Mobs were sadly not an unusual sight in Bois D’Arc Run. It was an old hideaway for smugglers, river pirates, highway men, and murderers. This mob however, was after an unusual person even for Bois D’Arc Run. They were after Gerald “The Knife” Hatchers boy, who was only twelve.
Shotguns, squirrel rifles, and torches were clutched by the drunk mob. Charlie Hatcher watched them come, body tense with apprehension. He’d known his father was a bad man, and his father had never tried to hide it. Gerald was a decent father, rarely drunk, hardly beat the boy, and had always kept the house, or rather shack, in decent shape.
However, Gerald was nothing if not a realist, and knowing that one day he might well get killed, he had long instilled in Charlie a sense of self reliance. Charlie had been in charge of food gathering since he was old enough to kill snakes with a walking stick. He could trap game, and set trot lines with the best of the old-timers.
Gerald wasn’t much of a shot, but he taught Charlie how to shoot, load, and clean the old double barreled shotgun as best he could. He also taught him how to write and read, roughly that is.
Now, as Charlie watched the torches come through the undergrowth along the path, he heard his fathers words.
“Boy, ain’t nothin’ in here worth dyin’ over, ‘cept you I reckon. I’m gonna level with ya though, day may come when I don’ be comin’ home no mo’. Iffin dey’s comes a posse or a mob, you jus’ be moobin’ alon’ fo’ dey come getcha, ya hear?”
Eight year old Charlie simply nodded his head solemnly.
“Da’s a good boy now. Time you got ta movin’ boy. Jacob’s island is where I’m be headed now, iffin I isn’t der in tree o’ fo’ day, I ain’t acomin, so you do best you see fit.”
With those words ringing in his head, Charlie quickly gathered what little he would need. Into a small square of cloth went the biscuits from this morning, along with a few other odd and ends of vittles. Tying the corners of the cloth, he set that to the side of the table.
Next he gathered up two thin blankets, a hank of rope, flint and steel, another shirt, and broad brimmed hat that Gerald had worn for a while. Into his pocket went a Barlow knife, and a loose piece of flint rock; on his belt hung a large hunting knife. The blankets, shirt, and food all went inside an old canvas bag, which Charlie tossed over his shoulder. He looked for a moment at the old shotgun, before deciding it was too much to take. He had no interest in a fight, and had plenty of other food gathering techniques available.
He slipped out the door, and went down to the edge of the Run. He loaded up the little canoe with his bag, when he remembered his bow. He could hear the mob now, it was only around the next bend in the path. Quickly he ran back to the cabin, racing against time and a mob.
He made it to the door, reached in, and was yanked by the wrist into the room. A man, sweaty and drunk stood there, pistol in hand swaying a little.
“I gotcha. Gonna put an end to you Hatchers,” he slurred.
His hammer fell on the cap, but nothing happened. He looked dumbly at the gun, while instinct kicked in for Charlie. He was fortunate that he’d been born sinister, as Gerald would say. The drunk man assumed since he had Charlies right hand, the boy would be clumsy. It was not his first mistake that night, nor would it be his last.
Charlie’s hand flashed to his belt, where the heavy, razor sharp hunting knife hung in its sheath. A quick slash and the drunken man had a wicked cut across his midsection. Howling with pain, he let go of Charlie’s wrist and recocked the pistol. Charlie knocked it aside as the hammer fell, this time igniting the cap and firing the gun. Charlie sank the blade deep into the man’s throat, twisting it to cause more damage.
The man fell to the ground gurgling. Shouts from outside told Charlie that he had waited too long before leaving, prompting him to grab both the bow with its quiver, and the shotgun with its things.
“He’s got a boat loaded!” Shouted a voice from the Run.
Charlie wasted no time thinking about his next move. He dropped the shotguns powder bag, and shot bag. Cocking the hammers, he fired as he moved toward the east side of the trail. Both barrels empty, he tossed the gun into the brush, and took off at a run.
The east side of the trail was the more dangerous. There were sudden water holes large enough for the shack to disappear into, but those weren’t the ones that worried Charlie; the more frequent, smaller ones that were just right for a man to step into and break a leg or ankle were the ones that worried him.
He crouched behind some swamp grass, watching the men mill about the small clearing he had called home. There was much swearing and shouting before the men threw several torches at the shack.
“No!” Charlie shouted involuntarily.
Instantly, the mob turned and rushed heedlessly into the swamp, intent only on the boy. Like a swamp rabbit, Charlie was up and gone instantly, running in zig zags. Shots filled the swamp, none coming close to Charlie, either because the shooters were poor shots anyways, or because they were too drunk to be effective.
Charlie smiled a little as several screams sounded. The smile went away when his foot suddenly stuck in the thick mud. He cursed himself for not thinking about where he was going. He’d wound up at the bank of the Coozey before he realized it.
The Coozey was a slow, sluggish expanse of water, forty feet across, and three to seven feet deep. The running water wasn’t the dangerous place; rather it was the marsh surrounding that was bad. Filled with cotton mouths and deep, sticky mud, it wasn’t a place one went on purpose.
He listened to the mob, maybe a minute behind him, and reconsidered his situation. The only thing he could quickly come up with was to scamper up a nearby cypress.
He settled on a branch ten feet up seconds before the men started to straggle in. Charlie counted as they showed up, he was pretty sure that he counted twenty six, but he could have been wrong. They began to fan out in two’s and three’s.
Soon only two where left by the tree. Charlie considered shooting them with the bow, and had almost decided against it, when one of them walked off with the torch.
The shot was no great feat, maybe twenty feet. It was a shot Charlie had used to take many deer over the years, and it proved again to be successful. The arrow went through the man’s temple, killing him instantly.
Charlie left the body as bait for the man’s friend. It only sort of worked the second time. This time the arrow went through the man’s throat, silencing him, but he was still moving. He turned to run toward the nearest torch when a second and third arrow thudded into his back.
Charlie dropped from the tree, and pulled out his knife. Hovering over the man, Charlie pulled on the man’s hair, raising his head and exposing his throat. A quick slash ended the man.
Charlie removed the two arrows from his back, the one in his throat being broken and useless. Charlie also found the man’s pistol, and a knife, both of which he took. The other dead man had an old flintlock musket, which Charlie left.
Satisfied that he had created a small window for himself, Charlie headed back to the west. Once he was about a hundred yards in, he turned northwest, intent to cut across the trail out of sight of the shack.
As he went along, he realized he was tired. It had been a long day already, and the nights activities compounded his problem. If he could make it to the Run and his canoe, then he would be home free. He could hide forever along the river, and knew all the edible plants and animals.
He returned to the present as he reached sight of the road. To his dismay, the sky was beginning to lighten. With the fading of night, his chances of escaping also faded. He was however hopeful that he coming of day would drive the mob to leave for home, having spent a fruitless night in the swamp.
Hunger gnawed at him, as he hadn’t eaten in a day or two, the biscuits having been uneaten due to an early start on the day before they were ready. Looking about, several options presented themselves: there were still some late berries, a few sprigs of wild onion. Licking his lips he realized that his most immediate problem was in fact, water.
Casting about, he found what he was looking for: a nice large vine. Pulling out his Barlow knife, he laid the vine open, and greedily drank from it. So engrossed was he in satisfying his thirst, that he didn’t notice the footsteps behind him.
“We’, we’, wou’ you look at dat, hmm? Som’body done gone an’ fo’got ta keep a look out fo’ hisself. Mmm, dat’s a real shame der.” Said a voice.
Without even thinking about it, Charlie pulled his pistol and fired, missing both of the men.
“Pu’ dow’ da gun son. I’d hate to spial a good ol’ hangin’ by havin’ ‘a shoo’choo’all.” Said the fat man, who had a long barreled musket pointed at Charlie.
Charlie looked at the two, the fat man was obviously from town, but the other wore the typical clothes of a swamp rat like himself.
“Wha’s yor quarrel wit’ me mista?” Charlie asked, indicating the swamp rat.
“Nuttin’ again’ you youngin’. I’m jus’ tryin’ a feed my fam’ly.” He replied.
“I’m callin’ on my right ta fight this here big man fo’ he takes me in, if you ain’ gonn’ intrafeer.” Charlie replied.
“You ain’ got no worries from me. Fact is, after seein’ what’ you’s done las’ night, I was figurin’ ta head fo’ home. You mo’ man than these here been, to good ta make no money on,” he replied.
“A’righ’ den big man, knives.” Charlie said.
The man looked to be in bad shape, from a night of drunken stumbling in the nicer area of the Run. On the other hand, Charlie was dog tired, hungry, and still thirsty.
The two combatants stepped out into the road, as the mob began to show up. It was an odd assortment that showed up. There appeared to be a total of six dead from the night, and another handful that were limping or being supported. Those that were okay mostly seemed to be swamp people, who had come along likely for the same reason that the other man had said, money was scarce, and they were just trying to help feed families.
Charlie didn’t blame them, nor was he mad, as it was no different than what Gerald had done Charlie’s whole life. Several drew their weapons as they saw Charlie, but were stopped when they were informed of the duel that had been declared.
A ring was formed in the road, and Charlie and the big man began to circle one another. The man was large, mostly fat. He was five foot eight, and an easy two forty. His arms were thick though, and Charlie didn’t underestimate him.
Charlie however was underestimated by the big man. What he saw was a scrawny boy, maybe five feet tall wearing what looked like cast off clothing. What he couldn’t see was the seasoning the boy had from years of living hard and free. His endurance was unseeable, as were the hard, lithe muscles hidden by his oversized shirt.
The big man had borrowed another knife, now holding two. He tried to close the gap on Charlie, who merely rolled away. This greatly amused the swamp folk, who cheered Charlie on.
Angrily the big man charged again, this time stopping just short of Charlie, who went into a crouch. The man lashed out with a foot, and Charlie rolled into the big man’s other leg, knocking him down.
Charlie leapt at the man’s throat, but was thrown like a rag doll. Again the two arose and circled. The big man feinted a charge and when Charlie rolled away, the big man threw one of the knives, hitting Charlie in the shoulder with the butt end. While it didn’t do any permanent damage, Charlie lost his left arm for a moment.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, the big man rushed in, knife flailing before him. While he didn’t land any blows, he caused Charlie to retreat and trip over. In an overly ambitious attempt to end the fight, the big man leapt forward. He was met by a handful of dirt to the eyes. He stumbled backward, momentarily blinded, and Charlie struck.
First Charlie struck the wrist of the knife holding hand, causing the big man to open his hand and drop the knife. Next was a swipe at the man’s throat, instead cutting a wicked gash across the man’s forehead, causing blood to pour over his eyes.
A wild punch sent Charlie flying, but he got back up, and went back. Wary of the flying fists, Charlie rolled behind the man, and hamstrung him, as the man fell, he tilted his head backwards in a scream that never came out. It was precisely what Charlie had hoped would happen, and gave him the opportunity that he sought.
The big man’s body hit the ground with a thud.
“We’, no’ what?” asked Charlie to the men around him.
“I tink we’s all goin’ back home. you’s too good a man to make no money from,” said the swamp folk apparent spokesperson.
“Now hol’ on a minut’! Y’all’s supposed to be heppin’ us take him in fo’ a hangin’,” protested one of the better dressed men.
The swamp men lifted their rifles and shotguns, and the townsmen realized that they were not on the winning end of the fight.
“Young ‘un, as victo’ of the duel, de spoils o’ war is yo’s. I present choo wit ‘is knife, and gun belt, along wit his pistol, a new Colt gun,” said a man, holding out a belt to Charlie.
Charlie took it, pulled the pistol out and inspected it. It was a fine looking gun, shiny and new. He nodded his head, and tossed the belt over his shoulders, as it was far too big for his skinny frame.
He walked over to the brush near the still smoldering shack, and fished his shotgun out from the brush. He walked down to the Run, and saw his little canoe, still as he had left it.
“Iffin y’all ebber needs me, I’ll be ta Jacob’s Island,” Charlie called over his shoulder to the swamp folk.
**************
The old man left out of the bar, wearing ragged old pants, a shirt that was to large, a rough leather vest, and a tattered wide brimmed hat. Behind him was a cursing young fool who sported two new cuts to his cheeks.
“Who is that man?” asked a patron in a broadcloth suit, sipping on the free round that everyone had just received thanks to the old man.
The bartender saw the look in the young patron’s eyes, envy, fear, and greed.
“Look here, stranger. That’s Charlie Hatcher, best you forget whatever you had in mind,” he replied.
The man in the suit and the one who had just been cut both turned slightly paler. Everybody knew you didn’t mess with Charlie Hatcher, the problem was nobody knew what he looked like.
Hatcher
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