thanks for the ride," I called to Bobby.
"Wasn't nothin'," he said. "Good luck fishing."
I waved without turning, already scrambling up the roadside embankment toward the goat farm. I dropped the rod and tackle box over a four-board fence and climbed over.
"He's in the barn," Tommy's mother called as I approached the kitchen door.
"Thanks," I said, turning to backtrack toward the goat barn. There, Tommy sat on top of a stack of hay bales.
"Where the hell you been?" He asked, hopping down. "I thought you were gonna' be here early."
"I overslept a little."
"Damn. I wish I could sleep in; I was in here milking these sonsabitches at 6:30."
"Sorry; no since in worrying about it now though. Let's go fishing."
"All right. I want to go down to to Partlow's first, get some chew," Tommy said.
The influence of professional baseball players and older farm kids in the area had of late peaked our interest in spitting tobacco juice. We chewed Red Man occasionally and more often a mild wintergreen flavored snuff or "dip" called Hawken.
"Do they call it that because when you chew it you're always hawken' and spittin'?" my dad had joked the first time he caught me with it.
To get to Partlow's store we had to walk about half a mile west on Rt. 50, past the trail that led to the pond where I wanted to fish.
"Why don't we go after?" I suggested.
"Come on," Tommy said. "You can't go fishin' without a chew."
He had me on that widely-accepted truth, and I agreed. Tommy picked up his rod and tackle box and off we went.
As we passed the churchyard that we would have to cross later to get to the baseball field and the pond beyond it, I felt around in my pockets, looking for change. I had a quarter and a dime.
"I don't have enough money for any chew," I said, hoping he wouldn't either and we could proceed to the fishing hole.
"That's allright. I saw my dad over the weekend. He gave me five bucks! I'll buy some Hawken, some Redman and buy you a Coke."
This offer was way too good to refuse, and I continued down the road a little more happily. Neither of us wore a watch, but I figured by that time it had to be past 10 a.m. We'd be fishing right in the hottest part of the day.
At the bridge over the Little River, we had to stop and wait for Rt. 50 traffic to pass. The old bridge was just big enough for two cars to pass and dangerous to cross on foot. A truck pulling a hay trailer sped by, and we hustled across, into the heart of the small village of Aldie.
On one side of us stood the volunteer firehouse and the crumbling old mill. On the other side was the post office and a couple of big houses on hills. Beyond that lay the Aldie Garage and the little general store that
.
"Thanks for the ride," I called to Bobby.
"Wasn't nothin'," he said. "Good luck fishing."
I waved without turning, already scrambling up the roadside embankment toward the goat farm. I dropped the rod and tackle box over a four-board fence and climbed over.
"He's in the barn," Tommy's mother called as I approached the kitchen door.
"Thanks," I said, turning to backtrack toward the goat barn. There, Tommy sat on top of a stack of hay bales.
"Where the hell you been?" He asked, hopping down. "I thought you were gonna' be here early."
"I overslept a little."
"Damn. I wish I could sleep in; I was in here milking these sonsabitches at 6:30."
"Sorry; no since in worrying about it now though. Let's go fishing."
"All right. I want to go down to to Partlow's first, get some chew," Tommy said.
The influence of professional baseball players and older farm kids in the area had of late peaked our interest in spitting tobacco juice. We chewed Red Man occasionally and more often a mild wintergreen flavored snuff or "dip" called Hawken.
"Do they call it that because when you chew it you're always hawken' and spittin'?" my dad had joked the first time he caught me with it.
To get to Partlow's store we had to walk about half a mile west on Rt. 50, past the trail that led to the pond where I wanted to fish.
"Why don't we go after?" I suggested.
"Come on," Tommy said. "You can't go fishin' without a chew."
He had me on that widely-accepted truth, and I agreed. Tommy picked up his rod and tackle box and off we went.
As we passed the churchyard that we would have to cross later to get to the baseball field and the pond beyond it, I felt around in my pockets, looking for change. I had a quarter and a dime.
"I don't have enough money for any chew," I said, hoping he wouldn't either and we could proceed to the fishing hole.
"That's allright. I saw my dad over the weekend. He gave me five bucks! I'll buy some Hawken, some Redman and buy you a Coke."
This offer was way too good to refuse, and I continued down the road a little more happily. Neither of us wore a watch, but I figured by that time it had to be past 10 a.m. We'd be fishing right in the hottest part of the day.
At the bridge over the Little River, we had to stop and wait for Rt. 50 traffic to pass. The old bridge was just big enough for two cars to pass and dangerous to cross on foot. A truck pulling a hay trailer rumbled by, and we hustled across, into the heart of the small village of Aldie.
On one side of us stood the volunteer firehouse and the crumbling old mill. On the other side was the post office and a couple of big houses on hills. Beyond that lay the Aldie Garage and the little general store where we planned to load up on caffeine and nicotine.
Crossing the front porch, I got a little nervous as an 11-year-old set to buy tobacco would have, even in those days.
"Have you bought it here before?" I asked.
"Sure. I do it all the time."
He grabbed us two 7 oz. Cokes in glass bottles and handed them to me. I opened them using the opener on the cooler and put them on the counter next to the tobacco Tommy had picked up. Mr. James, who worked there on Mondays, the owner's day off, gave Tommy a stern look over his glasses but did not try and deny him. We gathered the bounty and retired to the porch.
"I'm going to drink this Coke now," I said. "It won't be cold long."
We sat down on the bench and took long pulls of the little Cokes.
"Damn," Tommy said. "We should have dug up some worms at my house."
"They'll be plenty of worms in the cowfield, if you that's what you want to use," I said. "I'm going after the big fish, using a spinner bait."
"I never catch anything on lures."
"My dad caught a huge bass at this same pond on this one," I said, pulling a big white spinner bait from my box. "I'm going to catch one for the wall."
I put the lure bait back in the box and took another drink. Again, I itched to get to the fishing hole and started to stand up. Tommy put his hand on my forearm and gestured toward the road.
"Look," he said. "It's Mule Train Joe."
I looked down Rt. 50 in the same direction from which we had come. The man wore cowboy boots that looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks and facial hair that looked like it hadn't seen a razor in as long. A greasy black hat sat atop his head, and he wore a poncho over his shoulders despite the heat.
All the kids said he wore the poncho to hide his gun and a knife that had cut more than one throat.
"He's coming this way," I whispered as the man approached. Tommy and I froze in our seats on the wooden bench in front of the store.
"I bet he's gonna' rob the place," Tommy said.
The man mounted the steps and glanced at us with a nod. I caught just a glimpse of his green eyes, peering out from somewhere between the reddish brown beard and the brim of the hat.
The door swung open, and the man went inside. We were afraid of him, so then would have been the perfect time to leave. But something drew us inside behind him. He stood at the counter, talking to Mr. James.
"I'm looking for some .357 shells," the man said.
"We don't have none," James said.
"Where can I get some?"
"Prob'ly the hardware store in Middleburg."
"OK."
With that the poncho-clad character turned and went back outside. He continued west on 50, instead of going back the way he'd come.
We drifted back onto the porch.
"What do you think he needs those bullets for?" I said.
"He's gotta' be robbing or killing somebody."
"Why do they call him Mule Train?"
"Supposedly he came from out west, got the nickname out there. I heard he killed somebody, and that's why he came here."
For a moment, I considered this possibility and wondered if we needed to tell someone this guy was buying bullets. Probably none of my business, I figured.
"Come on. Let's go fishing."
"You know, if he's walking to Middleburg, it's going to take him all day."
"Yeah," I said.
"Nobody's gonna' pick him up hitchhiking."
"Right."
"I heard he's camped out over on Bootleg Island," Tommy said. "They say he's sitting on a pile of money he stole out west. We ought to go over there right now and get it."
"You want to steal it from him?"
"It's not really stealing if he stole it in the first place. Hell, we might get a reward."
"Or we might get shot full of .357 holes."
"Come on man. It's the last day of summer."
Tommy had me on that. So I asked myself the question that had guided me through the summer, ever since I finished reading a certain book in June.
"What would Tom Sawyer do?"
The answer was clear. I decided it couldn't hurt to have a little adventure. The fish would probably bite better later in the day anyway.
So instead of returning to the churchyard and crossing the fields to the pond we took a left at the bridge and started to make our way down the bank of the Little River. The trail was pretty good close to the highway. It led to a cleared area with a fire ring that someone had used as a campsite a few hundred yards from the road. After that, however, the trail narrowed and quickly disappeared.
We pushed on through the tall weeds, brush and sticker briers.
"Dammit!" Tommy cursed as his fishing rod hung up on tree branch. "I'm gonna' stash my fishing stuff right here. We might need both hands to carry that loot anyway."
My dad had given me the rod and reel for my ninth birthday, and they were among my most prized possessions. Tommy was right though. I figured losing the burden of the rod and tackle box might speed up this adventure too and get me to the fishing hole quicker.
In the back of my mind, I knew I'd gone along mainly because I didn't really believe any of the stories about the man we'd seen at Partlow's store. I didn't believe he'd killed anyone; I didn't believe he was sitting on a pile of treasure or even that he lived on the island; and I didn't believe his name was Mule Train Joe. Still, I hadn't been back to Bootleg Island all summer, and it would be interesting to find out for sure if there was a mystery man camped out there.
Sweat dripped into my eyes as I bent down to hide my rod and tackle. I rose and took a swig from the canteen.
We'd named our island destination "Bootleg" the previous summer when Tommy, myself and some other boys stopped there on an inner tube float trip down the Little River from the Aldie Mill to Rt. 15. It was situated at a spot where Little River was fed by another smaller creek. The banks widened and the water ran fast on both sides of the island. The river was marked by deep holes and shallow water with jagged rocks. Snakes routinely slithered out of holes on the steep bank, and sometimes you'd see one caught in the current.
The first time we explored the island, we found a pile of old unmarked liquor bottles. Certain that the island had once been the hideout of moonshiners, we'd named it appropriately.
Since I'd never accessed Bootleg Island by land in the past, I wasn't sure how much farther we had to go through the brush and brambles that cut at my legs and arms. I slapped at a mosquito on my neck and heard rushing water up ahead. We were getting close.
A few minutes later, we emerged on the river bank across from the island. The distance between us and Bootleg was only about 10 yards. But it wasn't wade-able. You had to either swim or use a boat.
"How we gonna' get across?" Tommy asked.
"I don't know; this was your idea," I said. "He must have a boat or a bridge somewhere. Or maybe he doesn't even really live here."
"No, he's staying here; that's for sure. Smell that woodsmoke. And look, you can see where he's sliding some kind of boat off the bank over there. We just gotta figure out where he put it on this side."
We found ourselves stuck on the finger of land between the Little River and the smaller creek. When a quick search of the area didn't turn up a boat, I decided that the key would be to get across the creek. I looked for tree lying across it but found none. Then I tripped on a 2x10"x12' board that I could tell had been moved recently.
"Co'mere Tommy. Help me lay this board across the creek."
With the board set up as a bridge, we crossed the creek and began exploring the area on the other side, looking for any sign of a way to make the next step to Bootleg Island and the loot that even I was beginning to believe awaited us there.
"Here it is!" Tommy shouted from about 20 yards away from me.
I made my way over and saw that he'd discovered a battered blue Kiami canoe.
"There's no paddles," Tommy said. "He probably hid them somewhere else."
"That's OK. We can use this branch to pole across."
I bent down and picked up sturdy tree limb of about a 10-foot length.
"Let's go," I said.
The old canoe began to take on water the moment we shoved off. But it only took about two minutes for me to pole us over to the spot where we could tell the boat had been launched from the island. Tommy got out first and pulled the canoe up the bank so I could disembark.
"There's definitely somebody living here," Tommy said. "That campfire's still smokin'."
Wisps of wood smoke rose from a fire ring set up in front of a three-sided shelter. The structure was made from rotting wood and rusty nails, like it had been salvaged from an old barn. About forty yards away, on a gravelly beach on the north side of the island, stood a two-man canvas tent. a pair of jeans, some underwear and socks and a couple tattered shirts hung on a line next to it.
Faced with the prospect that this adventure might be for real, I suddenly got real nervous and wished I was at the pond landing a big bass.
"OK, somebody does live here," I said. "But it doesn't look like anybody who's sitting on a fortune. It looks to me like somebody who'd cut your throat for a dollar. Let's get the hell out of here."
"Well a thief can't just go around flashing his money," Tommy said. "And he's probably cut a bunch of throats but more than a dollar. Let's look around."
I peeked inside the shelter and saw an inverted five-gallon bucket, probably used as a chair, and some yellowing old books. A rope tied to a tree stump ran up and over a tree branch where a feed sack hung, full of something.
"I bet that's where he keeps his food," Tommy said. "So animals don't get it."
He opened a wooden crate inside the shelter.
"He keeps his canned goods in here. Looks like he really likes pork and beans."
I knew the next place Tommy would look was inside the mysterious island dweller's tent. This was farther than I was willing to go.
"Come on Tommy. We better get out of here before he comes back."
"I gotta' take a look inside that tent."
"All right, take a look and let's go," I said. "I gotta' take a leak."
I made my way to the edge of the island as Tommy headed for the tent, intent on ransacking this poor soul's makeshift home. I stood on a steep bank overlooking deep water and unzipped.
"I found it," Tommy shouted. "The treasure's in here."
I whirled to see and caught a glimpse of Tommy emerging from the tent just as the creek bank gave way beneath my left foot. The ground came up and busted me in the lip just before I hit the water and was swept downstream.
The current moved much faster than I thought it would and before I could get to a slow spot and swim to the bank I'd gone at least 50 yards. I grabbed a root and held on with my left hand and moved my right hand up to touch my throbbing lip. It was already swollen, and I saw a fleck of blood on my fingers, but I figured I'd be OK and started scrambling up the bank. For a moment, I thought I wouldn't make it until I was able to grab hold of a small tree at the top and use it to pull myself up. Just as my eyes reached the level of the top of the bank, I heard a twig snap.
"Don't move, not even a muscle." It was the voice of a man and one I'd heard before.
Following instructions, I didn't move my head, but I did shift my gaze up and found myself looking right at Mule Train Joe. He looked back at me down the barrel of a big pistol . His finger tightened on the trigger.
That tightening was actually just a small part of an infinitely enhanced consciousness that I suddenly had of that weapon. I could smell the oil and could hear the faintest sound of metal against metal as the hammer began to move. In that last instant, I decided that Mule Train Joe wasn't actually pointing it at me and thought that I might be spared.
Then my brain exploded right between my ears. I floated, as if a feather on a breeze, back down toward the water.
"So this is what it's like to be dead," I thought. And I knew I must be dead because I could see my shirt, and there was no blood on it.
"My body must still be up on the river bank," I thought. "This is just my soul I'm seeing, still in the same clothes but without all the blood and brains that would be on them after I got shot in the head... At least I won't have to start middle school tomorrow."
Only I was surprised at how wet the water still felt when I hit it and also how much the submerged rock hurt my rear end when it hit it. I also would have thought my soul could breathe underwater.
It can't though, so I struggled to the surface, gasping for air when I reached it.
After a couple deep breaths I looked up and saw Mule Train Joe, still on the river bank. He had a long tree limb in his hand and poked at something on the ground with it, then swept whatever it was out of the way. Joe stepped to the edge and extended the limb down to me.
"Grab on," he said. "I'll pull you up."
At this point I didn't know where I'd been shot. But I'd gotten a close enough look at that pistol, and had read Guns & Ammo enough, to know that it was a Colt Python .357 magnum and that whatever part of my body it had hit no longer existed. I figured Joe must want to get some information out of me, or hear my last words, before I expired. With little reason not to oblige him, I accepted the tree branch and let Joe pull me up.
My entire body was wet, but I still couldn't figure out which part was wet because of the lifeblood draining out of me. I had to ask:
"Where'd you shoot me?"
"Shoot you?" the big man snickered. "That might not be a bad idea, but I don't need the attention. No, that's what I shot."
Joe pointed the limb at a big copperhead, minus the head, still writhing in death on the ground.
"That snake was coiled and ready to strike at your left hand. If you'd have moved or if I'da waited a half second longer to shoot, you'd be on your way to the hospital right now. I don't have a car or a phone, so you'da had to hitchhike."
"Oh," I said, dumbfounded. "Thanks, I guess. I thought you shot me in the head."
"Yeah, it prob'ly felt like your whole head blew up, with this thing going off so close to it," Joe said, putting his hand on the Colt, which he'd stuck in his belt. "Sorry."
So I hadn't been shot. I hadn't been snakebit. Now I just had to figure out how to get away from this crazy dude and make it back home.
"Now let's go see about your buddy," Joe said.
"Did you kill him?"
"No, but he's still on my island, and I aim to find out why."
With Tommy still a hostage of Bootleg Island, I felt I had no choice but to cooperate. I told myself that if it looked like Tommy had escaped in the canoe or swam for it, I'd run like hell. Joe led me down a path along the river bank. Presently, we came upon the canoe.
"How'd you get it over here?" I asked.
"If I told you every way I to get to that island, you'd probably come back and use them," Joe said.
"Are you sure he's still over there?" I asked, not sure whether I should get in the canoe or not.
"Yep. He's laid out flat as a pancake in the ditch behind that log over there, thinking I won't find him," Joe said, pointing. "Go ahead. Call him and see for yourself.
"I got no reason to hurt you boys," he added. "I just want to find out how all this came about today and make sure it doesn't happen again."
Joe had a point in that he'd already used a perfect opportunity to kill me to instead save me from a poisonous snake.
"Tommy, come on out," I shouted. "It's OK."
A moment went by and my friend emerged, his clothes as covered in mud as mine were. Tommy didn't say anything, just stood there, as Joe paddled us over.
"Go over there and have a seat," the man said, motioning toward the wood shelter. "I only got one chair, but y'all can probably find some logs to sit on."
We made our way over and started looking around for something near the fire ring. Joe disappeared into his tent.
"We better make a break for it," Tommy whispered.
"How we gonna' do that?"
Tommy looked back in the direction of the canoe.
"I think this guy's OK," I said. "But I also think he's gonna' be pissed if we steal his canoe again. Just don't touch any of his stuff and be quiet.
Tommy sat down, and I knew then that our relationship had changed. Mule Train Joe walked over and sat down on his bucket. The two of were seated on the hard-packed ground.
"All I want you boys to do is answer me a few questions and you can be on your way," he said. "Nobody but the three of us needs to know any of this happened today."
We nodded.
"Y'all hungry?" was the first question he asked.
Tommy shook his head. I hadn't thought about food, but at that moment I realized that I could eat a horse. My dip in the little river and the shade that blanketed the island had taken the bite out of the hot day, and the appetite that I hadn't expected to return until evening had come back.
"I am a little," I said.
"Well the menu here's pretty basic," Joe said. "It's hot pork and beans or cold pork and beans. I'll get a little fire going and heat us up some if you want."
He was already arranging some kindling in a tee-pee as I nodded my head. Joe produced a piece of newspaper from somewhere under his poncho, stuffed it under the wood and lit it with a Zippo lighter. Without letting the flame go out, he pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from behind his ear, lit that as well, took a drag and exhaled as he sat back down.
"So what brings y'all to my little island today?"
Tommy and I looked at each other, and I saw in his eyes that he had taken my advice to keep his mouth shut to heart.
"Just curiosity," I spoke.
"Curiosity about what?"
I didn't dare mention the treasure because that would have led him to the logical conclusion that we planned to steal it. All I could say was the first thing that popped into my head.
"We wanted to know why they call you 'Mule Train Joe'?"
"Who's 'they'?"
Who I'd first heard the nickname from I couldn't remember. It just seemed like one day there was this rumor that a man from out west named Mule Train Joe lived on Bootleg Island. Now that I thought about it, I couldn't remember where the name 'Bootleg' came from either. The island didn't even appear on most maps, much less have a name.
"I don't remember," I said. "It's just what I heard."
"I see," Joe said. "Well why don't I start by telling you that my real name is David. My friends, back when I had some, called me Dave."
"I see," Joe said. "My name is David Payne. My friends, back when I had some, called me Dave."
"You mean Payne, like Bobby Payne?" I asked, referring to the farmer who'd given me a lift earlier and who owned much of the Aldie-area farmland on the north side of Rt. 50.
"My own father," he said. He had opened a can of the beans and scraped them into a pot. Now he stuck a piece of re-bar through the pot handle and placed the re-bar across the fire, forked sticks on either side holding it up.
He sat back on his bucket and from somewhere produced a bottle of Virginia Gentleman. He took a swig and went on.
"I'm want to be optimistic and consider you boys my friends," he said. "Why don't you call me Dave."
Tommy and I nodded.
"I can see you've got a bunch of questions for me," Dave continued. "But we're going to have to trade fair. I'll tell you my story if you answer my questions, truthfully.
"Do we have a deal?"
Again, I nodded. Tommy, the one who would have to admit he'd gone in the man's tent, didn't move or say anything. I could tell he just wanted to get out of there, but my curiosity had gotten the best of me. Dave stirred the beans and drank from the bottle.
"First I'll tell you about the nickname. I think it started about five years ago, when I came here to visit. I had been running a pack string of mules for an outfitter in Colorado. My brother Billy and I were drinking beer and playing cards with some idiot named Jimmy Mercer. Billy told him what I did for a living, and Jimmy started calling me that, thought it was hilarious, and I guess it stuck, at least around here. Nobody ever called me that out west.
"Now you boys know about my name. What about yours?"
"This is Tommy," I said. "My name is Santos Murphy."
Dave nodded.
"I met a man named Murphy, a mechanic. Had just moved here when I got out of the army. That your dad?"
"Yeah."
"So how does a kid with the last name Murphy get the name Santos?"
"They guy you met is actually my step-father, adopted me when I was three. My real father is named Santos Noche Buena and lives in Spain. Met my mom in Morocco when her parents were over there, working for the government. He's never been to America, says he never will. I'm named after my real father, but my mom married Dad right after I was born. He's raised me and took care of me. My brother Stephen is his son."
All right," Dave said. "Your turn. What else do you need to know about me?"
"If your Bobby's son, and I'm guessing Bobby owns this land, what are you doing out on this island?"
"It's the only place Bobby will have me," Dave said. "See, I'm his oldest son and was always his favorite. I grew up thinking this farm would be mine. Billy was the dreamer, cared a lot more about sports than he did about work, always said he was gonna' play for the Senators some day.
"I went to work on the farm full time right after high school, figured I'd be running it by the time I was 25. Then I got drafted."
"Vietnam?" I asked.
"No. I got lucky and they sent me to Korea. My bad luck was while I was over there I found out how much I liked doing this." As Dave said this he hoisted the bottle to his lips and took another pull.
"There's one rule Bobby won't bend on," Dave said. "No liquor. I came back from the army and came home to the farm one night all liquored up. Bobby put me out of the house and told me not to come back until I put the bottle down for good. I was young and dumb and figured I didn't need this farm; packed up my gear and headed out west."
"What'd you do out there?"
"A lot of things in a lot of places: ran the pack string; mined copper; rode fences; hunted and fished; drank a lot and got locked up for fighting twice. I worked in a beer joint for awhile out in California; met a girl there. I loved her and I loved the west."
"So what are you doing back here?"
"I think I've gone far enough for now. It's your turn," Dave said. He produced a couple of plates and spooned us out some beans, taking none for himself.
"I'm not gonna' offer y'all any of this," he said, raising the Virginia Gentleman. "I got some water in jugs over there though. It's clean, from the farm pump."
My canteen was dry, so I filled it from one of Dave's jugs. Tommy and I shared the canteen as we devoured the beans, shoving them into our mouths with our dirty fingers. My belly began to get full, and I wondered if I might be able to excuse myself before Dave's questioning went any further. A deal is a deal, however, and Dave asked the question Tommy and I had been dreading.
"It looked to me like one of you went in my tent," he said. "I've got a pretty good idea which one of you it was, but I'm not gonna' make you say. I just want to know what you were looking for. If somebody's saying I've got something to hide here, I need to know about it."
I looked at Tommy. He was the one who came up with the idea that the man on the island had treasure, and Tommy was the one who talked me into coming here looking for it.
"Tell him Tommy," I said. If he tried to lie I would stop him and tell Dave the truth about the treasure.
He chose instead to tell a half truth.
"We heard you were sitting on a big box of money out here," Tommy said. "We weren't gonna' take it; just wanted to see it."
"We're sorry," I added. "We should have left you alone."
"Well, I hate to disappoint you boys, but if I had a box of money I'd be in Florida by now. I'm trying to fix up an old International Scout that's layin' out in the field on the other side of the creek. If I can get it going I want to get to Florida before winter. Problem is I don't have the money I need to buy parts.
"Billy's pretty much running the farm now, so he's giving me a little work here and there, without Dad knowing. I just don't know if it's gonna' be enough to get that thing going before it gets cold.
"I'll tell you what though; it'll be easier if I don't have kids nosing around my island, falling in the water and trying to get bit by snakes. Any thoughts on how I could accomplish that?"
Dave took out his pouch of tobacco and started rolling another smoke. I knew what he could do; maybe it would help him, and maybe it would make the problem worse.
"Show us what's in the box."
Dave's friendly manner suddenly changed. He took another drink and lit the smoke.
"So I gotta' pull out my personal stuff, show it to two kids I don't even know, just to get a little privacy on this little island." He inhaled smoke and shifted his glare back and forth between Tommy and me.
"We won't come back," Tommy said, getting scared again. "Why don't we just get going. We'll leave you alone from now on."
"No," Dave said. "I think you better take a look. You can tell the other kids what you saw, and they won't want to come here anymore either. Might teach you boys a lesson too."
With that Dave stalked over to the tent, disappeared for a moment and emerged dragging the trunk. A few turns on the combination lock, and it opened.
"Look inside boys," he said. "Come see the great treasure."
We did as directed and went and stood over the open box. It was full of photographs.
There pictures of a beautiful blonde woman and several of two little blonde girls. In some they were on horses. In some they were on the porch of an old ranch house with mountains in the background. In one picture, the lady held one of the girls as a baby while the other, who looked to be about two in the picture, sat at her feet.
"Who are they?" I asked.
"That's my wife and my daughters," Dave said.
"Wow. How come you're not with them?"
Dave shook his head and retired to the five-gallon bucket in the lean-to. We continued looking through the pictures. Some were of Dave, working on a ranch or playing with the little girls. He looked much younger, and in one picture both girls sat on his back as if he were a horse.
At the bottom of the box I found a folded up newspaper. The front page had a picture of the smoldering remains of a house with the same mountains in the background as in the other picture I'd seen. I started reading the story:
A Clark Fork woman and her two daughters died Saturday night in a house fire on the Wilkins ranch.
According to Captain Randy Mitchell of the Clark Fork Fire Department, firefighters responded to a call at around 11 p.m. and arrived to find the house completely engulfed in flame. Rescuers were unable to reach Beth Payne, 30, and her daughters Megan, 5, and Carrie, 3, in time to save them.
The other resident of the house, Dave Payne, was not home at the time of the fire, which Mitchell said is believed to have been caused by faulty wiring...
I put the paper down and glanced at Dave, who was smoking and looking at the ground.
"We better go," Tommy whispered.
I looked through the tree canopy at the sky and wondered about the time, agreeing that the time had come for us to move on. Still, I felt like I wanted another word with Dave. I walked back over, still clutching the newspaper.
"Is that why you came back?" I asked.
"When we moved to that ranch and had those little girls, I felt like I finally had something of my own," Dave said. "I didn't own the house, but I worked six days a week and saved my money. Another year, and we'd have had our own house. Another five years, and we'd have had our own ranch. After the fire, I didn't have anything left there, just this box of pictures that the ranch owner's wife had taken. She gave it to me the day I left."
"Where were you when it happened?" I asked.
Dave swigged from his bottle and held it up.
"I worked hard six days and we went to church every Sunday. But on Saturdays, me and the boys from the ranch would go into town. I was falling off a bar stool while my family burned up."
We all got quiet. Dave stared across the river at something that may or may not have been there. I wished then, even more than I had when I climbed up the bank to see a man pointing a gun at me, that I'd never come to this island. Tommy looked and me and tilted his head toward the riverbank. I worked up the courage to open my mouth.
"Thanks for the, uh, lunch," I said. "We probably better get going."
"Yeah," Dave said. "You'd best... I think maybe I've told you boys a little too much about myself."
"Don't worry," Tommy spoke up. "We won't tell a soul anything."
I nodded in agreement, wondering if I'd been wrong to begin to think of Dave as a friend.
He reached beneath his poncho and began to draw the Colt Python. He picked up the bottle in his other hand.
"Tell them I'm crazy," he said. "Tell them to stay away... Somebody comes around here when I'm too deep in the bottle might get shot... It's time for y'all to go now."
Dave motioned toward the canoe, and we silently obeyed. He paddled us back to the spot where we'd originally set out for Bootleg Island. Dave sat and watched as we began to make our way back toward Rt. 50.
"Don't come back," he said.
Just before the woods closed up around us, I looked back over my shoulder and saw Dave taking a pull from the bottle.
"We're lucky we go out of there alive," Tommy said when we were out of earshot.
"We haven't made it home yet," I said. "Let's find those fishing rods."
Since neither of us had a watch, I'm not sure how long that took. I do know that it seemed like forever and that by the time I found my rod, my shorts were torn and my legs were bleeding from several new cuts. We gathered our gear and made our ragged way back to Rt. 50.
The side door of Tommy's house flew open as we trudged up the driveway.
"Santos," his mother called. "Your mom's looking for you. She called and said you should have been home an hour ago."
"What time is it?" I asked.
"About 5:30. You want a ride home?"
"No thanks," I said. "I'll be OK."
If I walked home, I'd be at least 30 minutes late for dinner. But I needed that time, on my own away from Tommy, to reflect on what I'd seen and heard that day. Then as now, I loved to tell stories, and I had to make a decision on who and how much I was going to tell about my experience on Bootleg Island. Since I knew Dad wouldn't be home yet, I had no worries about getting in trouble for being late.
The heat of the day had backed off nicely as I made my way back up the mountain road. Even though it was still August, I felt that first hint of fall in the air. The crickets still chirped, but it somehow sounded better in the cool of the evening than it had in the heat of the day.
Twice on the way home, I declined rides from people I knew driving past. I felt good and knew that whatever I faced on my first day of middle school, it couldn't be anywhere near as bad as what I'd been through on the last day of summer. But that good feeling suddenly dissipated though as I began to ascend the long gravel driveway to my own house and saw the red '67 Ford short bed pickup in the driveway.
My dad was home.
Ever since he'd started coming home late and not being around as much I hadn't worried much about getting in trouble. Sure, my mother would yell at me and occasionally punish me for some major transgression. But there's something about having his father around, in my case even my adoptive one, that strikes fear into a young boy's heart and encourages him to walk the straight and narrow. I knew the day would end badly after all; even after narrowly escaping being bitten by a copperhead and twice thinking I was about to get shot. I saw no escape route from the wrath of my Dad.
I climbed the steps and opened the door, ready to face whatever came.
Dad sat on the couch, the TV on but his eyes looking down at the Washington Post. Stephen sat beside him and Mom was in the chair. This once familiar family scene took me by surprise; it felt like it had been a long time since we all sat together at the end of the day.
I smelled my favorite food: spaghetti. My family's dishes had already been piled in the sink, but a plate awaited me on the kitchen table, the container of Parmesan cheese beside it. Everyone looked up at me with welcoming eyes.
"Hungry?" Mom asked.
I nodded and moved toward the kitchen.
"Go ahead and bring your dinner in here," Dad said, offering me the unheard of privilege of eating in front of the TV.
I poured myself a glass of milk and brought my food to the couch. A Happy Days re-run had just come on. No one asked me where I'd been or how my clothes had gotten so filthy. They did not mention the cuts and bruises on my legs.
"Ready for the first day of school?" Dad asked.
Again I nodded, my mouth full of spaghetti and meat sauce and my eyes trained on Richie Cunningham and the Fonz.
“Son, we’ve got something to talk to you about,” Dad said.
I looked up, still chewing. My dad said nothing more, so I looked at Mom.
“Your dad and I are going to try living apart for awhile,” she said.
“You’re leaving us?” I said to my adoptive father. He shook his head.
“You and Stephen and I are going to move to Leesburg,” Mom said. “We’re going to rent a townhouse, and your dad is going to stay here. It’ll be perfect for you. You’ll be closer to your school.”
“Daddy’s gonna’ take us to a Redskins game!” Stephen chimed in.
I wanted to scream and cry but instead turned back to my food and the television, only marginally aware that the last great adventure of my childhood had come to an end.
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