6 Miles With Courage (8 page)

“Judy, if it turns out that—”

“What Bob, if it turns out like what?” She said cutting him off.

“Na—nothing
Judy, well alright then,” he said turning, “goodnight Mrs. Sykes.”

Judy watches him walk away. She smiles as she thinks, thirty two years, and he
still
has not given up.

“Men!” she sa
id, closing the door.

Ryan is not sure what made the cry in the swamp, but he takes comfort in seeing his machete lying next to him. Stirring the fire gives him pleasant thoughts and lets him forget about the alligator and the panther. The sun has set leaving just a slight brush of magenta in the western sky. The rising moon casts an eerie glow and sparkles across the open waters of the Oklawaha River. The frogs call for mates with a ceaseless noise. The day has slipped away.

Who-who
, who-who,
said the Great Horned Owl as the ashes float by a little too close for comfort. Ryan looks up at the beautiful bird and then remembers the camera.

“I wonder,” Ryan said
as he picked up the camera turning it on. He thumbs through the images which appear to be pictures of his dad’s projects. Ryan would hate to erase something important of his father’s. He eliminates twelve blurry pictures. Now he can take twelve pictures of his own. He captures a snapshot of the owl in the firelight. He was zooming and cropping the image on the display screen when he heard the distance shrill of a whistle. He was thinking that it must be a far-off train when he heard it again. Only this time it seemed closer, setting the camera down he stood up.        

He was
gazing off in the direction of the sound when he heard it a third time. It captured his full attention. Ryan strained his eyes in the pale moonlight toward the twinkling river bend to the west.

The bend made a sharp turn to the
left and the river disappeared behind a towering stand of cypress trees. Only the tops were illuminated by the moon. It is beyond these treetops that he first saw it. There was a towering gush of black smoke rising up from the river in a frightful manner.

“What
could that be?” Ryan said with a puzzled look.

Then came an unexpected loud shrill of a whistle sending shivers up Ryan’s spine. It was somehow connected to the monstrous cloud but he had no idea what was about to emerge from around the river bend. Any second it would appear.

He stood frozen with fear as a mechanical pounding and thumping noise began to build and the light of a burning fire lit up the river bend. Whatever was coming around the bend was smoking and on fire. It was whistling and making god-awful noises.

Around the bend and floating across the top of the water came
a
fire breathing dragon!
Well that’s what Ryan first thought anyway. When the whistle blew he saw the white steam telling him it was a steam boat.

“
Wow! Will you look at that?” Ryan said, “I wonder if that’s the one Mom and Dad took on the dinner cruise for their anniversary?” 

It was closing fast on Ryan’s
camp and the details of this replica were astonishing. The black smoke was from a genuine coal burning steam generating boiler. The loud noise came from the piston driven and rear centered paddle wheel. The fires burning above the wheel house and on the sides were pine logs in iron baskets used to light-up the river. No level of detail was spared.

As it approached some of the people became visible. The men in their long coats and top hats and the women in the long frilly dresses were lined up all along the balcony of the tri
-level steamer. Inside the dimly lit interior Ryan could hear a bass drum and a brass band.

The thought of getting their attention crossed Ryan’s mind for only a moment before he let it go. The boat was going the
wrong way!

There was
too much noise for anybody to hear him and no dinner boat—with its many passengers—was going to stop in the middle of nowhere, not for him, not for anybody. The only thing he could do was admire it.

There was a man with a long pole at the bow. He was staring into the water
looking for logs and high tree branches. He was shouting things up to the man standing outside the wheel house and he in turn was shouting things to the man inside the wheel house who was steering the boat. There were men with pails of water by the fires.

As the boat passed directly in front of Ryan’s camp—at a distance of a hundred feet—
it looked enormous like a floating club house. It passed with a loud noise but Ryan could hear every word they were saying as they tried to speak above the pulsating engines. Someone said that they were going to be arriving at a landing not far ahead to let a passenger off. In one window there were people dancing and in another window a person was packing clothes into suit cases getting ready to disembark at the landing. Painted down the side of the boat in large letters was its name, “
The Alligator.”

After the boat passed Ryan watched as the water streamed down the paddlewheel
as it churned up the muddy water. The boat having a hull on each side of the paddlewheel gave Ryan an idea. From a distance each hull looked like a log and the paddlewheel reminded him of the feet of a swimmer, kicking in the water.

“That’s it!” he said, “That’s how I’ll cross the river, with a log under each arm and kicking my feet.”
With the initial excitement of the steam boat now gone he set-out to put his plan into action.

He was so excited he could hardly contain himself. He pranced around the fire looking off into the darkness trying to spot two suitable logs.
After a while he settled down by the fire, and after watching the soothing flames for quite some time, he decided it would be far better and much safer to get them in the morning.

He picked up the backpack to move it aside and felt something pinned to the lining. It was a round metal object.

Peeling the lining back and leaning into the firelight he was surprised at what he saw. It was a St. Christopher medal. The one his grandmother gave to his father for Christmas some
ten years ago
. Ryan forgot about the medal, but he never forgot the story that his grandmother told his father about St. Christopher that Christmas morning as he opened up the little box containing the medal. Ryan unpinned the medal from the backpack, and clutching it tightly, stared into the fire. He let his mind drift back in time. He could hear his grandmother’s voice plain as day.

“Do you like it Rob,” she said
to Ryan’s father.

“Well, yes it’s very nice but you know Judy and I are protestant.”

“Never the less once a catholic always a catholic, and I want you to keep it with you when you travel, it’s the least you can do for your mother,” she said, “pin it inside your coat. You know he is the patron saint of travelers don’t you?”

“Well I do now,” Rob said. She went on with
the story of St. Christopher.

“St. Christopher was a man
of great strength and size who wanted to serve The Lord.”

Ryan stirs the fire and looking out at the moonlit river smiles as the story comes back.
“
Many people had died trying to cross a certain dangerous river. One day a man told St. Christopher that if he wanted to serve The Lord he should help the people across this dangerous river. Robby are you listening to me?”

“Yes mom, I’m listening.” Rob
said. Young Ryan was listening also.

“One day a small child appeared outside
of St. Christopher’s house asking for help across the river. He put the child upon his shoulders and headed across the river. The river became turbulent and the child heavier with each step. He struggled greatly. When they got to the other side of the river St. Christopher told the child that the weight of the whole world could not have felt any heavier upon his shoulders. The child replied, you not only had the weight of the whole world upon your shoulders, you also carried the one who made it for I am Christ your King.” Ryan went back to playing with his presents never to remember the story again until now.

The fire made a loud pop sen
ding a hot ember onto Ryan’s palm leaf blanket. Snapping back to reality he quickly extinguished it with his shoe. Then he pinned the St. Christopher medal back into the lining of the backpack.

“
Who-who, who-who,”
said the Great Horned Owl reminding Ryan that he was still present.

“Ah yes, where was I? That’s right, I was cropping your
picture,” Ryan said as he sat back down on the blanket, and turning the camera on, he went back to fooling with the picture he had taken of the owl. He was proud of it. Suddenly the owl started making noises. He was squawking and chirping, and bobbing up and down.

“Why what’s the matter boy
, is something bothering you?” Ryan looked around scanning the embankment for any sign of life. When Ryan’s eyes came to where he had walked out of the swamp they grew to the size of dinner plates! Standing on the crest of the embankment—in the game trail—were two
identical children!

“What the—”
he said, crouching down on his blanket in disbelieve.

H
e readied his camera before peering up again. He was hoping it was an illusion, that they would be gone. But they were not gone. Their pink faces glowing in the moonlight, identical hair, 2 feet tall maybe twenty pounds. They stood
staring
in his direction, most-likely at his fire. Ryan had an eerie chill run over his entire body.

He
rose up with his camera and snapped a picture. Everything went white as Ryan—staring at the display screen—waited for the picture to arrive and his vision to return to normal.

BAM-BAM!

Before Ryan’s eyes could clear he was pummeled
twice
in the chest. It came from something that leaped at him from
four feet away
—knocking him backwards—he dropped the camera.

He
is stunned.

Speechless, h
e rose to his feet just in time to see one of the children dragging his backpack away and the other one running as they both headed for the trail. Ryan diving for the backpack managed to grab hold of one of the shoulder straps and standing up jerked the pack towards him but the child would
not
let go.

Ar
ound and around Ryan spun in a circle hanging onto one strap as the little pink faced, frizzy haired kid hung on to the other strap screaming like a monkey. That’s when Ryan got a good look at him. He
was
a monkey!

“Why you little—” Ryan said, “I’ll show
you.”

Ryan
swung the pack over his head, intending to slam it and the monkey to the ground but when the pack was high over Ryan’s head the monkey let go. Grabbing a tree branch he repelled from tree to tree—howling as he disappeared into the night.

“Monkeys!—why, where am I?” Panting and out of breath, he laid down on his blanket clutching the backpack. The St. Christopher
medal was safe inside.

“Thank you Mister Owl,” Ryan said
. “Thanks for the warning.”

The monkeys were Rhesus monkeys
. They were brought to Silver Springs in the 1930’s by Colonel Tooey a river boat captain who thought they would enhance the “jungle experience” for Florida tourists. He put them on an island thinking they could not swim away but they were good swimmers. They can swim a half-a-mile if they need to. Soon they formed wild troops along the river. They can be nasty and aggressive as Ryan found out.

After stoking up the fire with logs Ryan
ate some beef jerky and drank water and then he stuffed everything but the camera and the machete back into the pack. Wanting to keep the pack safe he placed it under his head for a pillow. His eyes grew heavy as he watched the flames dance. He somehow managed to get several hours of rest but with the panther out there and the
escapade
with the monkeys; sleep was out of the question. Then the owl started in again with his odd behavior.

He started with just a few chirps at first
, but soon he was at it like before with his squawking and bobbing up and down.

“Easy boy, I get the message,” Ryan said
as he rolled over on his blanket turning the camera on. He slowly put his head up and looked across the embankment towards the trail.

Again, something was standing on the trail barely visible in the moonlight. Ryan quickly snapped a picture
and then hunkered down while he waited for the image. This time the creature scurried away. When the pictured appeared it was a fox with a big bushy tail.

“Whew!” Ryan sighed with relief
, “No monkeys!”

Within the span of a few minutes the owl was at it again, and again Ryan snapped a picture and hunker
ing down he waited for the picture as the creature scurried off. This time it was a Raccoon with two young ones tagging behind. The picture was adorable.

As he lay on his blanket by the fire
Ryan awaited the arrival of his next guest watching for the owl to give him a signal. This
game
was becoming enjoyable for Ryan and it seemed that Mr. Owl was having a good time as well.

It wasn’t five minutes and Mr. Owl signaled again
. Ryan snapped a picture—it bolted—but the nocturnal creature that appeared on the camera screen took him by surprise. It was a coyote the size of a German Sheppard and it had a dark coat of fur. It reminded him more of a wolf but he was not looking at the fire or even in Ryan’s direction. He was gazing down the trail of ribbons where Ryan had emerged from the swamp. Looking at the picture on the screen—far off in the distance—Ryan noticed a pinpoint of light. Using the digital zoom function he zoomed up on the image. It was
two
points of light. They were eyes!

“Wow, caught a deer or something in the distance,” he said reassuring himself.

Fifteen minutes had gone by and Ryan was beginning to think that the action had settled down for the night when the owl started chipping. Ryan readied the camera yet again. A silhouette appeared in the moonlight and it was fairly tall. Ryan snapped a picture—it ran away—it was a deer but like the coyote it too was looking down the path from where Ryan had come. And now the pinpoint of light had become two points of light and they were closer. Ryan lowered the camera; he had to face the possibilities.

“Well, it could be just a deer or a harmless animal,” he said as he nervously adjusted his bloody bandages. “Let me see,” he said looking around, “which way is the wind blowing.” He felt the wind at his back coming off the river and blowing directly down into the swamp from where he came.

“Da
rn it!” he knew it was time to take a few precautions just in case it was the panther. If it is he had a fight coming, and it was coming
tonight.

He repositioned his body so that his legs were facing the swamp. He dug through the backpack to find the spear point and holding it in his hand he
thought how he could use it as a knife. He set it down next to him and with the machete at his side and the pack under his head for a pillow he faced the crest of the embankment, the game trail, and the swamp. The roaring fire and the river were behind him. He readied his camera and waited for Mr. Owl to give him the signal. The eyes in the swamp had to be quite some distance away so he fully expected the next appearance of an animal to come from the game trail. It did not disappoint him.

The owl did his chatter as a shuffling sound c
ame down the trail. It emerged into the moonlight. Ryan held off on taking a picture. He could tell by the way it hobbled it was an otter. Ryan began to think.
Maybe, just maybe if he stays there long enough he could be a meal for the panther.
So he waited as the minutes passed slowly by. The otter stood just out of reach of the firelight but he was silhouetted nicely in the moonlight. He stood on the game trail just inside the crest of the embankment a perfect spot for the panther to pounce when he arose from the swamp. Perhaps he would think the otter was the source of the blood scent. Ryan anxiously waited.

Then without warning the otter bolted down the path squalling—something h
ad startled it. The owl made a racket like never before and he flew away leaving Ryan all alone with nothing but the crackling of the fire behind him.

Then silently an ominous shadow
arose out of the swamp. Ryan held his breath as it crested the embankment, took a few steps, and then laid itself down on the game path. Ryan’s heart was pounding in his ears. He could hear nothing else. The big cat’s tail twitched back and forth in the moonlight as he sized up the situation. He had tracked this bleeding animal for a long way. He was hungry. It was time to pounce but he did not want to let his prey get away. It had to be just right. Ryan was panting in short breaths. The panther growled softly like a tiger.

“Come on! Come and get it!” Ryan said as he held out his machete waiting to impale the pouncing cat.
It moved with a low silent crawl across the embankment as if Ryan could not see it. It stopped ten feet from Ryan. The firelight was reflecting in its yellow eyes, his fangs glistened from an open mouth. The panther tucked his head between his front paws as it raised its hind quarters high in the air. His ears went back; the tail went high and straight with only the last few inches twitching—any second now.

“What are you waiting for?” Ryan said holding the machete with both hands.

The big cat pounced high into the air with both front paws splayed wide open. Ryan held the machete firmly pointing it at its chest. Ryan could not close his eyes. He had to make sure the machete found its mark. The big cat falling from above with his mouth open turned his head sideways to grab Ryan by the neck.

Then suddenly
, before the cat could impale himself there was a blinding flash of red hair and paws which swept across Ryan’s vision from the left. It barreled into the panther’s side and grabbing the panther by the neck—this seventy pound Irish setter and the panther came crashing down ten feet to Ryan’s right. They landed in a snarling ball of paws, claws, teeth and fangs. The sound of the fight curled Ryan’s blood as he lay motionless propped up on his elbows in total bewilderment.

After the initial tangle they split up and stayed slightly apart, pacing back and forth, eyeing each other. That’s when Ryan got a good look at both of these magnificent creatures. The setter
—being a perfect specimen had the posture of a fearless wolf. The panther—at twice the Irish setter’s weight—was not going to be denied his prey. He was bleeding from the neck and trying to walk around this temporary hindrance, but the setter kept cutting him off. The panther having enough of this nonsense reared up on his hind legs and made a quick lunge at the setter but the setter side stepped him and plowed into the panther again! 

It was another tangled ball of paws and claws but this time the setter’s collar was ripped off and it landed at Ryan’s feet where he quickly swept it up
with one hand and with the other hand pointed the machete at the fight.

They broke apart a second time. The
panther was bleeding more profusely now and looked somewhat stunned as he stopped pacing and lay down. The setter stayed up on all fours with his head hung low baring his teeth and growling. If he was wounded at all it did not show through his heavy red coat. Then the panther rolled over on his back trying to bait the Irish-setter into coming in for an attack. If the hound was stupid enough to fall for this trick the panther would have grabbed him with his front paws and then ripped open his belly with the rear paws—the fight would have been over—the panther would have won.

But the big birddog was smarter than th
at. This was obviously not his first cat fight, and he maintained his distance. Stunned, out of options and reeling from his wounds, the big cat rolled over and with his head hung low walked over the crest of the embankment. The growling hound followed closely behind. After a long defiant snarl the panther turned and vanished into the swamp. The setter followed to the edge of the embankment and stood guard in case he should return. Ryan started breathing again. The panther would have to find his meal elsewhere. The Irish-setter had won the fight.

Within a few moments the setter
with his hind quarters facing Ryan laid down to guard the edge of the swamp. The owl returned to his place in the tree above the fire. Ryan’s breathing returned to normal and releasing the tight grip he had on the machete, collapsed in a heap on the blanket of palm fronds.

Ryan studied the dog’s collar
in the light of the fire. It was leather with a rusty metal tag. On the tag a name had been hammered in by a nail, “RED,” shaped with dots. Underneath the name were the letters and numbers, “QU-5-1212.”

“Must be some kind of
a hunt club,” Ryan said.

Ryan decided to call to the hound.

“Red, hey boy, how are you doing?”

Red turned his head slightly around and wagged his tail but he did not leave his post.
Ryan tried again, “Red, hey boy, come here boy.” This time he turned his head and growled like he did not want to be disturbed. Not wanting the dog to leave, Ryan left him alone.

Ryan put the leather collar and spear point in
to the pack and then puffed it up for a pillow. He lay down facing the fire and looking up he saw the owl. Looking over his shoulder he saw Red keeping guard. He wasn’t feeling so much alone.