on>
Ghosts of the Green Swamp
Other Cracker Westerns:
Bridger’s Run by Jon Wilson
Ghosts of the Green Swamp by Lee Gramling
Guns of the Palmetto Plains by Rick Tonyan
Ninety-Mile Prairie by Lee Gramling
Riders of the Suwannee by Lee Gramling
Thunder on the St. Johns by Lee Gramling
Trail from St. Augustine by Lee Gramling
Wiregrass Country by Herb and Muncy Chapman
Ghosts of the Green Swamp
| A Cracker Western by Lee Gramling |
 |
||
Pineapple Press, Inc.
Sarasota, Florida
Copyright © 1996, 2012 by L.G. Gramling
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Inquiries should be addressed to:
Pineapple Press, Inc.
P.O. Box 3889
Sarasota, Florida 34230
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gramling, Lee, 1942–
Ghosts of the Green Swamp : a cracker western / by Lee Gramling.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-56164-120-0 (hardbound : alk. paper) — ISBN 1-56164-126-X (pbk. : alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3557.R228G48 1996
813’.54—dc20
96-273318
CIP
ISBN 978-1-56164-120-8 (hb)
ISBN 978-1-56164-126-0 (pb)
ISBN 978-1-56164-550-3 (e-book)
First Edition
Design by June Cussen
Cover art by Regina Stahl Briskey
Printed in the United States of America
Dedicated to the memory of
Gamble Rogers
preeminent Florida storyteller
and continuing inspiration
Central Florida 1877
Contents
1
“IF YOU SO MUCH AS MOVE A EYELASH, Barkley, I’m going to blow your guts all over this countryside!”
Well, that fellow with the slouch hat and the two-barreled shotgun who was standin’ in the road in front of me sounded like he meant exactly what he’d said. And the fact I’d never in my life set eyes on him before didn’t appear to make a awful lot of difference to his thinkin’ neither. I kept my hands easy on the saddle-horn and nodded just a hair to show I understood.
“All right, Jube!” he called, glancin’ over towards the stand of oak and hickory what run alongside that little stretch of sand road there between Newnansville an’ Lake City. “C’mon and take his shootin’ iron away from him. And see you do it careful!”
When I’d had a look at Jube out of the corner of my eye, I kind of swallowed hard and sucked in my breath. He was the biggest colored man I’d ever seen. The biggest man of any color. Seven foot an’ upwards if he was a inch. And I didn’t expect he’d run a heap shy of four hundred pounds if anybody was able to get him up on a wagon scales to weigh him. Them overalls he was wearin’ was a deal too small, so the pants legs stopped a good ten inches above his big bare feet. And the muscles bulgin’ from his shoulders an’ arms looked ready to bust clean out of his faded cotton undershirt just any minute.
I mean it was enough to give me pause, and I ain’t exactly no half-growed runt of a feller my ownself. I reckon I plumb near forgot the other gent’s shotgun for a second there, when that live oak in man’s clothing come stridin’ out of the woods towards me.
He moved right swift for a big man, too. Never took his red-rimmed eyes off me for a instant while he stepped up and yanked my Dragoon Colt from its holster an’ throwed it on the ground. Didn’t even bother unhookin’ the leather thong from around the hammer before he done it. Just snapped it in two like a piece of ole rotten thread.
I’d a mind to say somethin’ about that. But I didn’t hardly get the chanct before I felt myself bein’ lifted up off my ole roan horse and tossed down in the dirt on the other side away from my six-shooter. And it come right close to makin’ me mad.
“Look-a here,” I said, rollin’ over and spittin’ sand out from between my teeth. “What the dag-gone Hell do you-all think you’re …”
That’s ’bout as much as I got to say before Jube crossed behind the Roan and swung a mighty kick from the hips, bruisin’ a couple ribs and leavin’ me all curled up an’ croakin’ whilst I tried to get my wind back. Them feet of his was rock hard from goin’ without shoes for what I expected was prob’ly his entire life. And he was aimin’ a second one at my head when the man with the shotgun took a step closer and got his attention.
“Hold on there, Jube. Think about what you’re doin’. We don’t want him so bad messed up that he can’t make it back to the hammock under his own steam. Be way too much trouble to tote him.”
The big Negro nodded thoughtfully. Then he set up an’ smashed another powerful kick to my ribs, instead of my head. I hadn’t got enough breath left over from that to swear
