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For all the Family

THE INDIAN TRACKER

J.W.B. Laing

His heart was pounding. Sweat stung his eyes and dripped from his chin. He knew he was heading in the right direction. He crept through the tall grass, bent over peering at the ground, following the fresh trail, occasionally raising his head to look for the bear. He could almost smell it. He'd been too far off to stop the bear from dragging his screaming four-year old sister into the wilds. Would she still be alive when he found her? Her screaming had stopped. Maybe she was overcome with too much fear and in shock he thought, hopefully.

The sun was at its zenith and he began to feel its relentless heat. He pressed on with only one thought in mind; rescuing his little sister. He continued to creep through the thick grass with his rifle loaded and at the ready, bears were unpredictable...could back track, and he knew that if he wasn't prepared, he could become the hunted one. After what seemed like hours, he came to the lake with it's sparkling blue water. Having quenched his thirst from its ice-cold waters, he followed the tracks in the sandy shore, around the expanse of water and paused for a brief moment to rest.

The thought of his sister in the clutches of that bear was too much, so he pressed on towards the scrub filled rocky ridge where the tracks were leading. He was an experienced hunter and aware of all the tricks of the trade. This bear, he knew well. It wouldn't eat its prey until after the heat of the day had passed. It was huge; many had tried to track and kill it without success. Only he knew its habits. Even he had tried, and was the only one who ever got close enough to get a good shot at it. Something had always stopped him from squeezing the trigger. Maybe it was the sight of this magnificent creature standing there defiantly; free as the wind as Mother Nature had intended it to be. This time, however, it was going to be different. It had his only sister, and this time he'd kill it with one shot, no time for Mother Nature to stop him...nothing would stop him.

He struggled and climbed up the ridge with its sharp rocks, his knees cut and bleeding, but feeling no pain, with only one thought in his head. Would his sister still be alive? Atop the ridge, he came to a dense wood. He knew, from his experience, they had to be there, in the shade from the blistering sun. Tension mounting, he checked his rifle to make sure that it was cocked and ready for use in a split second. He slowly crept forward into the cool shade of the wood, crouching low and downwind from where he knew the bear would be.

Something strange was in the air...it was too quiet. There was no wind---nothing moved---not even the birds. The air was hot and thick with the scent of thousands of wild flowers. The only sound was the occasional buzzing of bees flitting from flower to flower, filling their honey sacks. He slowly looked behind him to see if the bear had backtracked---he was alone. Carefully, he watched his every step, making sure he wouldn't step on a twig that would set off an alarm. His Comanche father had taught him well from when he was a young boy many years ago. He could run as fast as any deer and catch it with his bare hands, just for the sport. He'd always set it free. For many years he'd hunted with his father, Running Wolf, but only for food when it was needed, he was taught to respect the wild life, which sustained his tribe, and not kill just for the sake of killing. That was the ways of his tribe.

His foot was in mid-air when something to his left caught his eye. He stood frozen, with only his head moving enough to catch the sight of a startled jackrabbit as it leapt from it's hiding place and silently disappeared through the trees. He had to be more careful; he should have seen that jackrabbit, his aging father would have! Slowly and silently, he lowered his poised foot to the soft ground. Sweat was uncomfortably running down his back under his deerskin vest as he crept onward. He knew he was getting close, but the silence was bothering him. No birds could be seen and that told him something was lurking. He shook off his fear and carried on with determination. If the bear had killed the child, he'd roar in anger with his deep voice, the war cry of his tribe. He'd drop his rifle and charge at the bear and kill it with his bowie knife, skin it and take it's hide and his dead sister back to the Indian village and mourn with the rest of the tribe. The fact that he'd proven his manhood with the kill would be of small solace to him.

He quickly realized he'd worked himself into a tense frenzy and began to breathe slowly. His sister might still be alive. He collected his thoughts and resumed his expert tracking of the bear.

From the shade of the woods, he could see a clearing ahead. Feeling he was in the presence of danger, he cautiously approached. In the middle of the clearing, he saw the bear. It was lying down on its stomach with his sister held between its forepaws. She appeared to be sleeping...or was she dead? He began to choke with dread. Since he was down wind of the bear, he knew it couldn't catch his scent. He'd have to rely on his skill and stealth to get closer to it; he couldn't shoot from where he was without endangering the child. Slowly, he crawled on his belly, rifle in front of him until he was about twenty feet from the bear. He raised his rifle, took careful aim and was about to fire...when he heard that call. The bear heard it too and raised its head, looking directly at him. It didn't move. He fired. The shot echoed throughout the woods and the bear rose to its feet...

"Billy. It's time for lunch. Come quickly and wash up." It was his mother. He ran to the ferocious beast and it licked his face in welcome. He put his arms around his good old companion "Bear" the family's big black Labrador. He propped his toy rifle under his arm, took his four-year old little sister's hand, and the three of them strolled through the apple orchard, down the steps in the rock garden, past the fishpond and across the wide expanse of lawn to the house for lunch. It had been a very busy morning for eight-year-old Billy.

END

Here's some great new writers

The Indian Tracker By J.W.B. Laing

The Iron Ring by J.W.B. Laing

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Bobby R Woodall Author of "Mercer's Manor"

Read more of Bobby R Woodall's work

More excellent work by Bobby R Woodall

My novels can be seen at

http://www.btinternet.com/~mikeco158/onetear1.htm