Meleah's Western - Part 22

Good Morning Friday Fiction Fans,
That's right, today you get the next part of the Western! I don't know what was wrong with everybody, but they didn't want to do anything. I think they were just so overwhelmed with all that had just taken place that they couldn't think well. Whatever the reason, I had trouble getting this written. Maybe it was just me. I hadn't written for a while, so perhaps my brain was clogged.:) (Writers can come up with all kinds of excuses.:))

This week has gone by quickly, as usual. I have written every night except last night because I had class. I didn't get the story I was trying to get done finished, but I did get the first part of another one done. But that is for next week.

I have also been getting ready for American Government Camp. :) It should be lots and lots of fun and hard work.:) I will have a post up next Friday even though I will be in the midst of AGC. I can get it ready to post on Wednesday (before we leave for training) and set the time so it will post on Friday morning.:)

But enough of that. Here is Meleah's Western Part 22! Enjoy! Oh, and remember, boys in WI, you can comment, too.:)

Part 22

No one talked as the three travelers ate their evening meal. Ty and Sally kept watching their visitor, wondering where he had come from, who he was and what he was doing. Neither could eat much though they at least pretended to, more for the sake of the other than for themselves. The food seemed to stick in their throats, and it was only with effort than they managed to swallow any of it. It was a relief when at last the repast was ended.
The Indian lit his pipe and stared into the darkness. Ty built the fire up to a pleasant blaze. Then settling down beside his sister, he began to talk.
“My name’s Ty an’ this is Sally. Who’re you?”
“Black Eagle.”
“What’re ya doin’ out here?”
“Hunting grounds this. Hurt leg,” the Indian grunted while nodding towards his right leg and continued. “See strange fire. White squaw welcome Black Eagle.”
For several minutes the Indian smoked in peace before asking, “What white man and squaw do here?”
Briefly Ty recounted their adventures ending with Carson’s death in the river. “An’ now we aim ta keep headin’ north ta Fort Larramie. Can ya tell us how ta git ‘round the river?”
The Indian grunted. “When sun come, me show.”
Ty expressed his gratitude, but Sally pulled at his sleeve.
“Ty,” she spoke low, “I can’t ride tomorrow. My horse is injured.”
“Bad?”
She shook her head. “No, but she was limpin’ ‘fore we stopped, an’ I found her right foreleg cut.”
“She might be better in the mornin’.”
No further words were spoken as the darkness deepened about them. The cry of an owl in the woods was heard and in the stillness distant sounds were amplified. The heavens were bright with stars. Gazing up at them, Sally yawned. The day had been long and full of heartache and sorrow.
“Why don’t ya get some sleep,” Ty asked her, touching her arm gently.
She nodded and in a few minutes was rolled up in her blanket. Clutching her locket with its precious picture, she fell asleep trying hard not to think of Carson.

The night, passing quickly for Sally whose overwrought nerves demanded rest, dragged by with slow, weary feet for Ty. Their Indian guest, after sitting silent for some time, also rolled himself in a blanket and slept. Into the flickering light of the dying flames Ty gazed, not seeing anything, lost in memories, struggling to accept Carson’s death. If this trip was to cost so dearly at the outset, what would the final cost be? Would it be worth everything?
All through that long, lonely night Ty wrestled with himself and with the questions that had no answers. Questions that kept returning to haunt him and which only brought more questions.

As the grey dawn began to steal across the sky, Ty stood to stretch his cramped and weary legs and built up the fire. As he did so, both the Indian and Sally awakened.
“I reckon I’ll be goin’ huntin’,” Ty spoke to no one in particular.
“No,” the quiet voice of Black Eagle interrupted any words Sally might have said. “White man sleep now. Black Eagle hunt.”
Ty shook his head. “Can’t sleep.”
“Did you sleep at all last night, Ty?” Sally questioned somewhat anxiously.
He shook his head.
“Then do try ta sleep now,” she begged.
Again Ty shook his head. “Can’t,” and he turned to the Indian.
But he was not to be seen. No trace that he had been there but moments before were visible.
“Black Eagle?” Ty called, his voice sounding harsh and out of place in the quiet morning air. No answer came back and the brother and sister looked at each other.
“Ya reckon there were an Indian here for real, Sally?”
“I think so,” Sally sounded a little uncertain. “We couldn’t both be dreamin’ the same thing, could we?”
Ty sighed deeply and sank down beside the warm fire. The air was chilly and he felt cold clear through. Right then he wouldn’t have cared if a tribe of Indians had been there and then vanished.
“Ty,” Sally coaxed, “please lie down an’ rest some. I can’t be havin’ ya get sick like--” The loss of her father was still keenly felt and she left her sentence unfinished.
Ty reached up and pulled her down beside him. “I ain’t goin’ ta git sick, Sissy.” It was a rare thing for that endearing childhood name to pass Ty’s lips and Sally gave a quavering smile. “I reckon I might jest take a bit of a rest if’n ya don’t mind the quiet.” He smiled wearily.
“Mind the quiet? I’ve been livin’ in quiet for ‘round two years with Pa off trappin’ or huntin and ya off with . . . oh, Ty!” and the sentence ended in a sob.
Gently Ty put an arm about his sister. “Now, ya jest git some more rest. I reckon ya need it ‘fore we travel on.”
Sally pulled away from him. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she swallowed hard. “I’ll rest only if’n ya will too.”
“All right,” Ty yawned. He knew it was useless to try to argue, and in a few minutes he was sleeping soundly.
For several minutes Sally sat gazing about her in the half light of early morning. Everything was shrouded in stillness save for the soft chirpings of a few birds. Even the horses tethered nearby seemed to be enjoying their rest. Sally wondered where the Indian had gone and if he would return. Had his presence been a dream? She shook her head. No, he was real. And he had been there. Where he had gone and how were mysteries which might remain forever unsolved.
A gentle snore issued from the blanket in which Ty had rolled himself. Sally yawned. Then, feeling tired, she lay back down near her brother and was soon, like him, asleep.

Any questions to spur me on?

Alan's Farewell

Good Morning FFFs,
I'll have to hurry since I'm running late and will want to go eat breakfast soon. The answer to last weeks "Who Am I?" was TIME! Good job, Abigail and EMC.:)

This week was very full. My aunt (Dad's youngest sister) and her fiancee came down from PA for a visit. They arrived Sunday evening and didn't leave until yesterday morning. So, I didn't get any writing done at all! We did get a new front porch roof built.:) So, I was thinking of what to post this morning, and I decided that I'd just post the story I sent in to the writing class contest. I don't think it will win, but you can read it anyway. This is the 7th version. The first was in my book which most of you have read. What do you think of this version?

Alan’s Farewell
Rebekah Morris

The evening sun was nearing the horizon as Alan McLean, attired in his Scottish garb with kilt, bray and sporran, climbed the hill to the cliffs overlooking the sea. His face wore a look of pain as he stopped near the edge and gazed about. It was harder than he thought it would be, this saying good-bye. Softly he began playing his much loved bagpipes which he carried over his shoulder. The notes wandered here and there as though unsure of how to find expression, growing louder with each moment, full of an unspoken yearning as they settled into “Amazing Grace” and filled the still air.
As he played the familiar tune, Alan’s thoughts drifted back over the years. Leaving Scotland and settling here in Nova Scotia, Canada had been difficult, but the family had been together. Now he would be leaving for war, alone. Already Britain, France, Canada and others were fighting the German nation. And it all started, he recalled, with an archduke being killed. Part of Alan longed to stay at home fishing with his father and brother, but he knew the very freedoms they enjoyed were being threatened. That was why he had signed up to fight.
He continued playing as he gazed out over the waters which reflected the sun’s evening glories. The sudden realization that tonight was his last night to stand here caused him to pause in the midst of the song and then begin a new one. As the haunting melody of “Auld Lang Syne” floated out over the water, the cliff, the trees, Alan tried to fix the image of the place in his mind. It had grown so dear to him. Pouring his very soul into every note, they swirled and dipped around him revealing the pain in his heart.
Tomorrow all this would be beyond his sight. He dared not turn and look down the hill where the McLean home stood. The very thought of not seeing his brother, not feeling the kisses of his mother nor the handclasps of his father brought the tears to his eyes. Would he have the courage to say good-bye?
His heart felt like lead and the notes from his pipes began to falter and break. Choking back the sob that rose in his throat, Alan tried to continue playing, but somehow the notes, which usually came so readily, refused to come. His shoulders began to shake and the tears to stream down his cheeks.
“Och, my hame! My faither an’ maither, I cannae leave ye! My hert isna at war--!” Sobs shook his tall form, and he covered his face with his hand.
All at once, the sounds of another piper continuing the broken song floated to his ears. Alan swallowed hard. He knew who it was but didn’t turn to welcome his father as he approached the cliff. Closing his eyes momentarily, Alan drew a long shaky breath and glanced beside him. Nothing was lacking in his father’s attire as a proud Scotsman.
The very sight seemed to inspire Alan, for he began once more to play. Though he began softly, he couldn’t remain so, and soon the two pipers were sending the remainder of the song out on the wings of the evening breeze.
Then Mr. McLean spoke. “Aye lad,” his strong voice was clear as he placed a hard, rough hand on his eldest son’s shoulder. “We’ll ne’er be foregettin’ ye. Donnae ye ken that?” Scanning the young face before him, he saw the traces of tears and rightly guessed the cause.
Alan replied in a voice not quite steady, “Aye.”
“Then donnae break yer mither’s hert with sic dreeful songs,” Mr. McLean chided gently. “Her een are upon ye frae oor hame, an’ it’s sair her hert will be if ye’re gang far to war wi’ out singin’ oor favorite hymn. Be ye able to sing?”
There was a moment of silence. Alan gazed out over the waters. Straightening his shoulders he looked his father in the face. “Aye, wi’ David I am.” The words were clear and steady.
Turning to gaze resolutely towards the McLean home, he watched his mother and brother climbing the hill towards him and burst into a lively march on his pipes. The sun was a flaming ball of fire, casting a golden light to tinge the purple and pink clouds. In the east, one or two stars were bravely peeking out of the dusky sky.
All was hushed now. Even the pounding waves seemed subdued. In the expanse above, an eagle hung motionless, waiting. After kissing his mother, Alan gripped his brother’s hand, looking deeply into his eyes. David gazed back and a smile of brotherly love flashed between them. Mr. McLean had begun the melody. Full and touching floated the skirl of the pipes, only hushing its strength when Alan’s rich tenor and David’s perfect harmony began, blended as never before.

“I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aften whiles,
For the longed-for hame-bringin’, an’ my Faither’s welcome smiles.
An’ I’ll ne’er be fu’ content, until my een do see
The Gowden gates o’ heav’n an’ my ain country.”

As verse followed verse, the sun sank lower until the McLean family was left silhouetted against the glowing clouds of the western sky. There they remained until the last echoes of the hauntingly sweet notes had died away to be remembered in their hearts in the years to come.
A thrill ran through Alan’s frame, and he gazed at his father. Whatever this war held for him, or for these dear ones waiting at home, they would be united again. If not here on earth, than in “oor ain countrie.” This was not a last farewell. One day they would be together again.
“Aye,” Alan spoke aloud as his mother slipped her hand through his arm, “though mony years may pass before we see one another, someday we’ll a’ be in a countrie whaur we’ll ne’re part nae mair!”

I'll find out the winners on Nov. 4th.

What Am I?

Good Morning Friday Fiction Fans,
Thanks for commenting last week, Abigail. I know so many people are busy or don't remember it.:) I suppose if no one remembers it, I can post anything and no one would care. Hmmm, does that mean I can just forget about Meleah's western or just kill everyone off? I doubt the last will happen, at least at present.:) But I'm still waiting for that Indian to talk. He has been awfully quiet. Not that Ty or Sally have done any better.:}

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I wrote in the evenings. I didn't get lots done, but some. One of the evenings I just had a thought for a new story, so what did I do, but start writing it. Of course it is another long story. (Not a book. At least I don't think so, but longer than a few thousand words.) Now I have six longer, unfinished stories on NEO. I have started making myself write at least one sentence in each story every time I write. It is forcing me to get past my "writer's block" in some of them. I said that if I ever get any of them finished, they will last me for a few weeks on my blog.:)

In case you are wondering (only those who read the last post might be), I did get my story for the contest finished and sent in. It was the seventh version that got sent. I have no clue what will happen. I don't think it will win anything. Is anyone interested in reading it? Let me know if you are and I'll post it some time. For now, I have a poem for you. This has a question for you to answer, so please answer it if you can.:)

What Am I?
by
Rebekah Morris

I have no wings, but I can fly,
Just close your eyes and I’ll slip by.
I use no fuel and eat no food,
I’m never late for that would be rude.
I never sleep yet am not awake,
And I’m sorry, you can’t toss me in the lake.
For love or money I can’t be bought,
Though more of me many have sought.
I race and I creep, I’m slow and I’m fast,
But I’m always the same as I’ve been in the past.
I’m certain to continue as when I began,
For though I am young, I’m older than man.
I’m tossed aside by the careless, looked down on with contempt,
Yet from my relentlessness no one is exempt.
I have no fear of danger,
To love I am a stranger,
You’ll use me every day until you die,
So tell me please, what am I?

Leave the answer in a comment.:)

Mary was a Little Lamb

No, Friday Fiction Fans, (If you are still around:)) this is not another poem about a lamb.:) This was my assignment for my online writing class which got read aloud to over 1,000 people.:0
I know, I'm still rather shocked that it happened. I did do the changes suggested by Mrs. Morecraft, so it sounds better. But still--!

I have been writing, some, but everything has been part of a longer thing and I'm having trouble getting my brain to work. Maybe it is the contest in the writing class that is causing the trouble.:} But tell me, how do you write a short story that is only 1,000 words long? I can do a children's story, but an older one? Hmm. Right now I'm trying to revise one of the scenes from my book. But I've read it so many times that I don't know if it sounds good anymore. *sigh*

I don't have much time now as I have other things I have to get done. What do YOU think of this story? It was based on a picture of Mrs. Morecraft's grand-daughter. Sorry, I can't show you the picture.

Mary was a Little Lamb
Rebekah Morris

Jane was lonely. This was the third day she had spent at Grandma and Grandpa’s, and now she was by herself. Grandpa was working on something in his study, and Grandma and Aunt Mercy were busy with some writing class that was coming up. Poor little Jane. Though she was only four, she had kept a smile on her face until she was outside. Now, however, her chin quivered and her lips trembled. Her big, bright blue eyes filled with tears. What could she do now that no one could play with her?
For several minutes she sat and cried softly. Not only was she lonely, she missed her Mommy and Daddy who had gone on a trip. If only she had someone or something to play with. Her sad thoughts were interrupted by a bleat.
Shaking back the mass of red curls which fell about her tearstained face and clustered on her neck, Jane wiped away the tears and looked up. The nearby rail fence was before her, but it was the ebony creature lying down, silhouetted against the lush summer grass growing behind the fence which caught her eye.
Skipping over to the fence Jane peered between the rails. Another bleat came from the black form and it stood up on wobbly legs. Jane gave an involuntary giggle, and the lamb, for so it was, turned to look at her. For several moments the young creatures gazed at each other in the bright sunshine while above their heads in the azure sky, small cream puffs of clouds danced and skipped in the breeze as though inviting the pair below to join them.
The lamb seemed to accept the invitation for it gave a little skip on its slender legs. Jane giggled. The lamb came closer making friendly little noises. In an instant Jane had climbed the rough rail fence and stood looking at the lamb. A smile wreathed her tearstained face. Here was a friend who could play with her! This lamb didn’t need to study or write and it certainly didn’t need to go on any trips. Reaching out a gentle hand, Jane stroked the wooly head. The lamb on its part nuzzled Jane’s skirt.
“Okay, little lamb,” Jane told it, “let’s play tag.” With a laugh Jane turned and danced away calling over her shoulder, “You’re it.”
Joyfully the lamb frolicked after Jane and butted her softly.
“Now I’m it! You have to run!”
And so the game continued, sometimes Jane chasing the lamb but more often than not, the lamb following Jane. At last both were worn out, and Jane sank to the grass to catch her breath. The lamb stood in front of her while Jane patted its dark coat. So intent were Jane and the lamb with each other, neither one noticed Grandma coming over with the camera.
“Are you having fun, Jane?”
Jane looked up and grinned. “Oh, Grandma! Mary can play tag with me! We love each other, don’t we?” Jane pulled the small thing close to her and kissed its nose. “Now I won’t ever be lonely again,” she added with a whisper in the little charcoal ear.
“Baa” answered the lamb and folding its legs up, laid its woolly head in Jane’s lap and closed its eyes.

One Day Mystery - Ending

It is a good thing I have established a certain time and day to post on here, otherwise I'm afraid this blog would get forgotten because Fridays just have a way of sneaking up on me.:}

Last evening I had my second online writing class. There were lots of technical problems at first, but they got fixed. One thing about that class was that Mrs. Morecraft, the instructor, read my assignment to the entire class! (Okay, this is not just a class of a hundred people. There are nearly 1,000 members signed up and I'm sure many of them are families which means that there were even more!) Mrs. Morecraft really liked my story and praised it as well as offered a few suggested changes. (She did get my permission first.) That is the first time someone besides friends and family have read any of my stories. Now there is a contest going on in class. If I want to enter, I have to write a poem or story that is no fewer than 17 words and no longer than 1,000. It can be on anything I want. Hmmm. I'll have to think about it. I have until Oct. 14th to get it in.

Does anyone want to read the assignment I sent in?
And now, here is the rest of last weeks story.

One Day Mystery - Part 2

It was nearing three o’clock before the Prescot family embarked on their expedition. After careful examination, the children had agreed that the islands marked were one and the same which made things easier, however, each map had a different part of the island marked. Dad decided to head for the point closest to the mainland first.

Because of the rocky ground, it took a little while to find a place where they could safely land. Tying the boat securely and pulling out the maps, they set off with Ren in the lead. No one talked much as they quietly moved along through the beautiful fall colors.

Although not certain they were in the exact place marked on the map, Ren figured they must be close enough and the four searchers began their hunt. For nearly fifteen minutes they sought for the treasure which had been placed there two weeks before. At last the chest was found by Mrs. Prescot in the hollowed stump of a tree hidden by bushes.

The chests used by Uncle Fremont never opened with a key, instead they had a hidden spring which opened them. When Mom touched the spring, the lid flew open revealing several Indian arrowheads, a fine bead necklace and a beaded purse. There was a note typewritten as usual in the bottom.

“I knew you were studying Indians in school, so I thought you might enjoy these genuine Indian pieces I picked up in my travels. Ren, see if you can figure out how to attach these heads to some arrows and try shooting with them. It is more difficult than you think.
I hope you all enjoyed your hunt.
Uncle Fremont”

Hardly had the note been read and the contents examined briefly when Leann begged, “Please can’t we go follow the other map now?”
Ren added his plea to that of his sister’s though it wasn’t needed. Mr. Prescot had already set off back to the boat.
“Oh, I wonder what we’ll find!” Leann could barely sit still for excitement.
Swinging their small boat around the island, Dad guided it towards the spot marked on the unknown map.
“There’s a little cove to the left, Dad,” Ren called out pointing ahead.
“I see it.”
Leann looked at the map again and squealed, “I think that is the place!”
Before they had even landed, she was peering around at all the trees which sheltered the little cove. Did one of them hold a secret? Where was the answer to this map to be found?

Clambering up the steep slope a few minutes later with Ren beside her, she whispered, “What will we find?”
“I have no idea,” Ren answered. “That note could have been floating around for years, I suppose. We may not find anything.”
Nothing daunted by this thought, both children set to work examining every place someone might hide a note. Not knowing what they were looking for made the search all the more difficult, but neither one would give up. Mom and Dad were looking as well, yet the sun was rapidly moving towards the western sky and the cold wind had picked up before anyone noticed.
“All right everyone,” Dad called when the fast falling light drew his attention to the approaching night. “Only ten more minutes before we have to leave and head back. It’ll be dark soon.”
Ren and Leann, each determined to find whatever it was they had come to find, redoubled their searching. It just had to be here.
Then, just as Dad called that the time was up, Leann gave a shout. “I found it! Dad! Ren! Mom, come see!”
Hurrying to her, the others discovered that she was trying to climb a tree in which, securely fastened on a large, rather high up branch, was what looked like a watertight bag of some kind.
With a boost from Dad, Leann was able to climb up to the bag. However, it wasn’t until Ren joined her with his pocket knife that they managed to get it off. The light was just about gone as first Leann and then Ren were helped out of the tree.
“Let’s wait to open this until we get back to camp,” was Dad’s suggestion.
“I think that would be a good idea,” Mom assented. “Do you all want to eat now?”
“I’m too excited to eat, Mom.” Leann sat holding the mysterious bag with both hands.
Mrs. Prescot laughed.

It was very dark, and the cold wind coming off the water gave a feeling of oncoming winter. Soon a fire blazed up and all sat around it with cups of hot chocolate in which they dipped their peanut butter sandwiches. When at last the simple meal was over, Leann handed the bag to Dad.
All eyes fastened on him as he opened it, reached in and pulled out some paper. Spreading it out to see the writing by the firelight he read:

‘To whoever finds this,
If you found this, we hope you also found a bottle with a map in it. If you didn’t find the map, would you please put this back so the one who finds the map can find this? Thanks.
If you also found the map, congratulations! We put the map in the bottle and set it afloat on July 4th of 2006 from along the Michigan side of Green Bay. How long did it have to wait to be found? We hid this note only two days after that when we were camping.
It is our hope that you will write to us telling about finding the map and note. Here is our address.
Sincerely,
Don, Andrew, Catherine, Alyssa and Emily Mortonson’

“And they give an address of Bayfield, Wisconsin.”
“Oh, let’s write to them tomorrow!” Leann’s enthusiasm was contagious. “Why did they leave a note and send a map in the first place, Dad?”
Mr. Prescot shrugged and stirred up the fire some more until it blazed brightly. “Why don’t you ask them when you write.”
“We will, won’t we, Ren?”
Ren nodded, adding thoughtfully, “I wonder how old everyone is and if they homeschool too?”
Mrs. Prescot laughed. “That would be rather fun, wouldn’t it?”
“Just think,” Ren went on, “we couldn’t find Uncle Fremont’s note so we had to search for it, and then we found both his note and this other one. I’m glad we had to look for Uncle’s note.”
“Me too!” Leann yawned. “I like mysteries that can be solved in one day.”
The rest of the family laughed.

The End

So, did you like it? Oh bother, I just realized that I have forgetten to get a picture of the picture that went with this story. :{ So sorry. Do you still want it?

One Day Mystery - Part 1

Good Morning Friday Fiction Fans,
It is a beautiful morning here with cool breezes drifting in through the open windows. The sky is a pale blue with some rather wispy clouds scattered here and there. Except for the traffic of Broadway, things are still rather quiet.

I started my first online writing class last evening. I signed up to take Mrs. Morecraft's seven week course. I enjoyed it so far. :) This week has been rather crazy, so I didn't get a lot written, but I do have something to post.

Thanks Abigail and Hank for leaving me comments. I see you are both wondering about that Indian. Well, I'm sorry, but I can't tell you what he is doing because he hasn't told me yet.:) I suppose you'll just have to wait until I find out. I am enjoying writing this story even if I don't know all that is going to happen. I know somethings, but others, like the last few parts, just came up.

This story, is one that Lauren gave me the instructions for. I haven't gotten to ask her if she liked it yet. Maybe I can on Sunday. I forgot to take a picture of the picture, but will try to get that up later. So, if you read this and there is a picture, I got it up, if not, well, . . .:)

Characters: 4
World Count: 2500
Instructions: Mystery in 3rd person

One Day Mystery
by
Rebekah Morris

Terrence Filmore Prescot V, known to all his friends as Ren, frowned in thought as he gazed out over the blue grey waters of Green Bay. To his right he could see the dark shoreline of one of the few small islands, and, if he stared hard enough, he could just make out the faint haze that marked either Chambers Island or the state of Michigan. He never had figured out which it was.
“Humph,” he snorted shrugging his shoulders under his heavy jacket. Turning his back to the chilly autumn wind off the bay, he again searched the rocks with his eyes. “It has to be here somewhere. There’s the twin rocks,” he muttered half aloud. “And over there is pancake rock. I know he put it here. He said he would.” He ended with another snort and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets.

The crunching of dry leaves and snapping of twigs along with heavy breathing caused Ren to look up towards the path which led back to the Prescot’s camping site at Peninsula State Park in Wisconsin. His sister, Leann, came panting up, out of breath.
“Did . . . you . . . get . . . it?” she gasped.
Ren shook his head. “I’ve looked everywhere. It just isn’t here.”
Leann sucked in a lung full of the crisp, chilly air. “But Uncle Fremont said it was,” she protested.
“I know but--” Ren shrugged. “I think someone else must have found it.”
“How could they? And who? No one comes up here in the fall, and it was here less than two weeks ago.” Leann’s twelve-year-old logic made perfect sense to her year older brother. Yet, that didn’t explain the fact that the bottle with a special note in it was missing.
“Well, I can’t find it,” Ren stated.
Before more could be said, a voice called them back to breakfast, and they both answered eagerly.

During a breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast cooked over the fire along with cups of hot chocolate, Ren told about his fruitless search.
“Dad, do you have any ideas of what might have happened to it?”
Mr. Prescot looked thoughtful. Every year since the children were small, his brother had visited the same park a week of two before the Prescot family took their vacation. During his visit, he would leave a note for the children with a map which would lead to a treasure of some sort. The day before the family would leave, a postcard would be handed to them telling where to look for the note. Each year it was in a different place, and each year the map led to a different treasure.
Looking across the fire, Dad asked, “What does the message say again?”
Ren pulled the postcard, now with heavy creases in it, from his pocket and read:

“Between the twin and pancake rocks
A bottle there you’ll see
And bring along some extra socks
Before you set to sea.”

A chuckle came from Mrs. Prescot who often found these rhymes amusing. “I didn’t know we were going to sea,” she smiled.
“We can’t if we don’t find the note, Mom,” Leann sighed.
“Let’s say we all head down and take another look,” Dad suggested. “You coming too, Honey?” he questioned.
“I’d love to, but--” and Mom looked at the dishes.
“Okay,” Dad laughed. “Come on kids, let’s help before we take off for the morning.”

It was nearly thirty minutes later before the Prescot family was back on the shore looking for the missing bottle. By then the sun was well above the horizon and the warmth of its rays helped dispel some of the chill. It soon became evident that the bottle with its note was just not there.

“Some one must have taken it,” wailed Leann.
“Who?” Ren asked. “I think it washed out to sea.”
“If that is the case, it might have washed up somewhere else along the coast. Mom, you and Ren head along that way while Leann and I take a look at the coast farther up here. We’ll meet back at the camp site at 12:00.”

Eagerly the two parties set out. The parents were just as interested in finding the bottle as their children for this was a special part of their vacation which no one wanted to miss.

For nearly an hour Ren and his mother moved down the shoreline. More than once they had to make their way through the foliage of trees and bushes with their autumnal garb of red and orange, yellow and brown which grew some times right to the water’s edge.
Ren was growing discouraged. They had found several bottles, but not the one they wanted. When he spied yet another bottle washed up between two rocks, he paused and looked long at it. It seemed different than the other ones. Scrambling quickly down the rocks, he reached into the cold water and picked it up. There was something inside it! Hurriedly he pulled the cork and tipped it up. A trickle of water ran out onto his hand.
“Mom! There is something in here, but it got wet inside and it seems stuck.”
“Well, bring it along like that. We don’t have time to keep going if we are to get back by noon. Perhaps it will dry enough to get it out on the way back.”
Ren hoped so, and after handing the bottle to his mom, he climbed up the rocks.

Arriving at the campsite, they found Dad building up a fire while Leann got out the hot dogs. On the table sat a bottle.
“Did you find it?” were Ren’s first words to his sister.
Leann shrugged. “We aren’t sure. There seems to be a map in there, but no note. What did you find?”
Ren set their bottle beside the other one. “Don’t know. It was wet inside and the paper seems stuck together.”
“Two bottles with something in them. We’ll have to examine their contents after we eat. Our brains will work better with some food.” Dad grinned at the children as he handed them each a long stick.
They both laughed. Lunch sounded good to them too. The bottles would just have to wait.

Almost an hour later, four brown heads were bent over three pieces of paper spread on the picnic table. Two of them, obviously maps, were badly smeared and wrinkled by water but still fairly legible. The third paper, a note of some kind, had become so saturated that all the ink had run, making it one blurred mess.
“We have two maps, but which is Uncle Fremont’s?” Leann glanced at her brother.
Ren pointed to the one he had found remarking as he did so, “This one probably because it had a note with it.”
“But why was the other map in the other bottle to begin with?” persisted Leann.
Ren shrugged.
Mrs. Prescot tilted her head and began somewhat slowly, “What if, . . .” She glanced at her husband and raised an eyebrow, “we tried to follow . . . both maps.” The children looked up, excitement gleaming in their brown eyes as their mom continued. “They seem to be heading to nearly the same place, . . . over to an island.”
“Oh, can we do it? Can we really! Oh please say we can, Daddy!” The children had jumped up eagerly and now gazed imploringly at Dad.
For a moment he sat frowning then, with a quick smile he answered, “Why not.”
“When can we leave?”
“How are we going to get there?”
“Should we really take extra socks or was Uncle just joking?”
Dad put his hands over his ears and thundered, “I call an emergency planning meeting right here and now. Everyone sit!”
Leann giggled and sat down.
“Now, since we were instructed to take extra socks along, though I haven’t the faintest idea why, we shall follow orders. Second, I know where we can get a boat to rent, but while I’m doing that, you two,” here he looked at Ren and Leann, “will have to figure out which island it is and where we are to go on it. Mom, think you could pack us all a supper to take along in case it takes us longer than we think, and anything else we might need besides our socks?”
Mom laughed and nodded. The children already had their heads back over the maps.

Come back next week for the conclusion.

Meleah's Western part 21

Good Morning my Fabulous Friday Fiction Fans!
I loved all the comments I've gotten.:) Thanks! Now should I respond to the comments with another comment? Or should I just wait until the next Friday? What do you want?
Yes, Joseph, I think you could think of something else to do.:) After all, it might be hard to do the same thing since Abigail doesn't go around in hoop skirts all the time. Or does she?:) I wouldn't worry too much, Abigail. :)
Elisabeth begged for another Western, and several people didn't like how I had left it last time. Sorry. But, like I told someone, you never know what is going to happen when you sit down to write. There are times when your characters just have a mind of their own.:) I know, if you don't do a lot of writing, that sounds ridicules, but its true!

This week has gone by quickly. I taught two writing classes on Wednesday, and then yesterday I signed up to take a writing class. :) I am also working on my Scribblers writing assignment. So, I am writing. I won't be writing this evening though because we'll be down in Branson and tomorrow we'll be in Silver Dollar City! :) I can't wait! I haven't been there for four years!

For some reason, I have a feeling that most, if not all of you have skipped this until after you read the Western. Maybe I should start putting the story first and the introduction last.:} But here is the story.

Part 21

For over an hour Ty and Sally rode in complete and utter silence. With Carson gone, they both felt a great and heavy loss. Why hadn’t Carson noticed the sound? He had heard it enough times, hadn’t he?
Ty knew they would have to find some way to get around that river to continue their journey to Fort Larramie. But how? Was it best to try to go around the mountain? Should they try to go west for a while and try to cross it? Would the river go down enough in a day or two to get over it, or would it continue to rage with melting ice and snow from the mountain tops? Wearily he considered all these problems and questions. Normally his mind quickly formed solutions to any problem. He knew the best way was to meet trouble head on, but somehow, today was different. He shook his head. Different yes, all was different now.

“Let’s bed down here, Sally,” Ty pulled his horse up beside a clump of tall trees whose branches were green with tiny leaves.
Sally dismounted and camp was set up. The pack horse was gone, so all they had was what was in their saddle bags. In moments, Ty had a fire burning and was pulling out his rifle.
“I’ll see if’n I can’t jest get us some meat. Ya wait for me here.”

Nodding, Sally finished unsaddling her horse and began to rub it down. When she came to its right foreleg, the horse moved away.
“What is it, girl?” she asked softly, feeling of the leg. “Well, no wonder ya were limpin’. Ya got it cut. Was it tryin’ ta get out ‘fore the river came?” Her soothing voice and gentle hands calmed the horse. Carefully she washed and bound up the leg. “I reckon perhaps we ought ta jest let ya take it easy for a day or so, till ya get better.” Softly she rubbed her horse’s nose.
Nickering, the horse nuzzled Sally’s shoulder as though to agree.

Sally checked Ty’s horse for injury, but found none. With her duties thus completed, she sat before the fire and waited. Every now and then she would get up, put a few more pieces of wood on the flames and then resume her seat.

The sun, which had been sliding down towards the western sky, now cast a last bright gleam around the mountain peaks causing the snow to glitter and glow in a dazzling evening display. In the east, the sky was beginning to change to a dusky blue, and here and there a brave little star peeked its face out as though to see if the king of the day had really gone to bed.

Sally gazed up into the sky as the sun disappeared. No moon was to be seen. Ty was not returned, and Sally began to wonder where he was. A soft whinny from one of the horses made her listen. Soft footsteps were heard. They were limping slightly, Sally could tell, and coming from the other side of the fire.
“Ty?”
No answer.
In silence Sally drew away from the fire’s glow into the shadows and quietly pulled out her gun. Who was it? The footsteps halted just beyond the light.

The horses moved a little restlessly but didn’t act very frightened. Sally knew it was a human being, but who? And what did he want? She swallowed hard. Her hands were shaking and her heart racing. At last she could stand the silence no longer.
“Come out inta the light, or I’ll shoot.” She hoped her voice didn’t give away the fear she felt.
A soft rustle of leaves and a dark form glided into the light. Sally gasped. It was an Indian, and he had a gun!

For several seconds Sally stared. True, she had seen many an Indian before, but never when she was alone at night on a strange mountain side. Cautiously she too stepped into the light and looked at her visitor.
“Huh,” the Indian grunted and sank onto the ground and looked into the fire.
Sally could tell he was old and tired. She grew bolder and stepped closer. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Huh,” was the reply.
Another step closer and Sally could see the weariness in his face. “Would ya like some water?” she asked feeling for her canteen with her left hand while her eyes never left the Indian’s face, and her right hand still grasped her pistol.
“Huh.”
Taking that for assent, Sally handed it over.
The Indian took it and raised it to his lips. After tasting a little at first, he tipped it up and took a long draft. “Much good.” And again he drank deeply.
Sally smiled faintly. “Are you hungry?”
A grunt was the answer.
It was difficult to carry on a conversation with someone who only grunted to every question asked, yet Sally kept trying. “My brother went huntin’ ta try ta find meat. When he returns, you are welcome ta join us.”
“Huh, good,” was the reply.
“Are there more, I mean, are you alone?” Sally ventured at last to ask after several long minutes of silence.
“Alone.”
Sally breathed a sigh of relief. If he was alone, surely he was not someone to fear. Now if only Ty would come.
The Indian heard him before Sally did. He arose and held his rifle with both hands.
“It might be Ty,” Sally whispered.
Sure enough, Ty’s voice called out as he approached. “Sally.”
“I’m right here, Ty, an’ we got a visitor.”
The next moment Ty stepped into the light and saw the Indian who, when he heard Sally’s response, had sunk back down and let his rifle rest on his knees.
Ty eyed him a moment and then said, “Welcome.”
“Huh.”
Ty had brought several rabbits, and soon Ty, with the help of their Indian visitor, had them skinned and roasting over the fire.

Questions?