By JOHN TUCKER

That summer of 1884 seemed the longest ever. And in the autumn the warm days crowded back the crisp cooler ones to come. The rolling hills blossomed as one grand bouquet in russet, yellow, orange and red as the trees reluctantly yielded up their summer green.

And down amongst a grove of maples, only three miles from the town of Cobourg, a wisp of smoke curled up through the colorfully bedecked branches, it reached the tips of the trees and then drifted off into the early evening blue of the sky.

Jack Holden poked gingerly at the burning logs of his campfire. He busied himself getting his dinner. It was not much, a small partridge roasting on a spit and a can of beans. The bird turned over as Jack poked at it occasionally. The beans, nestled in red and white embers, bubbled and steamed.

Jack was tired. It had been a long day. He had hunted since dawn, pausing only a moment at noon, by the sun, to munch on a sandwich from his pack.

He had found a cozy sheltered break in the thick forest and had stopped for the approaching nightfall. The clearing was only ten feet in diameter. A nice spot to spend the night. Jack cleaned off a particularly flat grassy verge and with a flip rolled out his sleeping bag. He stood his rifle against a nearby tree.

He tasted the beans, then pushed them off the coals and placed them on a rock. He pulled at a wing on the partridge. It moved easily. Done, he thought, and he reached for his mess kit.

A sharp crack split the air.

Jack paused, motionless.

A scream rent the air.

He leaped to his feet, grabbing his rifle as he moved. He swiftly and silently threaded his way through the trees in the direction of the sounds. Now he heard crunching and thrashing. The sound could not be more than 40 yards away.

The forest was intensely silent now, but for the sound of Jack’s movements, and these were audible only to him. He moved forward stealthily.

Then he stopped. He stood for a moment and listened. To his right he heard the heavy heaving of breath, then a muttered voice. In that direction was a small hill only six feet at its height. Jack moved quietly to its crest. He paused again. Then he slowly moved his head so that his eyes came to rest on the scene below.

The hill gradually sloped down over a distance of 20 feet. At the bottom two men were locked in a fierce struggle.

Jack could see that one was slight. The other was immense. He seemed to have the power of a grizzly. Even as this thought flashed in Jack’s mind, the big man picked up the smaller in a vise like bear hug. They were face to face now. Grunting and snarling like a beast, the large man tightened his grip as though to break the back of the other man.

“Drop him”, shouted Jack. The sound of his own voice startled him. He has not spoken to anyone for two days. He levelled his rifle steadily on the figures below.

The head of the beast snapped around, searching the rim of the forest.

Their eyes locked. A wicked smile spread across the face of the beast. He dropped his quarry. The man lay like a rag doll on the floor of the forest.

Silence reigned for what seemed an eternity. Then suddenly a knife flashed in the upraised hand of the beast and he plunged it with a thud into the chest of the inert figure beneath him.

For many seconds, Jack stood transfixed by the scene below. He had not fired. Even now his muscles refused to respond.

They gazed at one another for one infinite minute. Then the killer lunged at Jack.

With an explosion, Jack’s gun recoiled. The brown derby resting on the head of the killer flipped back and tumbled into the trees. There was no time to reload. Jack wheeled and fairly bolted down the hill.

Jack was fast. He raced through the forest dodging trees as he went. He heard the crashing of underbrush behind him. He ran for his life. His encampment flashed by as he raced through the forest.

Shortly he heard a yowl and, still on the run, he cast a backward glance. The killer had planted his foot in the glowing embers. The roasting partridge seemed to take flight, the boiling brown beans spouted in an arc over the clearing.

The killer moved relentlessly, like a locomotive, crushing all in his path.

For 20 minutes Jack ran steadily. His chest ached as he panted for breath.

Darkness fell suddenly in the forest, casting shadows among the tall maples. As he ran Jack heard his own feet crunch the crisp leaves underfoot. The footsteps following him were like an echo.

The moon slid behind a heavy cloud. Utter darkness. A brook gurgled peacefully only paces away, and beyond rested a huge boulder. If I stop he may think I have crossed to the other side to hide behind the boulder, thought Jack. He wheeled left and stopped suddenly, pressing his back against the far side of the enormous trunk of a tree.

He could hear the killer as he crashed through the underbrush. He heard the chuffing of his breath. Then suddenly, silence.

Jack edged his way around the trunk of the tree and carefully peered back. He saw the killer, his chest heaving, his hand against the boulder as he looked up and down the stream. Then he held his breath and listened.

Jack thought his own breathing could be heard for a mile. He stopped until his lungs were ready to burst. Just before he released his breath, the killer moved off following a path downstream.

Jack expelled his breath and bend over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

–This is an excerpt from The Legend of Canada Jack by John Tucker, a retired judge now living in Victoria. To read the rest of Tucker’s book, visit northshoreoutlook.com

NEXT WEEK: Chapter 2