Where the Wind Whispers My Name: Ray Corngrow Saga, #7

By Jessie Cox

John Littlefeather and his son Timmy are vacationing in the Paysaten Wilderness of Washington State, when John meets Lea. The beginning of the relationship is off to a rough start when Lea is taken by one of the Forest People. Meanwhile in Bristow, Oklahoma a blow to the head makes Ray Corngrower believe that he is Spanish Crow, a warrior that lived three hundred years ago and who is determined to kill John and take his wife and child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessie Cox
• Release date: Jan 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386132943

Jessie Cox

Jessie Cox, born: 1948. Raised on Creek land by his grandmother. A citizen of the Muscogee (Creek) Nation. Ex law enforcement, Chief Engineer's License..Steam Plants, spent several years as a gold prospector, a freelance writer/columnist, and lived/worked in Alaska. Thus far there are seven books in the Ray Corngrower series. "The Infant Carrier", "The House in Banes Meadow", "Cheechako", "The Good Red Road", "The Skinwalker, a John Littlefeather novel" "The Manitou" and "Where the Wind Whispers My Name" are available in both paperback and ebook. These books are based on actual Native American legend and sprinkled liberally with laughter,tears and a writers imagination. Life experience also plays a large part. I find the saying that 'you can't write about what you do not know" to be a truism. In closing, I'd like to thank my friends and the constant readers for their valuable input on my tales. My eighth novel "The Spencer Rifle"  "Book one of the Trail of Blood on Ice trilogy" is set in the period of just before and during the US Civil War, but is written in the Cherokee and Creek point of view. "Round Mountain" is the second book and covers the end of the Civil War and a few years following. "Washita" is the final book in the saga and is set in the years after the second book. I think the historical fiction fan will enjoy these novels. Look for "Moon Dancer" to be on the market soon. Taken from the short story of the same title, it is Book one of the "Sons of Creek" series.  Amos Corngrower (Ray's son) and Tim Littlefeather (John's son) are the main characters in this series Following in their fathers footsteps against the monsters of Native American legend. To the Cheechakos (the new comers, In Alaska Inuit) I'll say "Hersce". (Creek for hello) JC

Book preview

Where the Wind Whispers My Name

By

Jessie Cox

This novel is dedicated to my Grandmother.

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JC

Civilization is but a thin cloak that covers the savage that lives within us all.

JC

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This is a work of fiction. All persons and events are fictional. Any reference to actual persons or events is purely coincidence.

copyright 2013

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 1

Grandfather Sun smiled brightly on all of the works made by Creator. The Standing People (trees) stood with their leafy arms raised in praise in the blistering heat. The Spirits of the Four Winds rested and sent no breeze to cool the man who put the finishing touches on the nondescript car in the shade of a large Elm, beside the pond.

Had there been a watcher, other than the assorted field mice, frogs, insects and snakes, they would have observed a shirtless young man in his twenties, clean shaven. His body slender, but his muscles rippled as he squatted to use the black electrician's tape to change the number of the license tag on his car. Finished, he stood to observe the fruits of his labor, then performed a little touchup by rubbing handfuls of mud in the areas not completely covered. Satisfied, he stripped off his worn jeans and waded into the pond to wash.

Earlier that day:

Nettie hummed to herself as she stood in the bathroom running a brush through her iron gray hair. Since married to Grayson, who was still asleep, she had let her hair grow longer. Grayson liked that and while he was bound to her by the pepper gravy and the piddle in his moccasins, she wanted to insure that he stayed because he wanted to, rather than because he had to. Finished with her hair, she put in her teeth and looked at her pudgy toes.

Not bad for an old woman of sixty-six. She told herself. Pretty, fat toes make for pretty feet. Too bad they are wasted on Grayson. Most other men who saw them would not be able to control their lovable beastie, but I guess that Injuns are different.

Being extra quiet, she entered the bedroom and slipped on her newer loafer like tennis shoes. Half hoping that Grayson would wake to appreciate her being all gussied up, she kissed his forehead, then walked into the kitchen, where Potlicker, the old redbone hound lay dozing under the table.

I'm going to town to get a few things. Nettie told the ancient dog. I'll see if Mr. Johnston saved you any bones."

Potlicker thumped his tail on the floor a couple of times to show that he not only agreed this was a good idea, but how excited he was about it.

Come on, said Nettie, opening the door to the porch. You stay outside until I return.

Potlicker strained and groaned to get to his feet, then wagged his tail in apology as a long loud gas attack escaped from under his tail. It took a few minutes of stretching before he limped out the door and sought comfort on the chair cushion, on the side of an old rocking chair that was his outside bed.

Going out to the driveway, Nettie got into her 1952 Chevrolet and coaxed the tired engine to life. Waiting a few minutes for the running engine to warm up, she saw Grayson, still in his underwear come outside onto the porch.

I'm going to town! yelled Nettie over the noise of the engine. Want to come?

Grayson didn't answer, but only waved his hand and went back in to see if she had left him breakfast.

Halleluiah, sister! exclaimed the man, when Trudy opened the door at his insistent knock. I'm the Reverend Michael Cobbs, a circuit preacher and evangelist. I just got into town and thought to introduce myself to the folks around. May I come in?

I'm sorry, replied Trudy, starting to close the door. I'm getting ready for work and don't have time to talk.

May I talk to the man of the house? asked Cobbs, putting just enough pressure on the door to keep it from closing all the way.

I'm sorry, replied Trudy, not liking the man. He's asleep. He worked the night shift last night.

Two time zones away:

A movement in a bush caused John to come immediately awake, his eyes searching for what had awakened him.  His alarm changed into a smile as a ptarmigan, a Fool Hen, as they were locally called, pecked at a few bread crumbs on the ground beside the rock where he and Timmy had eaten. Looking at the still sleeping boy, buried deep in his sleeping bag, John considered waking him to watch the wild bird strut back and forth from one side of their cold camp to the other in search for more of the free meal.

Though the Paysaten Wilderness in Washington's Cascade Mountains was known for its desolation and fierce sudden storms, their days had been filled with sunshine and warm night temperatures, making for a perfect vacation.

No motor vehicles allowed, filled the area with peace. The wildflowers, majestic views and various animals including moose, wolves, elk, deer, big cats, birds of all kinds plus bears made it a photographer's paradise.

Timmy had been snapping pictures like crazy with the new Canon digital John had given him for the trip.

John had no camera, but the .22 semiautomatic pistol on his belt and the 12-gauge pump shotgun were enough to carry, when added to the weight of his pack.

Getting out of his sleeping bag, John poured water into two canteen cups, then lit two fire tablets, one under each cup. The Fool Hen wandered over to see what he was doing and began to peck at the soda cracker that John had crumbled, before tossing it on the ground. Taking a notebook and pencil from his pocket, John scribbled a few lines, before replacing them both and buttoning the flap.

What kind of bird is that? asked Timmy, sticking his head from his sleeping bag.

It's a ptarmigan, replied John, adding instant coffee to one cup and instant cocoa to the other. Both it and the porcupine are protected by Federal Law, as they are both easily killed and can keep someone alive, if they become lost or injured in the wilderness.

It acts almost tame, said Timmy, sitting up. Do you think I could pet it?

Not unless you want to get pecked, replied John, taking a sip from his cup, then making a face. No matter how tame or friendly a wild animal seems, they are still wild and unpredictable. Get up. We'll eat and then head down the trail.

A whirlwind of dust chased the blue and white 1952 Chevrolet down the county line road, as Nettie eluded any pursuit by those who might search for her hidden groves of pecan trees. Coming to the barely used driveway that led to the ashes that once was the house in Banes Meadow, she waited until the last minute to step from the gas pedal to the brake before turning in. The sudden deceleration from twenty-seven miles per hour to nine miles per hour, pushed her ample frame into the steering wheel. Old brakes groaned in protest as she stared with a satisfied grin, when the following dust cloud drifted up the road, beyond her car.

They'll never find us now. She told the imaginary Steve McQueen, who sat on the passenger side of the car. You taught me how to get away from the bad guys, well.

You were a quick learner, said the imagined man, with his famous grin. It only took what? Five times of seeing my race car movie and four times of watching my get away scenes?

That's right, replied Nettie, as she parked alongside the burnt house. But thank you. You are such a kind man.

Getting out of the car she took the walking stick, she kept there for either her or Grayson. She was about to start down the faint trail to the pecan grove, when she heard a car coming up the road. Turning to the ash pile that had been the house, she stood beside it pretending to look at the ashes. The car passed in a cloud of dust, but she waited a few minutes more before starting down the overgrown trail.

She had just entered the grove when she heard the sound of an engine coming closer from where her car was parked in the meadow. Muttering something unpleasant under her breath, she started back toward the car.

Arriving, she saw a nondescript car parked beside hers and a man in his twenties looking through the windows of her car.

Looking for something? Nettie asked the man wearing a tee-shirt with faded jeans and rundown boots.

Oh! exclaimed the man, startled at her arrival. I saw the car from the road and thought this old wreck was abandoned. Guess I was wrong.

Durn right, you are wrong! replied Nettie. I'm the original owner of this wreck, as you call it. It's the best car I've ever owned.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend, said the man in a placating voice. My name is Charles...I don't answer to 'Chuck'. Would you have any money or food that you could spare? I've not eaten in three days.

Sorry, replied Nettie, not liking this possible pecan rustler in the least. If I had food or money, I would not be out here searching these old places looking for something of value to sell.

I understand, said Charles with a smile, getting back into his car. But thank you and have a nice day.

Nettie watched as the car took the driveway to the road and disappeared in a trail of windblown dust.

Turning to her car, she noticed the passenger door not completely closed and her purse was not where she had left it. Opening the purse, she searched for her wallet, but found nothing.

I knew you were a thief! yelled Nettie. Wait until I catch up with you!

Jumping from the car, she went to the driver's side. Getting in, she turned the key.  The tired old engine tried to start, but failed. She tried it again. Still nothing. The battery died on the third try.

Taking her walking stick, Nettie walked down the driveway to wait for help alongside the seldom traveled road.

Preacher Cobbs parked his full bellied lanky carcass on one of the four benches in the town square. Taking out his pocket knife, he whittled a toothpick from a twig he found beside the park bench.

"That's what I love about these small mid-west towns," he thought. The unwashed public may not have much money, but they feed the clergy well.

Glancing at the clock