Strangers turned a quiet fishing trip into a dangerous evening at a remote creek in Nebraska. Quick thinking gave my son and me the upper hand.
The evening started off well enough. My son and I were fishing on a secluded creek bank not far from the Missouri River, and we already had a channel catfish on a stringer. The sun was low on the tree line behind us, casting a crescendo of reds and oranges over the tranquil landscape.
I had made a fire ring near the water’s edge a few summers prior, and flames danced inside the circle as a soft breeze made its way through the brush. My son, around eight years old at the time, stoked the coals with a stick as we both waited on the next bite.
The low hum of an approaching car snapped me from a trance. As a youngster growing up in remote places, I was taught to be wary of other people. Most just want to be left alone, but some are happy to bring trouble to your doorstep just because no one else is around to stop them. Few knew of this fishing spot, and I was certain none of my friends were heading out this way tonight. I gave my son a glance as the we heard the mystery vehicle pull into the nearby clearing and park.
I have run into my fair share of bullies over the years. I quickly determined I was going to be dealing with a few more that fine evening.
As soon as I heard doors open and boots hit the ground, the yelling and obscenities started. The message – as inarticulate and crude as it may have been delivered – was clear in its intent: Our visitors had decided that they owned our stretch of water, and they aimed to move us out.
I may talk slow, but I think on my feet. The clearing was a little over 50 yards to the west, and the trail to the creek ended about five yards to my right. They had to grab all their gear, so that gave me ample time to prepare. I moved my son to my left and made certain I was positioned where smoke didn’t cloud my view of the trailhead. I wanted them to get an unobstructed look at me once they came into the open, particularly my right hip.
I always wear a gun belt in lonely areas where it’s legal. On this occasion, I had a .45 caliber Ruger Vaquero single-action revolver hanging in a Buscadero rig. I still have the pistol. It has a stainless-steel finish, which is great for when I’m in the elements. Its reflective surface also makes it impossible to miss in any sort of light.
Once our visitors were within 25 yards of the creek, I stood up from my fold-out stool, took off my cap and peeked above the brush. I counted three middle-aged men, all without visible weapons in hand or on their person. The loudest one was in the lead, still hurling threats toward the water. I put my cap back on and sat down, taking time to remove the holster thong from the Vaquero’s hammer.
Mike Tyson once said everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. I can tell you from experience that he’s right. You can knock a man on his heels, though, without ever laying hands on him.
Once the belligerent fools cleared the brush, it became as silent as before they arrived. I was turned halfway toward the trailhead with my right hand resting on my belt, and the Vaquero was catching all those sunset colors. I nodded my head in greeting. They looked like they had seen a ghost.
From then on, I guess they decided I was the one who owned that stretch of water. They asked for my permission to fish, and I granted it. The man walking in the lead was predictably the real troublemaker. He was one of those typical hot-headed drunks. He moved as far down the creek bank as he could. I never heard another spoken word from him and his associate the rest of the evening, and I was listening.
The third member of their party was a friendly drifter from somewhere back east. He happened to have fell in with them for a short time on his way to Colorado. He shared the fire with us for a brief spell. Before I left, I cleaned the catfish on the stringer and handed him one of the filets. I doused the flames, shouted an “adios” down the bank, and checked our back trail the whole way out.
We never saw them again. It turns out a six-gun can be quite useful without it ever leaving the leather.
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