Atonement

Written by Kevin Schmitt,   

author of The Bear and Eagle Affair.

Chapter One

In the midst of a forest primeval, two men trudged silently on a ribbon of open ground that still held thousands of road stones under refuse made from plants and rain. Young trees luxuriating in the strong sunlight threatened to close in on the old Spanish trail, now that the treasure wagons were a thing of the past. Men carrying mail and perhaps the odd barrel of rum would contribute a cut or two with an ax, and in this way the land route between Portobello and Panama City could live another year.

  The man with the Brown Bess musket didn’t much care for jungles, unless they were the kind that might hide scantily clad women. Tahiti was the first such place to come to mind, but it was not the last as the two men followed the sun from east to west. The fighting man was attired much like a sailor, with a baggy white blouse and dark sea trousers. He hiked in a type of sandal that he had purchased back on the east side of the steamy isthmus. In a backpack he carried his boots, and a few other items that a traveling man might need after leaving the tropics.

   He was perhaps five foot nine in height, with muscles that were suited for a fight or flight existence. Facially, he looked like a man approaching middle age, but his well conditioned musculature put him right around thirty, and if there had ever been any trace of boyish innocent in those dark gray eyes---they had long since disappeared. The man sported a forehead scar, but it did not create a sinister appearance except on those occasions when he was about to take a human life. The man was no Scandinavian, but with sun bleached brownish hair he most certainly stood in contrast with his ebony crowned Indian companion. The native guide was of Wounaan descent, but his clan was nothing now; like blood poured into a swift stream. The guide pointed to a tree some ten feet from the trail and his companion noted the bright piece of cloth that had been nailed to its south side.

   “This is it,” Ramiro stated in a low voice. “Not worry. I not be long.”

    The bigger man didn’t respond. He was all done arguing. But the cloth marker suggested to him that it was time to decide who’s counsel he would bet his hide on; and that decision took all but two seconds to make. He relocated himself, and continued to scan the dank and depressing surroundings.

   The perpetual gloom limited the number of plant species that could survive on the forest floor, but there was a mosaic of competing moss like plant formations that gave ground only to the heartiest ferns. The giant creepers were everywhere, presenting a curtain effect that would give a white man a fifty foot radius of vision between trees.  From the darkness under the forest canopy the creepers would ascend the trees until they could obtain their share of sunlight. Most were easy enough to cut, but some varieties were damn hard. Ramiro never wasted time or energy on anything. He knew what not to dull his blade on, and he knew where not to step.

    At his destination he quickly gathered up twenty fistfuls of hibiscus. Then he backtracked so that his machete arm could remain silent. As he neared the trail his steps became stealthy. The birds told him that the man with the handsome scar on his face was no fool. Perhaps he should have listened to him.

   Perhaps.

Continued  HERE  (click)