Jonathan Rogers - The Secret of the Swamp King

The bearer of this letter and his four companions are plume hunters I met in the Eastern Wilderness. As we recently discussed, I trust you will take real pleasure in dealing with them.

Yours sincerely, Aidan

Standing with Massey and Floyd, Aidan waved to the plume hunters as their wagon disappeared down the trail.

“What was that all about?” asked Massey when the wagon was gone.

“Boys,” answered Aidan, “today wasn’t the day for us to take care of those lying, thieving, no-account, big-haired poachers. But I sent them to somebody who will.” The alligator hunters looked quizzically at him. “Remember yesterday when Father said he’d like to get his hands on a few plume hunters?” They nodded their heads. “He’s about to get his chance.”

Aidan glanced to the northwest, back toward Longleaf, wondering what would happen to the plume hunters when they got there. That’s when he noticed darkening clouds in the west. Lightning split the sky, followed by rumbling thunder. He pointed at the approaching storm. “That might be the help we need!”

The rain started before they got to Bullbat Bay. It was a frog-strangler, with big, heavy drops driving down, whipped into the men’s faces by an angry wind. It was the kind of rain that could raise the level of the river a few inches if it could keep it up long enough, or if it rained enough along the creeks that fed the river upstream from the raft. And all they needed were a few extra inches of water.

By the time they got back to the sandbar, the river had risen enough that the Headstrong, though not yet clear of the sand, was starting to sway a little in the water. The raft’s crew stood on the sandbar, exposed to the lashing wind and rain, cringing at the earth-shaking thunder and rejoicing in the power of a creation that could lift a hundred-ton raft of logs and place it back on its path. When the rising Tam freed the Headstrong, Massey, Floyd, and Aidan were on it, eager to continue their voyage to Last Camp.

By the time the rain stopped, Aidan was having second thoughts about sending five armed and dangerous plume hunters to his father’s house. He pulled a sheet of palmetto paper out of his pack and cut a narrow strip. He wrote a brief message to his father. Five plume hunters coming your way. Armed. Be ready. Aidan.

He wrapped the message around the leg of Jasper’s homing pigeon with a piece of twine and let the bird go.

Watching the pigeon dart upriver toward Longleaf, Aidan felt good about the old warrior’s chances against the five unsuspecting plume hunters. Errol had no shortage of strong men to call on for such occasions. More to the point, as official magistrate of Hustingshire and the Eastern Wilderness, Errol had the authority to deal with criminals in those regions. Aidan felt sure it would revive his father’s spirits to administer a bit of frontier justice on the very people who represented the demise of the wild Corenwald he knew so well. Aidan turned his face back toward Last Camp and smiled.

The whole population of Last Camp-six hunters, a camp cook, and fourteen very eager hunting dogs-was waiting at the landing when the Headstrong nosed into the bank. It was nearly dark, three days since the raft had left Longleaf and more than two weeks since the men at Last Camp had seen Floyd and Massey. Amid much hooting, back slapping, and coonskin cap tossing, the three raftsmen stepped ashore with the swaggering confidence of real rafthands.

“Here’s your stockade, boys,” announced Floyd. And because he could never resist tweaking Cooky, he added, “Now, where’s my supper?”

“I thought you was drownded,” grumbled the crusty old cook, his wiry gray beard wagging. “It’s bad enough you two coming back alive right before supper,” he waved his ladle toward Aidan, “without you bringing an extry mouth for me to feed.”

Aidan couldn’t help but smile at Cooky’s exaggerated gruffness as the old man stumped back to his cooking fire. “I won’t eat much,” he called after him. “And I won’t stay long.”

Floyd presented Aidan to the group. “Boys,” he said, “this is Aidan Errolson from Longleaf. Aidan, this here’s Burl, Chaney, Big Haze, Little Haze, Isom, and Hugh. You already met Cooky.”

Aidan shook hands with each of the men, repeating each name to be sure he had it right. He liked these men already. They were weather-toughened and strong of limb, and in their broad, open faces he saw a confidence that allowed them to be genuinely welcoming of the stranger in their midst.

“I know you,” said Big Haze. “You’re the boy killed that giant.”

“Well,” answered Aidan, “he wasn’t actually a giant.”

“If he weren’t a giant, he was something mighty like a giant,” interrupted Massey. “Anyway, Haze, you got it right. This is the same Aidan Errolson. I seen him handle five plume hunters too.”

“With at least four crossbows between them,” added Floyd. “And he ain’t a half-bad raft pilot neither.”

“Hey, Cooky,” called Burl, “I hope your supper’s better’n usual tonight. We got a sure-enough hero amongst us.”

Cooky scowled over his stew pot. “Any hero don’t like my cooking can fix his own supper. That goes for flea-bit deer hunters too.”

There were no permanent buildings at Last Camp. The stockade, when built from the logs they brought, would be the first. There were four or five wagons, including Cooky’s covered mess wagon, and several deerskin tents encircled the fire. But there were more empty tent sites than there were tents. Last Camp usually bustled with at least twenty hunters-more in the autumn-but the place was nearly deserted now.

“Where is everybody?” asked Floyd. But he suspected he knew the answer.

“Culler and Minty are hunting deer over at Longpond,” said Burl. “They’re camping up there tonight. But everybody else has quit us.”

“Hadley and Munce said they wanted to try farming,” offered Hugh, “and Redden went back up north to the mines.”

“Folks just sort of drifted off,” Little Haze added. “Wiley went to work with his uncle, who’s a butcher in Tambluff. He figured that was better work than getting shot at every night.”

“It’s got worse since you left,” explained Burl. “Most nights now we’re getting attacked. Nobody’s got hurt or killed yet. Whoever’s shooting up the camp just wants to scare us.”

“They doing a thorough job of that,” said Isom. “All that hollering in the trees scares me as bad as the arrows and spears.” He gave a little shudder. “Makes my blood cold.”

“I want to start on that stockade at first light tomorrow,” said Chaney. “It won’t be long before some of them arrows or spears hurts somebody, whether they’re trying to or not.”

By that time, Cooky was ladling up supper, a stew made of rabbit and possum. Aidan ate his hungrily, and his genuine enjoyment of the meal softened Cooky toward him. The campfire conversation was lively. Massey and Floyd gave a full account of their river adventure-from their near destruction of the Hustingreen waterfront to their run-in with the plume hunters.

But Aidan, of course, was the main attraction. Except for Little Haze, who hadn’t been fighting age at the time of the last Pyrthen invasion, all of the hunters had been at the Battle of Bonifay, attached to the same infantry company. Even Cooky was there, serving as their mess sergeant. So they had all witnessed Aidan’s combat with Greidawl. They eagerly relived the day of Corenwald’s greatest victory-the reawakening of a valor that had nearly dwindled away, the terror of the Pyrthen thunder-tubes, the exhilaration of the last charge across the plain that drove the invaders from the island. They insisted on hearing the details of Aidan’s trek through the caverns under the battlefield and the climactic explosion of the Pyrthen flame powder that set the rout in motion.