A Summer Night's Tale

I've just returned and I've a tale to tell

of an Ozark trip that I remember so well.

You can believe it or not, but I've no reason to lie.

And to make it all up? Well, I'm just not that sly.

  We had pulled the canoes up onto the gravel bar and began to unload our gear.

Joe dug out the tents and sleeping bags while I began to rattle up wood for the fire. It would be a race to get one going before dark as the sun settled behind the tall Ozark ridge to the west.

Bill and Doug were sorting through the food box and cooler looking for the cheese and summer sausage that would be our evening meal. 
  We tended to scrimp a bit at night in favor of large hot breakfasts to carry us through the day, with nuts and jerky and fruit scattered about in place of a noon day meal.

  And we were enjoying the cool evening air here in the valley of the Meramec River.

As we stoked the fire and settled down to rub the aches from shoulders and backs not used to twelve hour shifts of paddling the campfire banter began. 
  But it was immediately interrupted.

Out of the brush lining the riverbank shuffled a strange figure. Moving slowly but deliberately towards our small fire. His dress was a bit ragged and worn. His complexion grey and deeply lined. But he had a wiry tough look that seemed to hide a certain physical power easily missed at first glance.

  He stopped short of the fire and held out his hands as if to draw the heat toward him. And slowly surveyed the four of us.

  We were all confused by his presence. Miles from any road we knew of and with no boat apparent, I wondered from where he had come.

  Doug, recovering first, asked the apparition ”Can we help you sir?” And I’ll admit I was kind of surprised when finally he deemed to answer.

  The odd fellow was of indeterminate age but his voice seemed old and deep.

“Tis an evil place you’ve choose to light” he responded. “Never been a good thing happened on this here site.”

  "What do you mean?" Joe demanded.

  The stranger again surveyed our group before he answered.

“There was four men camped here once before. It didn’t go well for them” a pause, and then “That was 1864” he said. Another pause, longer this time and then “What is the date.... now I mean?” he asked.

  “July 10th” Doug answered.

  “And the year?” the ragged man asked.

  With a pause of his own Doug answered, “2014” as we all looked oddly at the man.

He took the words in and slowly, silently shook his head.  

  I had begun to feel a cold discomfort as he spoke. My stomach was slowly going sour and a chill crept up my back. I turned to face the woods from which he’d come and backed closer to the fire.

  “What are you saying anyway?” Joe again challenged the stranger.

The stranger shuffled a bit to his right and around the fire. He pointed to the high riverbank and said, “It was there they stood when they fired their guns.”

  We all were looking at the woods now.

  “Four men sat here on the gravel and two were killed outright.” he continued. And after a pause he spoke again, “Bushwackers they were”.
Another short pause, and then finished quietly with “Damned rebels.”

  We were becoming consumed with his tale. And the fellow continued as he stepped again farther around the fire.

  “One fellow, Davy Burns was his name, jumped and ran but he was hit low in the back and fell over yonder by the water.”

Our eyes followed his outstretched arm as he waved to where our canoes sat on the beach.

Again we looked this odd fellow over. He seemed so sure of this tale that he he told.

  He repeated his warning “This ain’t a good place to camp”. Again he was silent a moment before continuing.

  “They come down off the bank and grabbed the fourth fellow and held him while they hashed out what little future he had."

“Took’em only a few minutes to plan the hangin”. his voice now seemed to drip with regret.

  But he seemed to project such a knowledge as he spoke no one dared challenge him now.

Again he thrust out a long arm and pointed to a spot higher on the bank.

  “Was there where that willow grows now” he said, “though at the time there was a big ‘ol Chestnut stood there. As purty a tree as as ever you beheld”. he said with what almost seemed pride.

  And as we all sat with our backs now to the stranger, we looked at the spot he had indicated, silently visualizing the lynching right here near our little camp.

  After a bit I was the first to speak. “How is it you know such a story Oldtimer?” 

And from behind us the gravelly voice rumbled “Because I was the fourth man to die that night.”

  As the weight of his words slowly sank in we turned in unison to look at the man.

But our visitor was nowhere to be seen. The beach lay empty. The boats were untouched and the river stretched as calm as glass in the late twilight..........
  

  We gathered as dawn broke over another gravel bar on the Meramec River. The four of us stood, exhausted in a silent circle.
   Gratefully we welcomed the early sun and nervously remembered last evenings apparition.

  Still now we were almost afraid to talk. Still we didn't know just what to think. But thankful we were to be together. Relying on each other for strength or courage or possibly confirmation or maybe just companionship.

  But thirty odd miles downstream of the bar we were; from where the ambush had taken place.