Read Online Black Stump Ridge by John Manning; Forrest Hedrick - Free Book Online
Authors: John Manning; Forrest Hedrick
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for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms? Jake and his boys would have to be careful until they knew for sure what was going on.
The timing of their visit was suspicious to say the least. Jake had a large batch of shine up at the still in the cave. It was almost ready to send to Atlanta. He and the boys just needed to bottle the last run and bring it down from the mountain. Suddenly, five men show up for a Thanksgiving hunting trip at just this time and in just that place. Maybe it was true, but Jake wasn’t about to have his freedom depend on maybe.
In the old days he’d know what to do. Catch them nosing around where they weren’t wanted and they’d simply disappear. The hills held more unmarked graves than people knew about. You couldn’t do that any more. If anything happened to any of them nowadays there would be an army of federal agents combing the hills. Killing a cop was bad enough. Killing a nigger cop guaranteed a whole new level of manhunt and prosecution. Definitely bad for business.
Jake crossed the road and disappeared into the darkening forest. Nighttime in the woods didn’t bother him. He’d been walking these paths most of his life. His feet knew where every root and vine waited to catch the unwary. He instinctively avoided the dried twigs and leaves as he moved ghost-like through the trees. His mind drifted back to his days in the army and his two tours in Viet Nam. Those were good times, although most might disagree. Politics were never Jake’s strong suit. The rightness or wrongness of war were for other folks. Jake was a hunter. Stalking a deer or a Cong were all the same to him. Most of those he served with thought him odd or worse. To them it seemed he actually enjoyed finding and killing the enemy. What they could never understand was that it wasn’t the kill he enjoyed. It was the hunt. He had no special dislike for the Viet Cong. In truth, he held them in high regard. Like him, they were hunters and, like him, very skilled at it. Silent Death they’d called him back in the ’Nam.
His superiors refused to let him bring his trophy ropes home when he rotated stateside. He’d had two of them. One held thirty ears, the other twenty-two. Each represented a personal kill during his tours with the Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols – the Lerps as they were called. It was probably just as well. He’d been young and foolish back then. There was no telling how much trouble they would have caused him stateside.
He reached the edge of the clearing and paused. He looked at his house, his barn, and his pickup truck for any signs of intruders. He didn’t really expect to see anything, but keeping good habits was what kept him alive and free. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he walked slowly into the clearing until he reached the truck. It was a ten-year-old Ford Ranger. He could easily afford something newer, flashier, but he loved the old truck. The original black paint was sun-faded and dull. Green, gray, red, and tan splotches of flat primer gave it a camouflaged appearance. Its light weight, coupled with the four-wheel drive, made it possible for him to negotiate the most treacherous mountain trails during the worst spring and fall weather. Winter was another animal, though, and no one could tame the ice. That added to the importance of getting this last shipment down from the mountain now.
Screened by trees, the house and barn were invisible from any road. Both structures had rough-looking barn board exteriors making them look ramshackle. The decrepit walls were an illusion, strictly camouflage for the solid construction beneath. The deception was an equal mix of paranoia and a deep-seated need for privacy. Besides, he’d seen what the Feds had done in Idaho and Montana and Waco. He felt he couldn’t be too paranoid.
Jake looked at the house and sighed. He was tired and really wanted to go inside, but the strangers’ arrival negated that plan. If he didn’t go up to the
The timing of their visit was suspicious to say the least. Jake had a large batch of shine up at the still in the cave. It was almost ready to send to Atlanta. He and the boys just needed to bottle the last run and bring it down from the mountain. Suddenly, five men show up for a Thanksgiving hunting trip at just this time and in just that place. Maybe it was true, but Jake wasn’t about to have his freedom depend on maybe.
In the old days he’d know what to do. Catch them nosing around where they weren’t wanted and they’d simply disappear. The hills held more unmarked graves than people knew about. You couldn’t do that any more. If anything happened to any of them nowadays there would be an army of federal agents combing the hills. Killing a cop was bad enough. Killing a nigger cop guaranteed a whole new level of manhunt and prosecution. Definitely bad for business.
Jake crossed the road and disappeared into the darkening forest. Nighttime in the woods didn’t bother him. He’d been walking these paths most of his life. His feet knew where every root and vine waited to catch the unwary. He instinctively avoided the dried twigs and leaves as he moved ghost-like through the trees. His mind drifted back to his days in the army and his two tours in Viet Nam. Those were good times, although most might disagree. Politics were never Jake’s strong suit. The rightness or wrongness of war were for other folks. Jake was a hunter. Stalking a deer or a Cong were all the same to him. Most of those he served with thought him odd or worse. To them it seemed he actually enjoyed finding and killing the enemy. What they could never understand was that it wasn’t the kill he enjoyed. It was the hunt. He had no special dislike for the Viet Cong. In truth, he held them in high regard. Like him, they were hunters and, like him, very skilled at it. Silent Death they’d called him back in the ’Nam.
His superiors refused to let him bring his trophy ropes home when he rotated stateside. He’d had two of them. One held thirty ears, the other twenty-two. Each represented a personal kill during his tours with the Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols – the Lerps as they were called. It was probably just as well. He’d been young and foolish back then. There was no telling how much trouble they would have caused him stateside.
He reached the edge of the clearing and paused. He looked at his house, his barn, and his pickup truck for any signs of intruders. He didn’t really expect to see anything, but keeping good habits was what kept him alive and free. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he walked slowly into the clearing until he reached the truck. It was a ten-year-old Ford Ranger. He could easily afford something newer, flashier, but he loved the old truck. The original black paint was sun-faded and dull. Green, gray, red, and tan splotches of flat primer gave it a camouflaged appearance. Its light weight, coupled with the four-wheel drive, made it possible for him to negotiate the most treacherous mountain trails during the worst spring and fall weather. Winter was another animal, though, and no one could tame the ice. That added to the importance of getting this last shipment down from the mountain now.
Screened by trees, the house and barn were invisible from any road. Both structures had rough-looking barn board exteriors making them look ramshackle. The decrepit walls were an illusion, strictly camouflage for the solid construction beneath. The deception was an equal mix of paranoia and a deep-seated need for privacy. Besides, he’d seen what the Feds had done in Idaho and Montana and Waco. He felt he couldn’t be too paranoid.
Jake looked at the house and sighed. He was tired and really wanted to go inside, but the strangers’ arrival negated that plan. If he didn’t go up to the
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