Confederate Resurrection

By E.L. Torrip

April 1865, President Lincoln arrives in Richmond Virginia just two days after Confederate President Jefferson Davis and his cabinet fled their capital. Discovering secret documents left behind, he learns of desperate plans for a Confederate Resurrection. Assassinated days later, he is the only person in the Union knowing the full details.

December 1888, the quiet little town of Eminence has its first murder in cold blood. The coldness of the crime hints at things to come. The murderer hadn’t escaped and the whole town turned lynch mob demands his hanging.

As Confederate outlaws hell bent on finding a treasure and starting the long planned Confederate Resurrection begin showing up, Eminence becomes the most dangerous town out west. How much blood will have to be spilt to right the wrongs this time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.L. Torrip
• Release date: Jun 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476436777

E.L. Torrip

When is the last time you sat back, read a book so well written you go back and reread chapters just to experience it again? The kind of book you promise yourself to put down after this chapter and get some sleep, but you’re too sucked in. You just want to surround yourself with the characters and let it flow.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Oregon Coast, San Francisco Xavier 1704

Captain Santiago Zalbaburu hastily lashed himself to the mizzen mast determined to seal his own fate with that of his ship just as a fifty foot wave capped from a swell. Frothed with anger, it smashed into the side of the San Francisco Xavier. The wall of water swept the forecastle and lower deck, taking with it four sailors. Their screams shriek out in terror and end abruptly, towed by their bodies to a watery grave, silenced.

The two-thousand ton Manila Galleon, already past its prime, groaned and high pitched cracks rang out from the hardwood keel. The sounds echo through the hull murderous cries as the forecastle charged forward piercing the wave. With a thrust it jettisoned through listing heavily to port dragging storm torn sails through the next swell as it capped, even more angrily then the last.

At just under six foot tall, Captain Zalbaburu was easily half a head taller than most Spaniards of his day and all sailors aboard. His coral green eyes show only resolve as his slender, strong frame flopped around like a rag doll at the hands of an angry child. Even his angular face and finely trimmed mustache and beard, groomed daily, stuck out in protest of the chaos that engulfed them. The prospect of washing overboard seemed more of a blessing then a curse.

Already the hurricane had drawn up another colossal wave from the depths. Reaching out like a giant hand, the wave hung over the Xavier before swatting the ship squarely, dragging it under. Submerged, it stalled between the surface and the bottom. In a death grip, it burst with corkscrew shrill noises that crawl up the sailor’s spines as it struggled to pull itself back to the top.

Reluctant, it ascended laggardly to the surface in the trough of the next wave. With the top deck now in ruin and the cargo gone, large clumps of seaweed covered the deck and crew under dark green and brown mounds. The long tentacles lapped at the ship dauntingly like giant sea monsters devouring a meal. Men trapped underneath fight and freed themselves emerging terrified. They should have looked for the next wave and prepared, instead they looked toward their Captain.

The ship and its voyage were cursed from the very start, Zalbaburu thought blaming himself. The hull full of treasure below his feet was a curse that wouldn’t just affect them, but their families back home as well. You don’t lose a king’s treasure without consequences, especially one this vast.

Still his mind replayed his mistakes that brought him and his crew to this point, starting back in Sorosgon. Now the thought of setting sail so late in the season with an overloaded ship plagued with rot seemed like a ridiculous decision. The stupidity of it drew a smile on his face. The reality of it left him numb. He had been pressured by those above him, but still he gave the commands that set the ship a sail. No one else could have.

For the last three days the storm had grown more formidable with each passing hour. The hurricane took its toll, blowing the ship perilously toward shore while bashing waves over the decks. The galleon would wreck, her belly would be torn open and the treasure their lives and families’ lives depended on would be dumped across the bottom, lost. There was no question of that in their minds as they caught glimpses of land that rose to port. The rocky cliffs hovered over them with a jagged brow that promised doom.

It wasn’t only the storm they were fighting. For the last three days a British warship had been pursuing off their starboard side, now as conditions deteriorated it closed fast. Pirates no doubt, peeking through the storm at them, only to disappear and reemerge closer each time.

I’d give all I have for another fifty fathoms right now. Captain Zalbaburu said in a normal voice that hid like a whisper under howling winds and crashing waves.

Sir? Sebastian, the ships second in command prompted the Captain fearing he missed an order.

Sebastian, his first mate for the last ten years, had made seven trips back and forth across the Pacific Trade route. Seven very lucrative trips with cargos of silk, beeswax, spices, ivory and this time gold exchanged for silver ingots with the Chinese. The next voyage was to be his first as captain of his own ship.

Short in stature and round in girth, Sebastian had uncommonly large bright green eyes set behind an even bigger nose that demanded attention. It was his wide midsection that deceived most people. Despite his girth, he was very fit and agile.

Sir? Sebastian asked again.

Captain Zalbaburu didn’t respond, instead he searched the storm awaiting the next glimpse of their pursuer. His mind raced with options, none of which with outcomes likely to save their lives or the treasure. Their only hope for salvation would be to deliver the treasure to port in New Spain at Acapulco thousands of miles to the south. Impossible, he thought as his mind searched for survival of the few minutes ahead.

The last glimpse of the pursuing bow made him suspect that the St. George captained by the famed English pirate William Dampier was the one bearing down on them. That meant the Cinque Ports could also appear at any moment. They must be desperate or plain loco to give chase in a storm like this, he reasoned. Their goal could only be to wreck the galleon and come back for the plunder after the storm ebbed.

Had to end sometime, Zalbaburu told himself adjusting to the fate that unfolded before him. The dream of a nice cottage by the sea for a restful retirement was already dashed on the rocky coast in his mind. Better in a way he consoled himself. Old men have a habit of getting in the way and rambling on about stories like this that few care about or believe. He tightened the rope around his waist and added another half hitch knot for good measure to strengthen his resolve.

Sir? Should we prepare the cannons? Sebastian asked talking so fast his words jumbled together revealing his fear.

No, we hold our course a quarter to port three quarters to starboard. Zalbaburu yelled back over the gale force winds cutting through the sails and masts, changing pitch as the ship rolled over.

Yes sir! Sebastian waved his arms to signal the deck below.

Reaching in his shirt, Captain Zalbaburu located his gold chain and pulled until a crucifix fell dangling. Grasping it tightly, he mumbled a soft prayer and kissed it. One last look and he hurriedly tucked it back away as another wave washed over the deck.

Closing fast, the pirate ship crested a wave close enough to be certain it was the St. George and they were on a collision course. The confirmation left a knot in Zalbaburu’s stomach. Even if they are able to survive the storm, el Draque won’t be easily dealt with. Dampier had earned his Spanish nickname, the Dragon, with acts of viciousness and cruelty seldom still practiced in the civilized world.

El Draque, Captain Zalbaburu shouted to Sebastian.

Sebastian stared in horror until the ship fell out of sight hidden behind another swell, then immediately pulled his crucifix out and kissed it.

Sir? Sebastian uttered in terror hoping for an order.

Crease the sheets and easy starboard now! Captain Zalbaburu ordered.

Crease the sheets and easy starboard now! Sebastian moved to the railing and shouted forward signaling the crew below with his arms.

Zalbaburu watched the crew working below, swept back and forth by the waves, before turning back to check the St. George’s position. He cursed the fierce westerly winds that left him and his crew without sensible options. His mind set to one very, very small chance. He would stall his ship forcing the St. George to his port side and bring all twenty eight cannons to bear against her at point blank range. With the element of surprise, let the waves batter the St. George’s open gun ports, he thought, if she dare open them. After all battles are won by the bold as are bullfights, he reassured himself.

Prepare the anchor! Zalbaburu shouted to Sebastian over his shoulder without turning back.

Sir? Sebastian questioned the order unclear of its meaning.

Captain Zalbaburu looked back at Sebastian and saw in his eyes an exhausted man, who only by sheer will alone refused to give up. Even his normally round and full face hung with flaps marking the misery of the voyage filled with sickness and starvation. His friend’s face and the exhaustion in his eyes only made him more determined to take the actions likely to sink the ship.

We will drop anchor just before they draw up along side.

The winds are too strong for that, it will pull us apart.

Would you rather be pulled apart by wind or sunk by the British old friend?

I would rather sink their ship for Spain!

The storm holds them securely just as it does us, so it is our hope. We can not give up without a fight.

But we haven’t the crew left to handle the anchor if we later must haul it back up. Sebastian replied.

Should that need arise later we will find the strength. We have to drop anchor as we cross their bow line. If we don’t cross, then we will collide and both sink.

And if they drop anchor?

Are they crazy? Who would drop anchor in this? Besides their boat rides shallower then ours, lighter, but shallower just the same, they would surely sink, Captain Zalbaburu reassured him and smiled.

Good point. Sebastian replied knowing it was crazy.

We’ll ready the port cannons if the powder is dry enough to fire. With luck we will watch them sail past unable to return in the storm. Captain Zalbaburu patted his old friend on the shoulder. I doubt we hit them with a single cannonball, but it is our duty to try just the same.

Zalbaburu watched him climb below deck with confidence knowing whatever was possible will be done with diligence. Losing their ship was a captain’s worst nightmare, losing the cargo loaded in the holds while at Sorsogon would be Spain’s worst nightmare. His knowledge and reputation for safe and timely trips had garnered the attention of young King Philip the fifth. It was the King himself that had chosen his ship to carry the treasure needed to support Spain’s war in Northern Italy, Germany and the Netherlands.

Mother Nature was once again intervening in the conquests of men and nations, and the British were poised to take advantage of the wrath unleashed on them. It was a cruel twist of fate for Spain and heaven sent for Britain, who had recently decided to enter the fold with claims to Spanish territories. For them to sack it was unthinkable. It would give them the fortunes to wage an expensive war and build a fleet at last to challenge the Pacific Trade routes.

Sebastian arrived back top side just in time to spot the St. George’s bow again as it splashed through the storm and thrust his arm out pointing. To stern Captain, he exclaimed excited.

It seems God has again granted us favor my friend. Zalbaburu stated, coolly eyeing the St. George directly off the stern. Drop the fore and main masts, prepare the port side cannons and ready the anchor.

Yes Captain! Sebastian scampered back down the steps to the weather deck and was gone.

Maybe all isn’t lost just yet, Zalbaburu lied to himself. We will put the devil to task and if fortunes prevail, it will be they who fail. For King and Spain, he mumbled on trembling lips.

The ship lulled in the rough seas as the forward sails dropped. The St. George attempted to correct and keep the starboard advantage, but the wind and surf against their sails allowed no mercy as she approached battering through waves. The ships both prepared to collide as battle cries from the St. George are faintly heard over the storm.

Anchor and cannons ready sir! Sebastian informed him, gulping air and water alike awaiting the action ahead with eagerness.

Patience Sebastian old friend, we must give the bull time to run into the lance. Zalbaburu reassured him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Our luck isn’t foul yet. We may still beat these British mongrels.

Do you think she will hold? Sebastian searched for hope in Captain Zalbaburu’s eyes and finds none.

I know she will hold anchor, it is the anchor that I fear won’t hold the storm leaving our ship to wreck against the rocks. Captain Zalbaburu admitted his true concerns.

And if they come around and we bump bellies?

That would be lucky. I don’t think el Draque is that naive. Zalbaburu smiled. If they hit us they will sink for sure.

The ships boom with cannon fire at point blank range. The shots miss completely both high and low as they rolled drunkenly on the storm swells. The St. George caught unaware, as had been hoped, leaves the Xavier behind anchored and disappears into the storm.

On board the St. George, Captain Dampier watches from his stern deck assuming she had struck bottom. Surprised when the Xavier pops back up bow toward the ocean, he slammed his fist down on the railing. Out of sight he turned to the coast finding a point assuming upon return he’d find her wreckage close by.

Three weeks had passed since leaving the Xavier alone to battle the sea in a losing fight. Having completed most repairs to the St. George from the storm, Captain Dampier and crew set sail to the north in search of the Xavier’s wreck site.

Late the next day, they spied a promising sign, the bloated body of a Spanish sailor floating face down. Then came the shout from the crows nest above, they had found what they were searching for, the San Francisco Xavier. The massive galleon looked even bigger out of the water, the sailors couldn’t help but stare in fascination as they approached and dropped anchor.

Wrecked prominently at the base of a mountain, the lower hull was mired in sand, stripped. Shallow waves washed through it, swirling around bare beams that pointed at the sky like a stripped rib cage. Beached a few hundred feet away, the stern deck lay smashed and deserted, caught between the colliding sand and water. Having sailed the same storm, the pirates easily envisioned the ships last moments rolling on the bottom and breaking apart. There wouldn’t be any survivors, or so they thought.

Storming the beach, the pirates searched the wreckage. Digging out the sand now filling the bottom of the hull, they found nothing, not even ballast stones. Still determined, they searched the beach and deck pieces littering the shore, finding only footprints. Following the footprints, they tracked down survivors. Survivors that were healthier and stronger then expected, but few in number. Certainly not enough to hide the treasure well, but not a single piece of treasure was found.

Under torture the sailors told stories that made the pirates wonder if the Spaniards had lost their minds. They rambled on and on about a giant river of the gods, a sacred tree and lobo’s creek. None of which made any sense to the English, who demanded they reveal the treasures location, positive it had to be close by.

No gold, no silver, or gems sir. Just beeswax, silk and broken porcelain is all we have found sir. The first mate reported timidly expecting harsh rebuttal.

Have the prisoners said anything note worthy? Dampier asked much calmer then the first mate had expected.

Same gibberish we reported earlier sir. The first mate replied.

Two pirates drag a battered Spanish sailor up and dropped him at Captain Dampier’s feet in the sand.

Are the others all dead? Dampier questioned looking down at Spaniard with a grin.

He is the last one. We have dispatched the others, sparing him as he can speak English.

Dampier bent down face to face with the Spaniard. English, do you understand? He looked the man in the eye, el Capitan?

The Spaniard understood, but having already suffered torture and knowing he would be killed regardless, extended his arm pointing to the wreck.

Where is the gold? Where is the treasure? Captain Dampier waited impatiently and after no timely answer pulled out his sword resting the tip on the sailor’s belly. Where is the gold? He added pressure to the sword and the tip began to slowly slide in.

The Spaniard squirmed in pain. Fearing torture for days, he used his arms to thrust forward against the blade, running it through. With a smile of relief, he fell back in the sand and mumbled his last words, Kanakanie. Río de los Dioses.

Captain Dampier positive the treasure was buried close by, ordered his men to probe the sands with their swords. For days they dug up rocks and logs exhausting their provisions with nothing gained from their efforts. Defeated, Dampier sailed away committed to return with more men and tools, but that was never to be. His privateering expedition ended in failure. A court martial declared him unfit to captain any of His Majesty’s ships ending his career along with any hopes of returning. He spent his remaining days at sea serving as a pilot for Captain Woodes Rogers, bitter until his dying day at what slipped through his fingers.

By 1861 the wreckage of the Xavier had totally disappeared and reality lost its hold over imagination. Everybody had a different story to tell and every Indian village had a legend that spoke of pale men in winged canoes riding a great storm. Every time the story began to fade away lost to history, more beeswax washed up and another desperate search launched.

On the other side of the country, America divided and slid into war. The legends and stories of the now famous Spanish shipwreck were becoming well known across the country. Due in part to a fictionalized short story written in the local newspaper that was picked up as a feature in the Harper’s Weekly.

It was an honest mistake by the typesetter that mistitled the story as ‘Green Eyed Indians’ after a page of the paper he was getting the story from fell behind his desk. The error was one-hundred percent right, but Harper’s Weekly wrote a correction months later after receiving thousands of inquiries. That satisfied the masses, but as fate had lost the treasure once, it chose who the supposedly correct information would reach. Clues to find the treasure lost over a century and a half ago now rested firmly in the hands of men once again desperate to finance a war.

The War of the Rebellion as it was called by the Yanks or the War of Northern Aggressions as it was called by the Rebs exploded across the country as men picked up rifles and manned cannons to wage bloody carnage against their neighbors. The two sides had grown up as different as two brothers can be, still born of the same parents. The North was industrialized, while the South remained largely an agricultural based economy. The two brothers marched in parades and hurried off afraid to miss out on what would surely be over in weeks if not days. Brothers after all know each other well, often too well and misjudge the others resolve to fight.

In May of 1863, General Lee, after success in Chancellorsville decided to take the summer campaign into northern territory to Harrisburg Pennsylvania or even farther to Philadelphia. The Army would starve to death if it stayed in war torn Northern Virginia, which couldn’t support another summer campaign. The Rebels marched into Gettysburg from the north looking for shoes, while the Yankees marched in from the south. They didn’t find any shoes, but both found and fought the bloodiest battle of the war.

At the end of the third day the battle was thrown away, lost with Pickett’s charge and the war with it. General Lee realizing he made a grave error, organized his men in a defensive perimeter and waited for their decisive destruction on the fourth day. The decisive attack never came. On the fifth day he ordered a swift retreat. The rest of the war would be fought on southern soil, defended by poorly equipped starving men.

The Knights of the Golden Circle’s original plot was to annex parts of Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean into pro-slavery southern states, in hopes to balance the country’s political power. After Gettysburg, knowing the war was lost, they swiftly brought forth a new, desperate plan for a Confederate Resurrection.

In California, Knights of the Golden Circle outfitted privateer J.M. Chapman in San Francisco Bay with a schooner to capture gold shipments in the Pacific Ocean destined for the East Coast. Throughout the Midwest guerilla groups were formed to rob Federal Banks and payrolls to disrupt the Union’s war effort and finance the plan already in action. Elsewhere, special groups of men staunchly loyal were organized and sent to the distant reaches of the country in search of known lost treasures. Hopefully they could raise support for Southern Independence as well. One of the toughest and most loyal guerilla groups was sent to Oregon to search for the beeswax treasure, reportedly hidden on a mountain by green eyed Indians.

In Ohio, Illinois, Indiana and Missouri President Lincoln ordered suspected Knights of the Golden Circle arrested and held without trial for treason. Having uncovered part of their plans after suffering the loss of many payrolls and shipments of gold, the Union sent troops to hunt down the groups and hang them without trial. It was too little too late, plans far greater then imagined were already set into motion and lay in the hands of the South’s most loyal sons.

Confederate President Jefferson Davis had fled his office in the Southern Capital of Richmond only forty hours earlier when President Lincoln arrived and sat down at his desk. In a desperate dash to catch the last Danville train and escape before being cut off, Jefferson Davis and his cabinet had accidentally left one stack of papers behind in a locked drawer. It was the blunder of all blunders. The papers were top secret documents of the greatest importance.

President Lincoln, discovering the locked drawer, called one of his soldier guards in and borrowed his bayonet to break the lock. Finding the papers, he studied them alone for hours silently. Astonished by the names of people he’d believed loyal Unionist, his eyes grew weary. The full extent of the plans for a Confederate Resurrection revealed in the documents, letters, maps and special decrees seemed incomprehensible to him. They had according to these documents already the resources and allies in position to start the war all over again. Can, he questioned himself with tear swollen eyes, our country really survive yet another war after the sacrifices already made during this one?

It was one paper that stood out from the rest. Maybe he was drawn in by the mention of a distant territory, seldom if ever mentioned in Washington. Maybe it was the fact that it seemed out of place with so few details compared to other papers. Maybe it was the fact that it was likely the last message Jefferson Davis received and read before fleeing. It could have been that it sparked something in his memory. He studied and read the telegram no less then ten times, still unsure why it grabbed him so deeply. The telegram simply read:

Arrived in Oregon stop

Found beeswax stop

No green eyed Indians stop

Report when found stop

OK stop

With saddened tear filled eyes, Lincoln looked out the window down on the streets of Richmond, still burning and in ruins. Pondering what could carry a man who’d taken in this very same view to a plot starting the war all over again, he knew one thing for absolute certain. The old Union was indeed dead and his recently implemented Reconstruction Policy was going to need full support to create a single country out of the mess below his feet.

Determined, he burned the papers one by one in a garbage can by the window. Watching every single one burn, he was confident the rest would sort itself out as his beloved country made peace. It was time to start reuniting brothers and neighbors to heal the country from with in, he reasoned. He alone would follow up discretely with the plotters, saving the country further frustrations and persecutions that would only deepen the already too numerous scars. The last paper burned was the telegram. He reflected and committed it to memory first.

On the train ride back to the Capital, President Lincoln gave more consideration to the telegram and documents containing the plot. Arriving late, but restless, he sent for his most trusted friend and bodyguard U.S. Marshal Ward Hill Lamon. A mountain of a man, he simply called Hill.

I need you to leave at once and send Colonel Haskill and his men to Oregon. Lincoln said still shaking his hand.

Haskill is a zealot. Hill pulled back his hand surprised. Are you sure you want him in Oregon? He’ll damn sure hang anyone with a drawl, right or wrong.

We must use the tools we have, in this case a zealot will do well I suspect. Lincoln tired, took a seat and sighed heavily. If the Knights of the Golden Circle, many of which I now know are esteemed Congress and Senate members, are able to start another war all will have been for not.

Hill, hardly surprised by the revelation, rubbed his forehead. Who or what are you sending him to search for?

Beeswax and green eyed Indians.

Hill, suspecting it a joke, chuckled. What?

The only clues in the telegram I discovered were beeswax and green eyed Indians. It is imperative we stop them. Lincoln stated dead seriously.

That’s not a lot to go on.

That’s why the zealot as you called him will do well. Better a zealot now I fear then the smallest chance of inaction or worse yet failure.

I will leave at once, but I want your promise first to be careful while I am away. If what you say is true, men will go to great lengths to assassinate you now.

I will, but if it requires my death to at last bring peace, then so be it. What is one man to a country that has lost so many? Lincoln rubbed his eye and placed a hand on Hill’s shoulder. Upon your return we will arrest, try and hang the treasonous Senators and Congressmen involved. The war must come to its end before we all become our own enemies.

Hill raised a brow surprised, smiled and departed immediately for Richmond.

He was right in his concerns. President Lincoln was assassinated the following night at Ford’s theatre. The only Unionist to know all the details of the plan and its conspirators was dead and the files destroyed. Found folded in his wallet after his death were a couple of newspaper clippings, including a Harper’s Weekly titled ‘Green Eyed Indians’ and a Confederate five dollar bill. He had figured out the telegram, others would have as well if they had known its contents.

The Rebels set on a resurrection caught a lucky break and President Lincoln had proven himself what he always so reverently claimed to be, a true friend and ally of the south.

Chapter 1

CAMP BELL STATION, OREGON 1888

Camp had been built on a knoll, perched half way up the face of Mount Wilkerson’s steep eastern ramparts. The camp was aptly named Bell Station by the men for the bell shaped cliff below. The rushing waters of Wolfe Creek had taken millions of years to carve a perfect bell out of solid rock. The men had decided on the name in a few seconds after a glance, the name fit perfectly.

Camp Bell Station was the last stop the men often joked looking over the cliff. They were there to build a trestle, the biggest ever built to cross a mountain canyon. With Wolfe Creek’s rushing waters over two hundred and fifty feet below and the far bank a quarter of a mile away, the idea seemed crazy at first. Yet the longer and harder they worked the more it seemed possible. Still none could image riding a train across, most swore they never would.

Other then having been placed on the face of a mountain, Camp Bell Station was no different from any other logging camp in the Northwest. The first thing built on site was a large mess hall to feed the men hearty breakfasts, dinners and give them a place to play lively card games at night. Then train tracks were laid that looped around the perimeter between stumps to deliver supplies and bunkhouses constructed on flat cars. On the far end of camp, for the winter stormy nights they also had a huge old tree that had fallen long ago to take shelter under. Camp had everything, including characters that added the entertainment.

Life at a logging camp started early. Logging at Camp Bell Station started even earlier. As the first rays of sunlight burst through the branches of still standing trees the sounds of fallers pecking away at them like woodpeckers could be heard. It was hard work, done by hard men, but the pay was far better then most jobs. They earned a lofty forty-seven cents an hour, damn near twice what most jobs paid and aside from gambling, had no place to spend it. Town was ten miles away and most men hadn’t been in months.

Over the mad rush of a winter swollen creek the faint humming of an old Methodist tune followed the camp cook down the trail to the creek. He swayed side to side, laden with heavy pots under his arms and pans held loosely by his hands. He was soon winded and took a break. Still early in the morning, the nip in the air rolled off his breath and floated away. He stopped twice more on the trail, to medicate against the cold with what he referred to as a wee nip of spirit and fed his dog. The stray had wondered into camp last summer and been named Stranger by the men. Stranger stayed close to Lucky, finding him generous with table scraps.

By the time he reached the banks of Wolfe Creek his medication gulped from a whiskey bottle had taken full effect. The patriotic humming stopped as his breath had grown harder and with another gulp he hissed as loudly as he could in attempt to drown out the creek noise if possible. It wasn’t.

Wolfe Creek wouldn’t be called a creek at all by most, it would rival many of the so called rivers back east, especially during the winter. In the Pacific Northwest ferries cross rivers, boats cross creeks and if you can toss a rock across, then it’s a stream.

Lucky was a drinking man. A back injury years ago, left him crippled and squatted to the ground. His smashed-up reddened face, sprinkled heavily with white whiskers and lack of teeth made him look much older then his true age. Only his bright blue-gray eyes suggested otherwise. People rarely saw his eyes though, since the rotgut had deformed his nose into a giant red beacon. It hung over his chew dribbling mouth that spat constantly bitter in tone. Pleasant words were rare, only found halfway through a bottle. He never stopped at half.

Feeling the sweet bite of whiskey, Lucky started beating pans together like musical instruments. Stranger, annoyed by the racket began to bark and whine, which prompted Lucky to join in with cooing and cackling. The water rushing through the rocks drowned out all but the loudest noises. The effort took too much out of him. Drunk and winded, he sat on a large rock and eyed the creek with suspicion. It had after all attempted to drown him recently.

The water was crystal clear cold direct mountain run off from melted snow. Even this near its source it spanned sixty feet across and flowed well over chest deep. Large boulders, some the size of rail cars, sat firmly in the middle detouring water to erode the banks. They served little hope if you fell in. The current was swift, cold and stole your breath immediately, leaving any man instantly too weak and helpless to grab one of the rocks even if washed straight into it. Lucky had learned that first hand.

Watching the creek, he pulled himself back on his wobbly legs and stumbled around, catching himself on a boulder. He dug back in his pocket, fetched his whiskey bottle and took a swig and wiped his lips on his sleeve, set on revenge. To taunt the creek, he began dancing around on the shallow bank. Dipping his toe in, he flicked water at Stranger and laughed hysterically. Stranger not caring, he grumbled and grabbed up a pot to fill, hell bent on soaking the dog as he danced.

You won’t get me, you damned old bitty! He sang loudly taunting the creek in a stupor. You can’t catch me, you damned old bitty!

Pirouetting around, he lost his balance teetering on the edge sure to fall. Stranger nipped at his shirt sleeve pulling him back. Cheering his accomplishment, he laughed out loud and took another drink to celebrate his skillful escape. The smooth river rocks now wet from his drunk dancing were slick as ice.

Stranger barked and he turned back to the creek. Seeing the pot he was going to fill and throw on Stranger floating away, he lurched after it, slipped and fell in. The rushing water pushed him into a boulder by shore. He clung to it for dear life, his hands slowly losing their grip. He wasn’t celebrating anymore.

Down the creek around a corner on the