The ground was wet with dew, the kind that soaks everything it touches and chilled me to the bone as I reached out to contest its right to my axe handle. It glistened in the light of the sun, already low on the horizon, and clung to the moss covered steps leading down from the simple worker’s cabin I had called home for seven years now. The pines filled the air with a faint, fragrant scent, which quickly disappeared as I approached the stable, much to the vocal joy of its inhabitants; two horses and a knee-high, scruffy mutt that had followed me around ever since I pulled it out of the quick-moving river behind my lot as a pup. His was the only friendly face I expected to see that day, but how could I have been more wrong.

The horses grew more restless as I drew near; they had spotted the loose bundle of feed I carried under one arm and sent up a chorus of whinnies in demand for it. Later that morning I was finishing up the first load; a towering pine with a base as wide as I am tall. The long, hard strokes of my axe had deprived it of its branches. Heavy chains laid over their stumps were attached to the horses, which began straining in their harnesses, pulling the log through the bushes at a steady, arduous pace. My hand was at the bridle, helping them along. The silence of the forest was beautiful, broken only by the heavy breathing of the horses and the crunching of the wet underbrush. I was about to let loose the log and go back for another when I heard a shrill, high scream come echoing down from the butte that I was logging from. It could have been the bleat of a young goat, and indeed I was tempted to leave it at that, but there was something wrong. It was followed by faint shouts, and more, louder screams, drifting down to me with the morning mist. I tied off the horses and grabbed my gun belt instinctively; years in the rough of America had told me guns were useful for talking as much as for shooting. An axe found its way into my hand as my long strides carried me swiftly, softly towards the source of the commotion.

All was silent. Had I lost my way? My head turned on a swivel, searching for any hint of the sounds or people that had drawn me here. Suddenly, a sharp, short scream blasted out of the shrubbery only a few feet up the hill from me! I ducked behind a tree, then crept uphill, poking my head over a shrub to reveal five men, three of them on horses and the other two dismounted, struggling to hold a young lad down as they tied a gag onto him. The kid was dressed nicely, with a tattered cotton shirt half-tucked into torn brown trousers that would have at one time been quite costly. They were adorned with silver buttons and red stripe down the side; probably to mimic a soldier’s uniform. I knew exactly what these men were doing, as they talked about it hurriedly, and with a sense of growing desperation. They needed money. They were kidnappers.

I dearly wanted to jump out, guns blazing, like in some old western novel, but I knew better. I was outnumbered, out gunned. I considered following them, but quickly remembered my horses and slunk back to their aid, rather than the aid of this defenseless child. The dark came with more expediency that night, and brought with it the mood. I tried to read, to eat, to chop wood; anything to keep my mind off of the kid I had just abandoned. I was sick. I was demented. I knew it. I hated it. That evening, sleep evaded me. With every turn over my rough hay mat, I was met with the innocent, pleading face of the child; blindfolded, gagged and at the mercy of men who cared only what money they might be paid to give him back. His screams haunted me, as they were the cries of my own childhood memories, imbedded deep in the spiteful memory of my own father. How could I let this happen? I had become worse than the kidnappers themselves, or so I resolved to convince myself.

That morning I mulled around a bit, did my usual routine. The horses were fed, the small garden to the side of my home tended to. Then, all at once, my hands began to fly at the cupboards, emptying every bit of food into my saddle bags. I felt the familiar, comforting weight of my gun belt on my hip. My horse was saddled, waiting impatiently at the gate, my .308 in its shoulder holster. Ammunition and trail maps of the area found their way onto my table, marked by odd lines and “x” markings, urgently trying to track the location I had visited the night before. The door was latched and the shutters battened, the remaining horse set out to pasture as I rode off on his compatriot. My conscience finally was at ease as I neared the spot where I had seen the kidnappers the night prior. After dismounting, I walked cautiously over the bluff and shrubbery that had hidden me from sight. Though the band was gone, they had made a hasty, careless exit; hoof prints, crushed shrubbery, and broken twigs revealed a path leading to the other side of the bluff. I grinned to myself, gave the dirt a little kick of joy, and returned to my steed.

Their trail was clear and fresh, winding around great pines and massive boulders as it led through an especially thick wood to my north. I followed the hasty damage that was done to the foliage and ground leading away from the site. This was far too easy. After a few hours of hard riding, I started to hear noises only a few yards ahead of me. Reluctant to follow too close, I slowed my pace. The group wandered only a mile further before the sun began to ride low on the horizon.

Sparks sprayed from steel and soon the solemn convoy was resting around a small fire. The lad was tied out of sight, probably to a tree. Only two men were nearby, the others had left to look around. I did the same. We were in hill country; perfect for men who didn’t want to be found but needed to travel quickly. I spotted a rocky outcropping in the distant hills, standing out against the night sky. It was narrow over there. That is where they would die. I smiled in eager expectation of the bloodshed that would ensue, and quietly removed my knife from its belt as I returned to their camp on foot.

Had you been there that night, you would have heard screams. The screams of a dying man, and is companions’ cries of fear over the night sky. When they left in the morning, they were all shaken, and after burying their comrade they made a hasty exit. This wouldn’t do. I was so close, I had to keep on. There were still four of them, and I knew I was still no match. I set my horse loose and followed them on foot, my worn saddlebag slung over one shoulder and my .308 over the other.

The underbrush had thickened; their progress slowed to a creep as the band ahead of me began to chop and swing at the brush with their long knives, blazing a trail of their own. I kept them within sight and moved with caution. The day waned on, and the weather slowly moved to a soft, spring rain. I started to move closer as dark approaches. This was it. I slipped behind one of the horses, carefully drawing my knife and revolver, holding them at ready. Suddenly, I felt a sharp cold pain, then nothing. My knees buckled, and my limp body dropped to the ground amidst the roaring laughter of my foes. The light of the campfire faded out as my labored breathing became more strenuous, my lungs filling with blood. All turned black.