Dad always told me to stay away from him, said he was a squatter, a thief, a poacher. Said he was no good and lived like white trash. He was a ne'er-do-well, his bread wasn't done, and he might even be dangerous. There was something about an unsolved decapitation in Coila, many years ago. Some people said he did it. There was something about some moon shining, something about some shots fired at a game warden, something about some burglaries, some arson, a bunch of runs ins with the law. I never heard a single good word about him, never, not one. But when I got a little older, I formed my own opinion on him and on a few other things as well.
It was 1971, and I had just acquired my driver's license. Not only that, but I had the green light to hunt all I wanted to, and I wanted to a lot. With the keys to Dad's yellow 1969 Chevy pick up truck and an unlimited supply of shotgun shells, I became an expert squirrel hunter that year. "Just stay away from Crazy Ray," Dad had warned me. Why worry? I had heard so much stuff about Ray that I was terrified at the idea of ever running into him anywhere anytime. I even had bad dreams where Ray would suddenly appear out of nowhere and give me a stare down, his eyes going all the way through me and reading my fear like an accountant reads numbers off his ledger books. In those dreams, I always knew Ray was about to murder me, and I awoke in the middle of the night with my heart racing away in terror.
He lived in a small, ancient, badly-leaning log cabin that looked like it was searching for an excuse to fall down. His habitation straddled Dad's property line on Steen Hill Road--more about the property line later-- a matter which caused my dad a huge amount of consternation. His presence caused me some concern for hunting out there, but in the daylight in the safety of my bedroom, I would imagine running into Ray in the woods or on the road, and in my mind I was tough enough to take care of myself. I could box; I could shoot; I even carried a knife. He better not mess with me. In the dark, however, in my dreams, he still haunted me like a terrifying monster in a scary movie.
I had been cautious that whole October afternoon as I stalked through the woods off Steen Hill Road and shot squirrels out of the tops of tall trees. I knew Ray could hear my gunfire, but I was armed, I was aware. My eyes were everywhere, and my ears picked up every sound. I heard squirrel toe nails gripping bark; I picked up the rhythm of acorn shells hitting the leaved-floor of the forest under feeding squirrels. I heard the jay birds yell, the wind rustle through branches. I heard the chipmunks stir softly in the deep leaves. I knew the sounds of the woods, and Ray was not moving out there. I would have known if he was.
As the sun crept down, I tipped towards the truck, slowly, looking and listening, saving myself enough daylight so I could clearly see if Ray was on the road when I got there. When I drew within sight of the truck, my eyes did their work looking back and forth, back and forth. My ears joined the search. The coast was clear. The only place I couldn't see was the other side of the truck where he could be crouching, waiting for me so he could cut off me head.
I eased out onto the dirt road and looked around one more time. Four squirrels filled my game bag, and I carried a medium sized raccoon in my left hand. My right hand toted my trusty twenty gauged shotgun. Then, just like magic, just like in my bad dreams, there he was. I was standing at the tailgate of the truck and suddenly Ray was a few feet away staring me down like he did in my nightmares. My heart rate skyrocketed. My legs wobbled. I was terrified and not only that but it showed as I shook and that added a layer of embarrassment on top of my terror.
"I ain't gunna hurt you, boy," he said in a voice that wasn't deep or threatening or spooky. In fact it sounded young and kinda high pitched. Gentle, disarming. I tossed the raccoon into the bed of the truck, trying to act nonchalant, like I wasn't afraid.
"I know that," I answered, my voice cracking in fear.
"You know how to skin that coon?" he asked.
"Of course," I boasted. Then, still trying to bluff some ease, I began to unload my shotgun, only I left one shell in.
He noticed.
"Better get um all out, boy. Folks shoot themselves with unloaded guns."
So I ejected the third shell, went to the driver's door, opened it, and placed the shotgun on the gun rack. That's how we carried our long arms back then, on a gun rack at the back window. After that, I leaned over the truck bed to steady myself, and I looked right at Ray. His eyes were not the piercing-brown Charlie Manson eyes of my dreams but were light blue, non-threatening. My fear was fading, but I was still nervous and trying to collect myself.
"You know how to skin that so you get the most money from the fur buyer?"
Before I could answer, he turned and began to walk away in the direction my tailgate was pointed, toward his cabin.
"If you wanna know, bring him down here." And just like that, he was gone.
I climbed into the truck and took a few deep breaths. That initial shock and fright had been so strong that it was taking a while to recover from it. I put the keys into the ignition and cranked the engine. Dad had taught me always to park with truck in reverse gear. With my foot on the clutch, my left leg still shook a little. I thought I could just snatch the gear shift straight down into first, spin out of here and be gone. But I didn't. Even now, I can't explain why I did what I did, but my hands stayed on the steering wheel as I let out the clutch sending the pickup backing up towards Ray's cabin.
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