Chapter 6: Cherokee Bob and the Wreck of the B23 Dragon

1

He was always up ahead, just beyond reach, a faint figure on the move, guiding them through the woods, away from the frozen lake where their plane had crashed nearly a week ago. In his hand was what looked like a skull, but you can’t really tell from this distance. He made his way swiftly and easily through the waist-deep snow, as if floating or swimming, not grinding his way barely, like the three survivors sent ahead in a race against the relentless clock. The three men, none of whom was injured, were best suited to make it to a town and hopefully get help for the other five back at the lake. There was Horn, the lieutenant, and the sergeants, Pru and Borg.

Borg carried the shotgun they’d found, and he and Pru worked in tandem to pick off any random game they might encounter. You could cook and eat a bird with just a small fire, without stopping for long. Stopping for any amount of time was risky. Even in the absence of game, they also had chocolate rations, but not the good kind. This was military grade, thick and hard, meant to be eaten slowly, to get you someplace else. That, along with a will to live, might be enough to survive. People die here all the time, especially in a winter as thick as this one.

They’d walk one step at a time, sometimes having to dig themselves out as they went. Just a routine training flight from Tonopah to McChord. The day after the crash, or maybe the day after that, Horn sent Pru and Borg up the ridge for a look. Maybe they were close to civilization, and you could see it from the ridge. But you couldn’t. All you could see was ridge after ridge after ridge. Rescue teams were out looking for them, that was a given. They’d have to be relentless as the clock. “C’mon, let’s get back down before dark,” said Pru, and they headed off the ridge.

Out here, you can’t plan too far ahead, or you’ll start to realize there’s no way you can possibly make it. One step forward, then dig out, then another step forward, and didn’t we already pass those trees? Just follow the guy with the skull, talking to himself. You wouldn’t normally follow him, no way, that guy’s clearly nuts wandering around the woods in the dead of winter. But what else have we got?

Sudden snow dumps cover your tracks, and in the distance you think you hear a faint banjo. “Must be near Florence!” Borg cries. Saved! The men regroup. “You heard it?” Pru asks. The other men nod their heads. “But which way?”

“That way,” Horn says, drawing a circle around his head. “Everywhere. Nowhere.” Splitting up is not an option. “Just keep your ears peeled, boys.”

“You seen the guy with the skull?” asked Pru. The others shook their heads. Maybe because he was on point, anyway, no big deal if only Pru could see him. They move on.

A man on a horse, just out of earshot, watches. Then he takes off in the direction of Florence, about half a day’s ride from here.

Pru stops for a moment, listens, and turns to look in all directions. The banjo’s gone, and the guy with the skull is further ahead, still visible. “Stick with me, friend,” Pru mutters and keeps going.

2

Time can move slowly, and time can move fast. Sometimes, it does both. The three men kept going through the waist-deep snow. The hike didn’t suddenly become more difficult, it was more of a gradual decline, like growing old or giving up. You don’t just throw up your hands and surrender. You get worn down over time, as time moves quickly or slowly along with you. Pru spotted a red-headed woman in the woods. Borg saw her, too. Horn said nothing, but he felt as if they were being watched. Pru continued to follow the man with the skull talking to himself, even though he was the only one who could see him.

How many days? Weeks? Horn kept track of the details, but he didn’t talk about it. His job was to be above it all and in it at the same time, to keep things in perspective and make the big decisions as needed. Other than that, he was extraneous. Pru and Borg could handle this without him, if it came down to that. But despite their weakened state, they were doing pretty well. They might even make it to the war. Still, he was bothered. Who’d be watching them out here? The enemy was in Europe, not Idaho. Had they snuck in while we weren’t looking? And why would they care about eight men crashed on a lake in the middle of winter?

The man on the horse continued to watch, silently. He didn’t mind being sensed, as long as he wasn’t spotted. He’d make himself known when he wanted to. He wasn’t worried about the margin of error, he defined it. Nor did he care what happened to these three men or the other five, back at the crash site. As long as they steered clear of Florence, they could live or die or keep struggling, one step at a time, through the snow. He waited a while longer, then scooped up Red-Headed Cynth and made off towards home.

3

Cherokee Bob recognizes no outside authority. Florence is his town, and it’s been that way since he busted in, threatening to seize the Boomerang by force, if necessary. The previous owner of the saloon bowed out, not wanting to get shot. And maybe his old partner really did owe Bob all that money. Cherokee Bob shot him anyway, as an example to anyone else who might want to challenge him. Nobody did, at least for a while.

Just to show no hard feelings, the next day was free for all at the Boomerang Saloon. One drink on the house, the rest was up to you. That seemed fair, and even or in spite of all the free drinks, Cherokee Bob made a killing, both literally and figuratively. Still, he wasn’t happy. The way the townspeople treated his companion, Red-Headed Cynth, infuriated him. Paint’s paint, and just because yours isn’t quite as bold doesn’t make you better. He made a mental note of who said what, for payback.

Bodies started piling up quickly, and they were carted off and dumped at the Boot Hill Cemetery. It was called that because the people there died with their boots on, and were buried accordingly. Whether Cherokee Bob planted you there, or you fell to some other outlaw, you knew if you belonged there or not, and you knew that if you got on the wrong side of Cherokee Bob, you’d end up there sooner rather than later. That was Florence. Word on the street was that anything goes, and so it did. Florence was tucked away far from anywhere, and Cherokee Bob intended to keep it that way. When the plane went down on Loon Lake, Bob knew it could only mean unwanted attention. And when you’re Cherokee Bob, it also means you can’t trust anyone, so he’d have to handle the fallout himself. Killing the survivors would draw additional attention, but it was still on the table if need be. For now, he’d keep an eye on the crew and a finger on the trigger.

4

Sound travels in strange ways. Sometimes, you can barely hear what’s right next to you. Other times, a voice or a banjo string, miles and miles away, echos through the canyons and lands inside your head. Or maybe the sound’s made up by your brain trying to trick you into going this way instead of that as you’re lost in the woods in the waist-deep snow. You can’t hear the man in the distance talking to a skull, saying “I knew him, Horatio.” Nor can you hear the men in the long-range reconnaissance patrol, their faces painted green and black to match the jungle foliage. They tiptoe silently through the night, impossible to see or hear, barely breathing, barely moving, inching their way forward as you do, through the snow, seemingly up to your eyes to where you can’t even tell which way you’re going. Yet you step, and stop, and dig your way out, again and again, while a horseman watches to make sure you come no closer to Florence. And you don’t. You’re moving farther away from Florence, and also farther from the wreckage of your B23 Dragon, where the others wait for you.

Unknown to Pru, Borg, and Horn, a bush pilot spotted the rest of the crew, but he can’t land. He’s got the wrong kind of plane. He’ll have to come back the following day, in a plane with skis that can land on the ice. That solves the other five, but what about you three? You’ll have to keep going, and hope your shotgun shells and chocolate bars and everything else working against you somehow balances out in the end.

Cherokee Bob is satisfied. The three airmen are now far enough from Florence they no longer pose a threat. He watches them one last time, then rides off towards his well-insulated world.

At the Boomerang Saloon, the Lone Ranger’s having a shot of whiskey, talking up Red-Headed Cynth, who’s not as faithful a companion as she once seemed.

5

Two weeks and forty miles later, the Lake Fork Ranger Station. Nobody home. But it’s got a telephone line. Now we can make contact with the outside world! Horn placed the call. Pru and Borg fell asleep on the floor. Plans went into motion, and everyone survived, including the guy back at the plane with the broken kneecap. Down in McCall, they let the kids out of school, and the whole town celebrated all day.

The man with the skull, talking to himself, vanished into the woods. Maybe Pru dreamed it all up. No sense mentioning it to Borg or Horn, they’d just say he was crazy.

Crazy or not, you could still hear banjo strings echo through the canyons. Music doesn’t have to be real to keep on living.

Cherokee Bob lay dying on a dirty bed, the doctor trying, not too hard, to save him. The Lone Ranger and Red-Headed Cynth were miles away, headed for a place he once knew called Rupert’s Land, where they don’t care what you’ve done or what color paint you wear. Still, Cynth figured she’d go for more muted tones and a more quiet set of friends this time around.

The moment you think your lights went out, winter ends, and the snow melts. Loon Lake is no longer frozen. The plane’s still there, remarkably intact. And it’s quiet. Nothing but the sound of a banjo string, and a faint voice saying, “I knew him, Horatio.”