I drink too much and I do a little pot. Sometimes I ramble on about the jungle war I fought when I was young, about Viet Nam. Folks hereabouts think I’m crazy and stay away. That’s just fine with me. It’s one reason I live alone in a cabin on the mountain. I’ve seen things up here that have made me think I really am crazy. Men walk the ridge tops at night. They’re dressed in strange uniforms and carry arms. I keep these sightings to myself.
My niece, Allie, lives in the old Johnson farmhouse hunched up against the mountain. She’s the only person I give a damn about and I watch over her. When she told me wild tales about her new man, a soldier, I wanted to meet him. I sized up the guy, then asked him straight out, “Did you really march with Stonewall Jackson? Don’t shit me, son.”
Dan Fields told me the strangest story I’d ever heard, but I believed him. (REBEL TRAVELER)
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