TREASURE KILLS (Legends of Tsalagee Book 1) (16 page)

“I’d like to discuss this Belle Starr treasure legend some more. I think it would be a good idea to use this in our Founders Day promotion.” Bobby John always thought anything to bring people into town was a good idea, no matter the nature or consequences. To him more people meant more spending, meant more jobs, meant more residents, meant more house buying. The Annual Catfish Noodlin’ Tournament had been one of his ideas.

“I really don’t think we want to do that, Bobby John,” Hayward said.

“Why not?”

“I already told you why, son.” Hayward was old enough to call anybody he wanted to “son,” except Soc.

Bobby John leaned forward with forearms on the table, fingertips touching. He liked to wear heavily starched long-sleeved Ralph Lauren button-down shirts with the collar and the first button unfastened to expose the upper part of his wooly chest hair and gold chain necklace. Bobby John’s well-coifed hair held about as much starch as his shirt, and a three foot aroma cloud of expensive Italian cologne enveloped him. His portly stomach pushed into the table edge as he started to speak. “I don’t think—”

“It’s not a myth,” Soc Ninekiller said.

Bobby John looked at Soc. “What?” he said.

Soc didn’t change his expression, nor his relaxed position in his chair. He regarded Bobby John for a second; much as he would a fly he was about to brush away, then spoke to Euliss. “
Catoosa Ay ey hih
, the Hill Man, is not a myth.”

“Mr. Ninekiller,” Euliss said. She spoke not with the usual condescension in her voice, but respect. “The discussion before the committee is the promotion of the alleged Belle Starr Treasure. You will have to wait—”

Soc looked at her, then spoke again to the group, unfazed by, and uninterested in, Euliss’s point of order. “My grandfather, the man in this photograph,” he pointed to the ancient photo still in Hayward’s hand. “...had several encounters with the creature. My grandmother, a Choctaw they called Looking Owl Woman, said the Hill Man is a spirit being who protects all the living things in the woods. My people and the Choctaw have stories going back many generations about the Hill Man, as do other tribes. He is a legend, yes, but no myth.”

The group looked a little stunned. That was the most anyone had heard out of Soc Ninekiller in years. Eventually, Bobby John closed his mouth and smirked.

“Well, with all due respect to you and your people, Soc,” he said. “I’m not sure what your grand daddy or grand momma said moves the Hill Man out of the realm of myth. What we need is current information. Have you ever seen this creature?”

“Yes,” Soc said.

After a few seconds, Bobby John asked, “Well, would you care to elaborate?”

“I saw him in the woods about ten years ago,” Soc said.

“I seen him, too,” Punch said. “And White Oxley has got a movie film of him.” He glanced at Sunny who rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Also,” Soc added, “the Belle Starr Treasure is said to be cursed.”

“Cursed? How so?” Bobby John asked. He had risen slightly from his chair, leaning across the table toward Soc.

Euliss whacked her gavel twice trying to regain control. “People, this isn’t getting us anywhere. We need to stick to the topic at hand, which is the Belle Starr Treasure and whether we should include it in our promotion.”

“Well, now, hold on, Euliss,” Bobby John said. He’d started to take some interest in this Hill Man thing. The talk of recent sightings had gotten his attention. “Let’s just talk about this some more. I’m thinking this Hill Man thing and the Belle Starr Treasure might be a couple of good draws for the celebration.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Euliss said.

“Who?” Nan asked.

Chapter 16

Threebuck Grabs a Catfish

“Do you know anything about this noodlin’ for catfish?” Threebuck asked Red Randy.

“I did some when I was a kid.” Randy replied.

Red Randy and Threebuck had pulled their motorcycles in among the pickups parked against the railroad ties marking the edge of the gravel parking area. From an opening in the ties, a four foot wide path made of chat led to a park shelter—a metal roof held up by six hollow steel posts sitting on a sixteen by thirty foot concrete slab. Two aluminum picnic tables sat next to each other length-wise at one end of the shelter. Four men, two at each table, sat facing two lines of mostly men. A sign next to the path entrance declared the spot to be the Eagle Branch Access Area, and a smaller hand-made sign next to it announced,

Noodlers register here.

Starting time: Noon

The line of about thirty men stretched from the tables in the shelter, back through the shelter itself and along the path almost to the parking area.

Randy and Threebuck stayed seated astraddle their bikes. “Well, I ain’t never done it,” Threebuck said. “Never even heard of it. Course, we city kids didn’t get in a lot of fishing like you country squats. Most of our fish came in sticks.”

“You just watch me,” Randy said. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know about the sport.”

“What about our gear?” Threebuck asked. “We didn’t bring no poles or bait or nothin’. These boys gonna provide that?”

Some thick dark clouds had begun to boil upward from the northwest. Red Randy took off his aviator shades, and stuck one of the stems between his tank top and neck. He scanned the clouds. A faint rumble of thunder rolled in the distance. “You got all the bait you need, Three. Noodlin’ is hand fishing. Your fingers are the bait. Noodlin’ ain’t like sitting on the shore with a beer in one hand and a pole in the other. You got to get down in the water where they live and grab ’em. A man can get killed doing this. Catching flatheads and blues with your bare hands is dangerous. Even a seasoned noodler is likely to get bloodied up some. Them big cats got some mean teeth. And, of course, you got to be sure you don’t grab your occasional snapping turtle or water moccasin, too.”

“Snappin’ turtle?” Threebuck asked. There was unease in his voice. Red Randy nodded without looking at Threebuck. He studied the men in line. He didn’t much care about catching any catfish, but talking to some of these local yahoos did interest him.

Randy dismounted and said, “Let’s get in line.”

The last guy in line, a wiry fellow, turned and watched the two approach. With a sober face, he scanned the tats on Randy’s arms, neck and chest exposed outside the black tank top. He looked over Threebuck’s scraggly face, hanging hair-braid, and the Confederate flag bandana covering the top of his head. He smiled tightly when they stopped behind him. “Howdy,” he said. “You boys from out of town?”

“Yeh,” Randy said looking down at him.

The skinny guy nodded, and looked out past Randy toward the parking area. “Them’s some nice bikes you got there,” he said. When they’d rolled up, their bikes grumbling and popping, everyone in line and at the tables had turned to look at them.

Randy nodded. Two signs taped to the front of the tables in the shelter read: “Pre-Entries here,” and “Sign up here.”

“Don’t look like you’ll be able to carry much catfish home on ’em, though,” the skinny guy observed.

Randy looked down at him again, and noted the twisted little smile on the guy’s weathered old face. “Don’t reckon we’ll be keeping what we catch,” he said. “Probably’ll give them to some sawed-off skinny little farmer. Alls we’re interested in is the prize money.”

“Prize money?” The guy said. “Hell, I doubt there’ll be prize money. Bobby John over there,” he pointed to one of the people sitting behind one of the picnic tables. “...has probably done spent all that at the casino. We’ll be lucky to get some five dollar Bass Pro or Walmart gift cards.” He laughed at his own joke. When all he got from the two were disapproving looks, he stuck out his hand and said, “Name’s Oxley. People call me White.”

Red Randy looked at Oxley and his outstretched hand for a few seconds, then took it in his own and crushed it. “I’m Randy,” he said. “People call me Red Randy.”

Oxley tried to yank his hand free. “Ow. Well, damn, man,” he yelped. Several guys in front of them turned to see what was going on. When Randy let him go, White rubbed the knuckles of his right hand with his left. He looked at Randy with aggravation. “I reckon with a grip like that you won’t have no problem with the smaller catfish. And with your size you should be able to handle all but the hunnert pounders and bigger.”

White flexed his hand some more and looked at Threebuck. “I ain’t so sure about your little buddy here, though. Course, it ain’t all size that counts. Even if you’re a big bastard, like yourself, you got to know what you’re doing... and it helps if you can swim.” White waited. He looked back and forth at them both, and then asked, “You boys do know how to swim, don’t you?”

The last question bothered Threebuck, because he, in fact, did not know how to swim. At about age six or seven, some older boys from his neighborhood in Kansas City threw him into the Missouri River, and he all but drowned before catching a snag and pulling himself ashore nearly a quarter mile downstream from his point of entry. Since that time he’d stayed well away from any body of water bigger than a bathtub, and even then he preferred a shower. He didn’t much like being this near to a lake, but he planned to stay way back up on the shore. He would let Red Randy do the noodlin’, whatever that entailed. Threebuck didn’t much see how you could catch a fish with your bare hands, even if you got in the water with them.

“I think we’ll do alright,” Red Randy said. “Threebuck here swims like a duck.”

The distant thunder sounded again. The air stood still and warm. Sticky.

* * *

“I’m sorry I hurt your hand, old timer,” Randy said to Oxley. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.” He’d decided maybe he needed to kiss up to this rube. Charm and sociability weren’t Randy’s strong suits, but he thought, if this old guy was a long time resident of these parts, could be he had some useful information. After they left the registration table, he caught up with Oxley who’d headed off toward the lakeshore.

White had quit rubbing his right hand out of pride, but it still throbbed. “No big deal. I’ve had worse,” he lied.

“You got a good hole?” Randy asked.

“I might,” White said.

Randy walked beside White. Threebuck stayed three paces back. “Boy told me,” Randy said. “...there’s a damn fine catfish hole under a sycamore tree around here. Said it was a bent sycamore.”

“What do you mean, ‘bent’?” White asked.

“Well, I ain’t sure. He just said ‘a bent sycamore.’ I thought you might know what he meant.”

White rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “This here’s a pretty fair sized lake. Lot’s of sycamore trees around it. But I don’t recall any particular one that was bent in any certain way around this part. You might try looking over at Black Creek.”

“Naw, the boy told me it was around Eagle Branch,” Randy said.

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know. Ain’t something I’m familiar with.”

They had arrived at the lakeshore within a small cove. Some old tree trunk and brush lay out in the water about ten feet from shore. An outcropping of sandstone ran along the edge in layers, part of it overhanging the water.

“This here’s always been one of my favorite spots,” White said. “That brush and old log in the water, and this here rock overhang makes a dandy catfish hole. Old flatheads seem to like it here.

“Why don’t you boys throw in with me?” White liked Randy’s size. “I bet between the three of us, we can grab us some dandy catfish.”

“Sounds good,” Red Randy said. Threebuck remained silent, and stayed back, up near the trees away from the shore. Randy, as he sat on the ground to take off his boots, looked at him. “Well, come on, Three. You ain’t going to chicken out on me are you?”

Threebuck, leaning up against a tree, answered, “I think I’ll just watch.” The clouds flew by darker, and the rumble of thunder came closer and longer. A startling wind cooled the still air and began to chop the lake water.

White started wading out into the lake, feeling with his foot along the shelf of rock against the shore. “Hell, boy, this ain’t no watchin’ sport; this is a doin’ sport,” he said to Threebuck. “You need to get in here and grab a fish, if you’re a man.”

White bent at the knees and sunk chest deep into the lake water. He moved along the overhang feeling along its submerged edge. The sky blanched blue-white for an instant, and five seconds later the air cracked like a cannon shot. The increasing wind whipped frothy caps against the side of White’s face.

Threebuck looked at the sky, and move behind a tree, hugging it.

“Come on, dumbass. You’re being a wuss,” Randy said back to his partner as he stepped into the water. “You ain’t going to let a little wind and rain scare ya, are you?”

Threebuck stood upright from behind the tree, and scowled. He didn’t like anyone questioning his manhood. He thought he might have to pound that skinny farmer.

“More like I ain’t stupid as some,” Threebuck hollered into the gathering din. “Seems to me, standing waist-deep in water during a lightning storm ain’t the smartest thing to do.”

As if to punctuate his point, the sky flashed again sending a jagged bolt ground-ward some distance away. Red Randy jumped a bit, looking toward the lightning. Then he threw his head back and laughed just as the thunder arrived.

“Found one,” White said in almost a whisper. “Not a real big ’un, but he’ll do.” He sunk a little deeper into the water. The movement of his shoulders said he was slowly moving his arms, but the brown water concealed all but the top of his shoulders upward. He stared at the rock facing in concentration, a grin on his face.

“Ah-oooo!” White yelled. “The sumbitch has got me!”

The water around White became a churning froth as man and catfish thrashed and fought against one another. White stood upright and pulled the fish out of the water; his right hand up to his wrist gulped inside the flathead’s wide mouth. The creature whipped its tail in a futile attempt to escape White’s grip, although it was difficult to tell who gripped whom. White moved toward the shore and grabbed the rope stringer he’d laid there. He worked the fish’s mouth loose from his hand and held it up. The approaching storm rumbled again. Gripping the bottom jaw with his left thumb and forefinger, he ran the stringer down though the fish’s mouth and out through its gill slit with his right hand, then pulled that end up and through the loop at the other end.