The Legend of Joe Edge

Joe Edge

On the island in the middle of the Manatee River, Joe and Buck hid behind the sun-bleached trunk of a fallen tree near the edge of the water. Joe held the musket and carefully raised his head to study the terrain. The place couldn’t be more than half a mile long and half that distance wide.

To Joe’s left, the west end, higher side held a stand of scattered pines interlaced with saw palmettos. The trees swayed in the afternoon breeze. The ground tapered to the water where a mass of cattail reeds hid the shoreline.

Mature cypress trees and their characteristic knees covered the east, swampy end. Those gray giants anchored the island and kept it from being swept away during floods. The trees marched past the shoreline and several feet into the water. A single osprey perched on a dead limb in the top of a nearby cypress and rigorously watched Joe study the landscape.

A giant oak tree in the middle of the island held Joe’s attention. Two hundred feet from where they concealed themselves, sprawling branches of the old oak twisted out in all directions, some so long and low they rested on the ground. Similar to the gray beards of hundreds of old men, triangular bunches of Spanish moss hung on its limbs in shade darkened by the leaves of the tree.

A sparse scattering of bushes and weeds covered the ground between their hiding place and the tree. The tiger’s tracks and the marks of Hoot’s tiny feet led up the sandy shore past Joe and Buck toward the massive oak.

Joe glanced at his daddy. The double-barreled shotgun rested on the smooth wood of their cover, its stock braced to the man’s left shoulder. “Yonder,” Buck whispered and nodded at a spot near the tree.

Joe squinted at the place his daddy indicated. A wave of anger flushed over his body. On the ground, no more than twenty feet from the tree, a mound of sticks and straw covered a shape as small and still as a nesting chicken. Hoot!

One of his brother’s little legs crooked out from under the pile. A dark-brown spot, a pool of blood, stained the sand next to the grave. Joe started to stand.

Buck grabbed Joe’s arm and pulled him back. He rough whispered, “Nosiree!”

“Daddy, that’s Hoot—he’s my brother. We have to get him out of there and take him to Mama.”

“Wait. Reckon that’d be a sure death. Cat ain’t et yet. Nearby, watching to see if anything tries to steal his dinner. Hold tight, might get a shot when he comes out.”

Joe batted at a persistent mosquito. “Where’s he hiding?”

“The tree, most likely.”

Joe concentrated. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Patience, boy. Patience.”

An hour passed and Joe grew restless. The osprey screeched and took off from its perch. The bird flapped overhead and disappeared up the river.

“I’m going to get Hoot,” Joe said.

“Damn, ’scuse me Lord. No. My son—I’ll get him. Got your whole life ahead of you.”

“But … Daddy.”

Buck’s voice turned impatient and angry. “Think I ain’t able to get my baby because I only got one arm? Watch.”

“No, Daddy,” Joe pleaded. “I’ll go.”

“Cover me.” Buck hefted the shotgun and slipped around the end of the log. He half-crawled toward the little mound where Hoot’s body lay. His awkward movements resembled a one-winged hawk, out of its element and stalking prey on the ground.

Buck’s finger rested on the twin triggers of the old twelve-gauge. Joe regretted he hadn’t stopped his daddy. If the tiger attacked, there was little chance Buck could swing the heavy barrels up, aim, and get off an effective shot.

Joe did his job as his daddy had taught him. He slowly swept the barrel of the musket back and forth, centering on the animal-made grave of his baby brother. He looked for movement in or around the tree. Other than his daddy’s advance on Hoot’s grave, the area appeared as still as death.

As Buck approached the pile, nausea rose in Joe’s throat. He continued to sight down the octagonal barrel he knew so well. Buck placed his shotgun on the sand and grabbed a handful of sticks and weeds from the pile on top of Hoot’s body.

An annoying yellow fly buzzed around Joe’s head. He slapped at the pesky bug and refocused.

In the tree above his daddy’s head, the golden, yellow-eyed cat hugged a heavy, low-lying limb. Has the tiger been there all this time? “Stop!” Joe screamed the one word that applied to his daddy and the tiger.

The animal let out a ferocious snarl. Buck’s head jerked up. Fear creased his brow.

“Too late.” Joe said to himself.

The tiger sprang—its long fangs bared, its jagged claws reaching, and a guttural growl ripping from its belly. Buck extended his arm as if to fend off the animal.

Joe aimed at the beast as it flew through the air. He squeezed the trigger and the sound of the shot exploded in his ear. The musket butt punched hard against his shoulder.

His bullet slammed into the tiger’s head and spun the killer cat away from Buck in mid-air. It landed near his daddy’s feet.

The animal struggled to stand. Joe’s shot had taken the tiger’s lower jaw, but the beast was still alive and dangerous. The cat appeared confused, angry, and looking for something to kill. It spied Buck, who scrambled to get away.

Joe despaired. Not enough time to reload and shoot again. Joe threw the musket aside, pulled his skinning knife from its sheath, jumped over the log, and ran with all his might toward his daddy and the tiger.

Buck staggered back, away from the devil. As the tiger advanced, he appeared paralyzed, unable to move another step. With his eyes locked on the beast, Buck patted the ground to locate his gun. He made contact, reached down, and scooped the shotgun up with his one hand.

The cat grunted. Dripping a bloody mess where its lower jaw had been, it rose on its hind legs, reaching for Buck with deadly, sharp claws.

Buck pressed the stock of the gun to his shoulder. The barrel wavered, seeming out of control.

Joe ran as hard as possible. A horrible thought, Daddy’s dead.

The wounded killer leaped.

Buck fired one barrel. The tiger bounced backward a few feet. He fired the second barrel, and the beast bounced back again, crumpling to the ground.

“Daddy!” Joe cried. He wrapped his arms around Buck and hugged him.

“Yessiree!” Buck shouted as the shotgun slipped from his grasp. “Killed the devil.”