"She's a peach," the young man said, choosing a phrase he thought might endear him to the old man sitting on a plastic lawn chair beside the boat. An open can of varnish rested at the old man's feet, a worn brush resting across the crusted, syrupy maw.

The seafarer looked from the stranger to the vehicle parked behind him. The big, four-door pickup truck was adorned with equipment that betrayed the visitor's trade; long white plastic cylinders resting atop a metal framework held the survey equipment.

"Sorry to just show up like this but the company's been trying to phone you for a couple of weeks. They sent a registered letter, too."

The old man blinked as he gazed up at the uninvited guest but he still didn't speak. An uneasy silence settled over them. The mid-morning sun was arcing over the pasture and a smattering of enormous, gray-tinged clouds hung motionless, suspended in the late- September sky.

"You got the letter, I hope," the young man said, his tone earnest. The old man's head moved slightly, not enough for the visitor to be certain if it was a nod of acknowledgment or just a tremor reflecting the land-locked sailor's advancing age or wariness or something else altogether.

"I'm talking about Varner Oil," he continued. "They bought the option on a bunch of dormant oil leases in this area and one of them is located here on your property. We'll be working around here for a couple of months, updating the surveys. I hope you got the letter, we hate to barge in like this but ... "

The old man stood, unsteady for an instant, then extended his hand. "I'm Aiden Kennesaw. Sorry I ... don't get many visitors out here."

Charlie Bellow reached for the old man's hand and shook it. The unexpected strength in Kennesaw's grip surprised Charlie.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," he said. "We, my crew and me, we really hate just showing up like this--"

"Don't worry about it," Kennesaw interrupted, his unblinking stare made the young man uneasy.

"Me and Shorty and Mike there," Charlie said, tilting his head toward the pickup, "we'll be working just on the far side of that low hill to the west. Shouldn't be here on your property more than a couple of days."

"You usually use that expression?" the old man asked and Charlie stared at him blankly. "'She's a peach,'" Kennesaw continued. "I haven't heard anyone use that expression in years."

Charlie studied the old man's face, trying to determine his meaning but the wrinkled, leathery countenance revealed nothing. Again the eyes, the sable-tinted gaze made Charlie strangely uneasy. He nodded toward the boat to move the conversation along.

"I've got to ask, I guess," Charlie grinned, his best, boyish effort, "what's the deal on the rowboat? Me and the boys have surveyed many a cow pasture but we've never come across a rowboat in the middle of one them until now."

Again, Kennesaw gazed blankly at his visitor. After an awkward moment, the old man's yellowish brown eyes finally flickered, signaling a coming response.

"She's a Boston Whaler," he said. "I built her myself more than forty years ago. We've seen many a sunset together," he said, his voice diminishing to a near whisper.

"Mind if I ask why you--"

"A real whaleboat would be longer. She's only sixteen feet," Kennesaw said, nodding softly, his gaze shifting from the visitor to the boat where they remained as the silence settled around them again."

"Charlie?" the big man standing in the open door of the pickup said. Kennesaw didn't look in speaker's direction but knew the man's name. Neither of the men in the truck was small in stature but the speaker was huge; Kennesaw realized it was Shorty who was growing impatient.

"Yeah, okay," Charlie answered, stepping away from Kennesaw who still stood staring at the boat. "We'll be about our business now," he said. "We'll be sure to close the gate when we leave your property."

Kennesaw turned away without further comment and returned to his lawn-chair perch. He didn't watch as Charlie slipped the four-wheel drive in gear and drove toward the low horizon.

"What's the old man's problem?" Shorty asked, his gravelly voice reflecting annoyance at the delay in getting started on the job.

"No problem," Charlie answered, watching the rough dirt path ahead of them carefully as he drove. "He's just old and ... absent-minded I guess."

Charlie glanced in the rear-view mirror at the undulating reflection of the Boston Whaler riding the waves of the brown Kansas prairie. "Is it just me or did that old man and the boat sort of creep you guys out, too?"

"He's nutty as a flyin' squirrel!" Mike snorted laughter from the rear seat. "What the hell's that old fart doin' sittin' in a rowboat in the middle of a cow pasture? Sweet Jesus, take me away before I get old and go shit-bird dingy!" All three men laughed as the truck crested the hill and disappeared from view.

"What's the deal on Aiden Kennesaw?" Charlie asked the bartender as he and his companions sat at the bar of Velma and Jack's Tavern in Tyro, Kansas. The words Jesus Luvs Uwere carved crudely in the scarred wooden surface in front the young surveyor and the condensation dripping from his Miller Lite quietly flooded the capital letter U as he spoke.

"Who?" the bartender asked, drying a beer glass with the tail of the white apron he wore.

"Aiden Kennesaw, old man lives about thirty-six miles northwest on State 11," Charlie elaborated.

"Don't know the guy," the bartender answered. "Billy, you know a fellow by the name of Aiden Kennesaw?" he asked, turning toward a grizzled character stooped at the far end of the bar.

"Goddammit, Ed!" the old man screeched merrily. "A course I know him and you know him, too. That there is Miss Mary's son, you know, Cap'n Ahab."

"Oh, yeah, real quiet sorta' standoffish fella. Haven't seen him in a long time, though. He used to drive his mother to the clinic across the street but I think maybe she died a few years ago or somethin'."

"Jesus H. Christ, Ed!" the old man screeched again and this time the bartender and his three customers laughed softly in response. "Miss Mary ain't dead; she's livin' over to the Methodist center on Elm. Good God a'mighty, for a barkeep you don't know come-here from sick'em!"

"You fellas will have to excuse my friend Billy, here," the bartender said, his voiced laced with sarcasm born of friendship and long familiarity. "He gets a might feisty this time of the evening," he added with a grin.

"Looks like you're gettin' a little low there, Billy," Charlie said. "How about you let me buy you another cold one and you can tell us why Kennesaw's out there sittin' in a rowboat in the middle of a cow pasture."

"Why sure, young fella', that sounds right reasonable to me!" Billy exclaimed then cackled. The old man's sharp laughter brought on a fit of deep, phlegmy coughing that subsided as his fingers stabbed at a shirt pocket and clumsily retrieved a crumpled pack of Chesterfields. "Now who was it we was talkin' about?" he said earnestly as the bartender placed a fresh bottle of beer in front of him.

After a reminder of the topic at hand, Billy said, "I don't remember too much about Aiden when he was a kid. I'm five 'er six years older than him you know."

"Why don't you tell them something they don't know, Billy," the bartender said with a grin. "These boys can tell by lookin' at you that you're five or six years older than the average dinosaur!" In reaction, Billy's face twisted in mock anger and the group hooted laughter.

"Anyhow, while I was away with George Patton pluggin' goose-steppers in Sicily things went all wrong for Miss Mary," Billy began. "Her husband was quite a bit older'n her as I recall and she didn't abide by his drinkin' and carousin'. Folks say that sometime durin' the war he had a real spirited fling with a sweet thing over to Coffeyville and just up and run off one day leavin' Mary with two boys at home."

Billy paused to take a sip from the bottle in front of him and everyone waited as he raised a gnarled hand and wiped a dribble of beer from his chin. Silence settled over the group as Billy studied the foamy moisture in his palm.

"So, Billy, what about the boat?" Charlie asked. Billy leveled a blank stare at him.

"What's that sonny?" Billy mumbled.

"Aiden Kennesaw's boat, the one in the pasture. What's the deal on the boat?" Charlie said, speaking slowly as his companions at the bar grinned and shook their heads.

"Oh, yeah," Billy started as if awakened from a slumber. "Old Cotton Fitzsimmons first told us about the boat. I remember it real plain-like. Election time it was, everyone knew Ike would win. I had a sort'a bad taste in my mouth about the way he'd treated ol' General Patton and we was havin' a meetin' over to the VFW hall, cooked up a mess of barbecue as I recall and--"

"Billy, for God's sake, tell these boys about the boat," the bartender interrupted. "They don't give a hoot about election day '52 or the VFW hall or George damn-Patton or your barbecue supper. Good night, nurse!" he said and turned away to show his exasperation.

'You'd best be careful 'bout what you say about General Patton--" Billy exclaimed but Charlie interrupted.

"Come on, Billy," Charlie said, "he's just trying to rile you, please, tell us about Kennesaw's boat."

"As I was TRYIN'' to say," Billy began, casting a sharp look in the bartender's direction, "Old Cotton Fitzsimmons told us he'd seen Aiden building something in his east pasture. Turns out it was a great big boat sort'a like them they used in that Gregory Peck movie about chasin' that big white whale ... "

"Moby Dick," Ed the bartender said, speaking from a distance, his back turned to the group.

"No, no, no!" Billy exclaimed. "Damnit', Ed, you think you know everthing. The name of the damn movie was ... Treasure Island. Yeah, that's it, Treasure Island. Well anyway, in the movie Gregory Peck played this crazy sort'a sea-captain ..."

"CAPTAIN AHAB!" the bartender interrupted again.

"Who the hell is gonna tell this story, Ed, YOU 'ER ME?" Billy shouted.

"Ed," Charlie said, his tone conciliatory, "why don't you give us another round and Billy here will tell us about the boat." Shorty was grinning now but Mike had lost interest in the long-winded tale and was concentrating on the bowl of peanuts in front of him. "Why does he have that boat out there, Billy?" Charlie asked.

The old man waited, watching as Ed placed a fresh bottle of beer in front of him. "Before SOMEONE butted-in, I was about to tell you boys about Aiden's older brother. He was a rounder, sort'a like his daddy. Just after the war, the brother run off with Doc Secrest's little nurse. She was a red-headed beauty but wild; she'd been a WAC in the South Pacific and them two caused quiet a ruckus around Tyro here, real scandalous goin's on. One time the two of them--"

"BULL HOCKEY!" Ed exclaimed and walked away in disgust.

"Go on, Billy," Charlie coaxed.

"Anyhow, once them two run off, only Aiden and his momma was left out there on that big place. I guess the boy built himself a boat just fer a hobby or somethin'."

"THAT'S IT?" Shorty asked, punctuating his question with a snort as Mike bent over the bar, pounding his fist on the surface as he whooped laughter.

"S'pose 'tis," Billy said, taking a long swig of beer. "Cap'n Ahab, that's what we started callin' him 'cause of that whale movie, he never come around much, just kept to himself out on his momma's place. I saw Cotton ask him about the boat once over to Isham's Hardware but 'ol Cap'n Ahab, he just looked at Cotton like he was a bug or somethin'."

Ed was sitting at a table behind the group watching Billy with a mock look of disgust. "Guess you boys will know better than to ask next time," he said.

"To the next time!" Billy shouted, raising his bottle in the air and even Ed the bartender had to laugh.

Nice to get new equipment now that the job's almost wrapped-up," Shorty grumbled as he lowered the truck's tailgate. Evanescent white-gray clouds marked the big man's every exhalation as he struggled to slide the empty storage cases from the snow-filled pickup bed to the frozen ground.

"No kidding," Charlie said, slipping off his gloves and rubbing them together fiercely to ward off the effects of the harsh December wind. "If Mike hadn't up and quit without notice, we'd have been out of here weeks ago."

"Well, I guess we learned our lesson," Shorty grinned, turning his wind-chapped face in Charlie's direction, "best to finish the north facing slopes first; even a Kansas mountain is cold when the snow flies!"

Charlie wished they had planned better, too. They were working at the crest of the highest elevation in the area. A wet, December snow was falling as the two struggled to secure their survey equipment in the plastic cases.

"Well, I'll just be ... " Shorty said, rising to his full height and peering over Charlie's shoulder. "Ain't that our old friend Captain Ahab's boat over yonder about a thousand meters?"

Charlie turned to take a look. He was holding a Pentax transit instrument and he instinctively raised the viewfinder to his eye. "That's it all right," he said as he stepped forward and peered through the telescope, "but I don't see Mr. Kennesaw around."

"It's a might cold for whale huntin', I suppose," Shorty snorted laughter.

"I suppose," Charlie repeated as he continued to examine the snow-covered boat in the distance. "He's got her flipped over now to protect her from the weather but ... "

"But what?" Shorty asked, shading his face with a meaty hand as he looked toward the boat, just visible in the gray, snowy distance.

"I think there's something lying under her. Here," he said handing the scope to Shorty, "take a look at that dark spot on the ground right in the middle of the boat. What's that look like to you?"

"Could be something under there," Shorty said, "but it's probably just a shadow." He lowered the scope and looked at Charlie. "Could be a dog or coyote or somethin' hiding under there, tryin' to stay out of the weather, I guess."

Charlie didn't answer for a moment as the two stood, rocked by the harsh Kansas wind. "I just ... sort of have a bad feeling about something, Shorty. I think we should drive over there and take a look. Old man Kennesaw could be hurt or something, I can't tell you exactly why, but I just think we ought to take a look."

The two men finished stowing their gear and drove the fencerow until they found a gate where they could enter the Kennesaw farm. Nearly twenty minutes passed before the four-wheel drive rolled to a quiet stop in the fresh snow-cover surrounding the Boston Whaler.

"This will just take a second," Charlie said, exiting the truck. He left the motor running, the heater on high. As Shorty watched from the passenger seat, Charlie dropped to one knee and peered under the boat. "Shorty, help me move this thing!" he shouted turning back toward the truck. "There's something under here!"

Feet sliding on the wet snow, the two men raised one end of the boat and moved it several feet. The boat concealed a narrow opening about two feet in diameter. The opening was ringed by a dark circle of bare, moist earth.

"What do you suppose--" Shorty began. "Is it a water well or --"

"I'll get a flashlight!" Charlie interrupted, shouting into the December wind as he ran across the slippery surface toward the truck. The young surveyor climbed into the cab and frantically searched behind the seat for a battery-powered lantern; he turned just in time to see Shorty's feet disappear into the dark maw of the well.

"OH, GOD!" Charlie screamed as he scrambled out of the truck. Covering the distance to the well in a matter of seconds, he switched on the light and focused the beam thirty feet below where his friend had crashed to the rocky floor.

"SHORTY! SHORTY! CAN YOU HEAR ME?" he shouted as the beam of the flashlight searched the huge, crumpled figure lying in the cramped space below.

Shorty was lying motionless. Charlie could see black blood pooling on the frozen, sandstone floor and as his heart pounded. Then, for an instant, he saw something else scattered on the floor around Shorty. He struggled to focus the light but at that moment a sickening, buzzing numbness stung the back of his bare neck and he fell to the snowy ground in a heap.

A swirling, blurred-eternity passed as Charlie lay on his back, the December snow slowly covering his bare face. Finally, Aiden Kennesaw came into focus standing over him, the yellowish-brown tint of the old man's sable eyes burning into him. The young man opened his mouth but only a distant gurgling sound escaped. The small rifle bullet had entered the back of Charlie's neck and nicked his spinal column before lodging in his larynx. A bullet from the same rifle had already killed Shorty.

"You shouldn't have come snooping around here, boy," Kennesaw said as he reached under Charlie's arms and lifted him.

Charlie's thoughts spun dizzily as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. Then, as he gazed up into Kennesaw's hideous eyes, he remembered the brownish-yellow pile of bones scattered on the floor around Shorty, bones that marked the final resting place of Kennesaw's missing father as well as his brother and the nurse from Doc Secrest's office.

"You were right about one thing, son," Kennesaw said, his tone flat and menacing. "My Boston Whaler here is a peach, isn't she?"

As Charlie fought in vain to move his paralyzed limbs, Aiden Kennesaw hoisted the young man over the narrow opening of the well and released him headfirst into the cold blackness below.

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Author Bio

Jess Butcher resides in Mississippi with his wife and two sons. Butcher's work has been featured in Redsine Magazine. In addition, his short stories appear online in numerous e-zines, including Dark Moon Rising, Shadow Keep, Steel Caves, Tantalus Fire, Terror Tales, Twilight Times, and The Harrow.

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