Posted: Jun 29, 08 9:36pm

Another Place, Another Time

partially based on a true story

Hamilton Killbuck pulled his pickup to the side of the main road. He looked off in the woods toward the river that ran unseen a mile from the road. As thoughts of his younger days ran through his mind he half listened to the final bars of Jerry Lee Lewis singing, "Another Place, Another Time" on the radio.

Hamilton loved the woods along the river. His grandmother said it was his part indian blood. The quiet haven of the thick woods never failed to make his body feel bowed in humbleness or uplift his spirit. Sniffing the smell of fresh fallen leaves almost made him forget the last time he was here. That time last fall, he had walked, almost ran, from the sharp bend in the river. He had felt confused for days afterward.

As he walked along the dim trail that ran along the river bank he couldn't help but visualize how the trail had been kept alive for centuries by first buffalo, then indians, then more recently the white man. The trail, almost gone now, had been much wider and worn smooth when he was a kid when people worked and played along the now isolated river.

Then he saw the raised and almost barren spot of about five acres or so. Few trees grew there. The land jutted out toward the river, making the river turn a sharp bend and giving the bend its name, The Devil's Elbow. For a moment he stopped and listened. All his senses seemed to heighten. He remembered faintly hearing the voices the year before. He remembered having the overwhelming feeling of having been in that same place before, although he couldn't remember it. He had to know and moved on toward the clearing.

His hands parted the sparse shoulder high undergrowth of oak, ash, and birch as he cautiously made his way forward. At the edge of the clearing he stopped and listened again. Overhead a crow sounded the alarm of intrusion. From somewhere out in the woods the sharp rap of a woodpecker echoed. Far away another answered. Upriver a beaver tail smacked the water. But he heard no voices.

For a quarter of an hour he stood watching and listening, his mind mostly filtering out the normal sounds of the woods. He jumped when a sudden stiff breeze whispered overhead, sending a shower of falling leaves around him. He laughed at himself. "They always said you had a vivid imagination." Still, he slipped forward quietly, as if on his feet he wore moccasins. It begin when he neared an ancient birch tree that stood near the center of the clearing.

Suddenly loud gutteral voices were all around him, almost as if they were passing through him. He sensed something near him, its voice sounding as if it were inches from his ear. Spinning around, he saw nothing. Cold chills raced over his body and his hair felt as if it was standing up to run away. His legs trembled in their desire to flee and he threw his back hard against the birch. He grasped it firmly, determined not to run away this time. His head begin to spin and his eyes seemed to cross and lose focus. His body slid to a sitting position in the soft damp earth beneath him, legs extended, his hands falling into his lap.

Hamilton could move nothing except his eyes. Slowly, his eyes begin to focus. A hundred yards in front of him at the river bank he saw a small millhouse. In front of the millhouse stood three rough looking men with rifles raised to firing position. Behind him came a war cry that somehow sounded vaguely familiar. Then came a loud "BOOM" and smoke billowed around him. The man on Hamilton's right at the mill staggered as smoke shot out from his rifle before he fell. More shots came from behind Hamilton and he watched as another of the men fell back lifeless, arms flung wide. The last man standing at the mill fired, then ducked into the millhouse. The sound of rushing feet mixed with war cries passed on both sides of Hamilton. Five indians clad in buckskin converged in a line before him, each firing into the millhouse. A lone shot answered the indian's salvo. Once more Hamilton heard the sound of rushing feet as the indians stormed the millhouse. Seconds later a another shot was fired, followed by a scream unlike anything Hamilton had ever heard.

Moments later he saw a young girl walking toward him from the upstream direction of the river. She kneeled beside him and, smiling, placed her hands on his. Then she was gone along with everything else Hamilton had seen.

He blinked his eyes several times and they begin to refocus. Before long he was able to stand up.

Hamilton leaned against the tree looking toward the river where he had seen the mill. Now, although he could see nothing there, he hesitated to move, unsure that he could, unsure he wanted to. He found himself once again straining to hear. He heard nothing but natural sounds in the woods. He wasn't sure what had just happened, but he knew it had happened.

When the shaking inside him had stopped and he'd overcome the dryness in his mouth, he made his way forward to where he had seen the mill. His eyes swept the ground before him, searching the often flooded dark and rich land beneath his feet. Cinnamon colored leaves crunched beneath his feet as he zigzagged back and forth toward the river bank, searching. It had to be here because he had seen it.

At the river bank he turned and faced the birch. Closing his eyes he replayed the scene over in his mind. He was sure this was the spot. He begin zigzagging his way forward again. On his second pass his foot set down on something hard and he froze. He kicked the leaves back to expose a large sandstone rock. Feeling with his feet along a straight line he found another and another until he had uncovered the foundation of the mill. Questions tumbled through his mind.

On the way home he stopped by his grandmother's house. Seated beside her in the rocker his grandfather had once sat in, Hamilton sit quietly for several minutes without speaking. Finally his grandmother said, "Young'un you look like you've seen a ghost."

Hamilton gave a little laugh. "Grandmother Belle, do you recollect any of the old folks talking about anything that might have happened years ago down there in The Devil's Elbow?"

"Folks always said it was hainted," she said, knocking out her pipe on the porch railing. She rocked gently for a time, slightly nodding her head now and then. Finally she begin to speak. "My grandmother told me in 1825 three no-account white men stole a fourteen-year-old girl that belonged to the Purtle Family. I believe Betsy was her name, as I recall. Some Cherokee men who were friends of the Purtles heard about it and went looking for her. The Cherokee men caught up with the white men at the mill in The Devil's Elbow and killed them in self defense. Somehow a lantern got turned over during the fight and burned the mill down. But the Cherokee got the girl. Trailed her and found her hiding behind a tree a good distance upriver, out in the woods. Seems she had escaped them no-accounts for the time being and they was going out to look for her when the Cherokee ran upon them."

"What finally happened to the girl?"

"Oh, the Cherokee took her right back to her family. She grew up and had a fine family and a long life. Married one of the Johnstons."

I stood, then reached down and gave Grandmother Belle a hug, promising to see her again real soon.

"One more thing," she said, "'bout that girl, Betsy. They said she often wished aloud she could have properly thanked the Cherokee for saving her before they was driven out of here."

I turned her way and smiled. "Well maybe somehow she finally did get to thank one of them."