Peace River Runaway

By Rushton Woodside

In 2004, not long before the explosive hurricane season, Tyler Polk encounters a trespasser on his expansive estate in south Florida. Willie Taho, a full-blooded Native American, explains the pretense of an archaeological dig but has a secretive reason for his presence. Familiar characters from Sarasota Bay play major roles as the action moves underground to lost treasure, passageways and shrines.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rushton Woodside
• Release date: Aug 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452395371

Rushton Woodside

Born right at the mid-twentieth century point in Atlanta, still a sleepy southern city at that time. My mother's bookcase was filled with classics and I read them all before I was twelve, and re-read many. Steinbeck, Faulkner, Hemmingway and the like. For most of my life I have always had an active book going, if not two or three. Favorite types of books to read: Almost any genre of fiction, almost any non-fiction. I've travelled the country as a truck driver and as a rambler, and met thousands of people in thousands of circumstances. I've held dozens of jobs, from digging holes to making technical presentations in Board-rooms. I wrote a lot of poetry and songs as a teen. After a successful eight years writing computer programs and technical documentation I entered book retail, and stayed there for nearly twenty years. I read good books to know how to write, and read bad books on purpose to know how not to write. I completed my first novel in 2004 and it was published locally with great success. It was then that I got serious and studied many books on the craft, and began writing as often as possible. My seventh book is now in progress.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Little Cloud

Fiberglass scraped loudly against coarse sand as the kayak coasted onto the riverbank. Mangrove trees provided welcome shade from the morning sun. A man swung his tall, lanky frame out into the shallow water, causing barely a ripple from feet or boat. He removed his glasses and wet his thick, dark, unruly hair, then combed it back with his hand. With his hair back he looked regular army, as they say. In his case it was Marine.

Tyler Polk and his bride, Kendra, had been enjoying the last day of a month long honeymoon on their ranch in central Florida when an odd noise began to echo in the distance. It was a constant and loud hammering sound, as if someone were chopping down a tree.

Eye contact made it clear they would investigate the noise. She whispered a warning to him before he pulled the kayak onto the shore, and reminded him of the trouble they experienced the last time he let his curiosity take control. But he still beached the craft, tied the bowline off to a sturdy branch, and took her hand to help her out onto the shore.

He tentatively touched her cheek and kissed her. They walked away hand in hand, a study in contrast. Tyler was a gangly but confident man with a deep tan and a strong face dominated by a hawk-like nose. He looked like he belonged outdoors. His wife was a pale, sultry blonde with angular features, high cheekbones, large golden eyes, and naturally full lips. Kendra had been born with the runway look, wore the build and height of a model, and used her own version of the walk.

They picked a path through the tangle of underbrush and headed toward the noise, passing through a stand of bamboo and knocking drops of the morning dew on themselves. The scene caused Tyler to have a brief flashback to his days in Vietnam with mortars firing in the distance. As close as he and Kendra had been over the years preceding their marriage, the one thing he never opened up to her about was his time in the Marine Corps. Some things, thought Tyler, need never be spoken of.

She recognized his shiver, the change in his step, the narrowing of his eyes. It happened whenever he was tense for any reason. She saw him touch the pack, which she knew held his handgun.

Kendra had tried to insist that he not carry the gun on their property or the river that ran through it, but he insisted. It was the first time in their years together that he wouldn't stand down. He explained to her how the raccoons that lived in the wild were far different from those in the parks in town, how the rural ones were not cute animals that slyly opened complicated garbage cans and sat eating ten feet from a human.

Tyler had also told her about how mangrove snakes, copperheads, and rattlesnakes proliferated on the ranch due to the lack of daily human activity. He had said it would be foolish for him not to be armed while they camped for so long and showed her the old German Luger 22 target pistol that he had been given on his tenth birthday. Because it was such a small, lightweight pistol - with a slim four-inch barrel - Kendra had finally agreed about the gun. It looked like a toy, but to Tyler it was an accurate and dependable defense, as good as any larger gun if used correctly.

She felt betrayed for a moment when she saw him touch it, saw him confirm his ability to kill or maim while approaching what must surely be a fellow human. It was obviously a subconscious action, but it bothered her nonetheless. She stayed quiet about it, though, and followed behind him until they reached an area of open pasture - the Panther Patch as Tyler always referred to the land on that side of the river. He had mentioned to her that the protected Florida panthers had been sighted there regularly over the years, and had only taken her there during the late afternoon when the cats slept in the shade of the thick woods across the pasture. He had seen many tracks over the years, and knew where they traveled most often. But he also knew that they would be driven away by the incessant noise that was drawing him and his wife closer.

Tyler stood in the long morning shadows from the tree line behind them and scanned the woods beyond the field. He slowly turned his head back and forth with his eyes closed, obviously trying to isolate a direction for the sound. After just a few passes he pointed, still silent, and motioned for her to stay where she was while he investigated further. They traded furtive hand signals until her adamant head shaking made it clear to him that this would be a joint venture.

Travel across the pasture was slow as they picked their way around and between puddles from recent rains. The overgrown grazing land was pretty close to being a swamp. Cattails, ferns, and saw grass grew in a ring around a pond that had formed near the center of the area.

Suddenly there was a new sound as loud as the first, but much closer. They froze, startled, as a pair of great blue herons swooped down just in front of them. The birds began a strange, stylized mating ritual in the low, heavy mist. The aggressor's wings were splayed far out to each side, but bent at an odd angle. He pranced in a fast sidestepping motion as the object of his desire slowly walked away. Finally, with his wing tips curved, he flew towards her. She took off and swerved suddenly, sending the poor frustrated bird behind her crashing into the branches of a willow tree that grew near the edge of the woods.

There had been no sound from the birds until the collision with the tree, and then a furious squawking began as the male flew off in a different direction, off to look for another female, or perhaps simply feeling rejected.

Once the couple reached the edge of the forest on the far side of the pasture, Tyler motioned for Kendra to wait, climbed up an old live oak, and again used his hunter's radar to locate the sound as it echoed within the thick woods. He seemed satisfied when he returned to the ground, pointed in a specific direction, and made a sign to indicate that they were close. That time he did not take no for an answer when he motioned for her to stay put.

Kendra worried as her husband marched into the woods alone, pistol drawn and held beside his leg. She had heard tales of moon-shiners, poachers, and other unsavory types when shopping at the local general store, which was always occupied by checker-playing, free-talking locals leaning back dangerously in rickety old cane back chairs.

As she watched Tyler recede into the distance, Kendra couldn't help but think about their kidnapping experience two months before. She remembered, and then felt, intense fear from those two horrible days. She straightened her clothing and retied her running shoes from casual looseness to full trim. She stepped into the mountain pose, constantly glancing to each side.

She watched him from thirty yards away as he sidled up to another of their magnificent live oak trees and peered around the trunk. He repeated the motion to the other side, turned to her, shrugged, and then waved her over. They met halfway. No longer whispering, he told her what he had seen, and explained that they were going to meet a trespasser and find out what he was doing on their land. When she saw that he had put the gun away, she smiled and kissed him.

Not worried about noise, and actually making a little more than necessary as a warning, they rounded the massive tree trunk to see a man with a long, jet-black ponytail pounding a log the size of a fence post into the ground. His previous efforts had produced a sizable row of tightly spaced logs all sticking up the same distance. It appeared to Tyler that it was the beginning of a pen, or a corral of some sort. There was a big, neat stack of logs on the ground. Whatever was being built was going to be large.

As the couple watched the man finish one log, which he lined up with the adjacent one with carpenter's precision, and gracefully swung another into position with its sharpened end on the ground. He had it halfway down after only two obviously practiced swings of the sledgehammer. Five more swings had that one in place and wedged against its neighbor. Kendra was amazed that such a small man could apply so much force to the hammer. He was much shorter than her husband, and also obviously below the five feet and nine inches that she commanded.

Not wanting to startle someone working with such a dangerous tool, Tyler finally walked closer and spoke firmly just as the sledgehammer was being traded for another log from the pile.

Excuse me sir, he said politely, my name's Tyler Polk, and this is my property. If you're building some kind of trap, I'll have you know poaching is not well thought of around here. If you're going for alligators, the authorities will surely get involved.

The man turned and flashed an alarmingly innocent and charming smile at the couple. He gently set the log down, as if it were a living creature that deserved such handling. After he brushed his hands off on his faded blue jeans he walked towards them with his right hand extended. He was a short but stocky Native American with dark red skin and a broad, weathered face with bulbous nose. His bare chest glistened with sweat. His extended arm, still pumped up from the exertion, was as heavily corded with muscle as his massive neck. Two rows of perfect white teeth adorned his smile. As he got closer they noticed gray streaks in his hair.

His dark eyes darted confidently from Tyler to Kendra and then back as he strode towards them. He glanced quickly away from them more than once though, to his left, while he approached.

I am so sorry Mr. Polk. he said in an odd Cambridge-like accent. I had understood that this land was part of an old farm that had been repossessed from someone named Macintosh for taxes in the 1950s, and which is currently owned by the county. At least that is the information that I found at the county assayer's office in Arcadia. Oh, I'm terribly sorry, how rude of me to start with a defense while lacking a formal introduction. My name is William Taholoochee, you may call me Willie, or Taho, or Little Cloud, as you prefer. I'll answer to all three.

After a hearty handshake with Tyler, and an almost Victorian grasp of Kendra's fingertips (which could have easily been accompanied by a bow and a kiss to the back of her hand), the trespasser continued.

I am a geologist and archaeologist, Mr. - and I presume, Mrs. - Polk. The county assayer gave me permission to do some research here, as much as he is officially able to, which is of course not at all. He told me that he never visits here this time of year. The rains, as you must know, make even the slightest access to the area difficult. He explained that if he were to find me here, he would have to ask me to leave, winking on the last word, if you can believe it. He winked himself with a wry smile and continued after peeking aside again.

I wandered around until I found this first piece of fairly solid high ground after my van bogged down in loose sand. I am terribly sorry if I have inadvertently crossed a property line and begun to make camp on your land.

Tyler was silent. He had yet to make the correlation between the man's appearance and his demeanor. Kendra, who as a recently naturalized American had no preconceived notion of the natives, was totally comfortable with and impressed by the man. She broke the awkward silence, jerking his attention back from a nearby clump of shrubbery.

Willie, I am indeed Mrs. Polk, but call me Kendra. My husband and I don't live here full time. We were just finishing up our honeymoon today when we heard the sounds of your building this.... She pointed at his odd construct.

Chickee, Willie said, finishing her sentence without pause. Far from being a trap, as Mr. Polk implied, this would have been a small dwelling for me while doing my studies. The original residents of this area, the Calusa, had as little desire to have an alligator disturb their sleep as would any of us. This picket is just high enough to deter one. I would have built a platform on the rectangle of posts, and then a crude thatched cabana thereupon just as my native ancestors would have done.

Tyler, Kendra purred, I don't think we should have any problem in letting Willie (she smiled aside to him) make his camp here. He could serve as sort of a night watchman in between our visits. Wouldn't that be okay with you, Lover?

S-s-sure Darling. Tyler stammered, still unaccustomed to the process of marital decision making. I wouldn't have a problem with that. I guess he could stay as long as he needs to. Willie, what exactly is it that you want to do here?

Instead of answering the question Willie yanked a shiny tomahawk from his old leather carpenter's belt and growled For now, this! He swung his arm high over his head and then dropped it in an arc to throw the weapon. Tyler followed with military precision and pulled the pistol from his pouch, which he had left unzipped, clicked off the safety, and drew aim directly at the man's throwing arm. But he was too late. Before he could complete his defense with a squeeze of the trigger, the tomahawk was loosed. It flew end over end through the air, almost whistling with its speed, and went directly into the heart of some bushes twenty feet away.

There was a loud thump. The hatchet clattered off into the thicker part of the greenery and there was a simultaneous rustling sound from a different direction. Then there was total silence. Willie signaled that nobody should talk, and held a hand out towards the couple as if he were a traffic cop at an intersection.

Finally the crickets began anew. A seagull cried in the distance and a pelican flew overhead. In the light mist that accentuates any early morning during a rainy Florida summer, Willie turned and leaned his head forward, dropped his neck and studied the underbrush. He padded silently towards it and bent to a stoop at the open area where the tomahawk had gone into the thicket. He dug out his weapon, and pulled something heavy from under a clump of scrub palm. He stood and held his hatchet up proudly in one hand. The other held a large animal carcass by the hind legs, fawn colored and obviously feline. The head was missing. The man finally smiled again, and then spoke.

This panther is just a baby, less than a year old. Only about thirty pounds. He said. Probably not the only one in the neighborhood, I would imagine. I apologize to you both about the fact that this is an endangered species, but we were rather endangered ourselves just moments ago. This animal must be thrown in the river immediately, before his mother comes looking for him. Even though he was probably only playing, she wouldn't be. They can't be outrun, either.

The sight of the sweaty native displaying the decapitated panther was like nothing Kendra had ever experienced - even with her old country upbringing. She tensed even more and shivered twice. To Tyler, born in north Georgia and raised as a hunter, it was just another kill.

The native dragged the body past them by its hind legs. It had already bled out through the neck, so there was little blood in the trail it left. As he passed them he explained that they should continue their talk elsewhere.

Kendra hadn't regained enough composure to speak, but Tyler pointed at the man's canoe and suggested that he go downstream and across the river with them to their camp. Willie jokingly asked what was for breakfast, and then said that they should go ahead, and he would be along after he dumped both pieces of the animal's body in the river for the alligators.

Chapter 2 - ByWaters

They made an odd trio as they walked to the river: unkempt and disheveled Tyler Polk, svelte Kendra, and rough-looking Willie dragging the headless body through heavy ground cover. The woman had to make conscious effort to not stare at the dead creature. Willie finally broke the silence once they got to the waterside.

"Mr. and