Ned shook his head. “I’m not quite finished yet, Connor. I can be longwinded sometimes. So bear with me. When word reached this town that Bobby’s remains were found, a vicious rumor spread throughout Copeland. The townspeople accused Bobby of being a deserter and Nazi sympathizer. Some people even said he was never really missing, that he denounced his U.S. citizenship and lived out his days willingly in Germany.”
“That’s awful, Grandpa. Why would someone start a rumor like that?”
Ned shook his head. “I haven’t the foggiest idea. And would you believe only the Hoxley family and Rose attended Bobby’s funeral? Not one resident from Copeland attended. They all believed the lie. So Connor, this is your chance to right a terrible wrong. At least your classmates can know the truth. And this is your chance to honor Bobby, a true war hero and the finest patriot I’ve ever known.”
“I’ll do it, Grandpa Ned. I’ll make you proud. But there is one thing I have always wondered. Maybe you can answer it.”
Ned looked at Connor fondly. The young man reminded him so much of Bobby. “I’ll take a stab at it.”
“Why do the nicest people die so young, people like Bobby?”
“I’ve often wondered the same thing, Connor. Maybe it’s because at their funeral we learn of all the great things they did while alive. God uses their death and legacy as a way to motivate us to love others and live better lives.”
Connor got up to his feet and hugged Ned. “Grandpa, everyone in this room treasures you. You don’t have to die to leave behind a legacy. You’re living out your legacy right now.”
Ned squeezed his great-grandson as tight as his frail arms would allow. Tears coursed down his wrinkled face. “Thank-you, Connor. Your kind words are the nicest birthday gift I’ve ever received.”
Epilogue
Atchafalaya Basin—September
Chris Mouton tried to shake off his disappointment. He hadn’t caught a single alligator all day. He’d experienced days like this before, but this was the first time he’d taken his eleven-year-old son out hunting with him. And he’d hoped for better luck. Danny sat in the bow with shoulders hunched. He looked bored, even a little mad.
They’d been on the water since sunrise checking lines. And so far not a single line hung down in the water. The rotting chicken he used for bait still clung to the large hooks and attracted only flies. Worse, only one more line remained to be checked.
Mouton glanced at his watch; saw that it was after four pm. They would need to turn back soon. Hunting this deep in the Basin at this hour wasn’t wise. He didn’t want to get caught in the dark. Besides the danger of low visibility, alligator hunting ran from sunrise to sunset. Mouton didn’t want a conservation agent to issue him a citation.
Danny suddenly perked up. “Hey, Dad, a line is down,” he said, pointing toward a sapling doubled over along the bank.
Mouton looked in the direction Danny pointed. He didn’t see the half-chicken he used as bait, and the line disappeared into the muddy water. He smiled. “We got us a gator, Danny. We didn’t get shut out.” Mouton guided his aluminum, flat-bottomed boat over to the submerged line.
“Get the rifle, Danny,” Mouton instructed.
Danny reached down and grabbed up an old Ruger .22 caliber rifle. Scratches covered the gun’s stock and attested to its age and reliability.
“Slide the safety off and get ready. Do you remember the spot to aim at?”
Danny nodded. “I shoot right behind the hard plate of the skull, or straight behind the eyes.”
Mouton smiled. “Excellent answer, you were paying attention.” Mouton cut the power to his motor and allowed the boat to drift up near the line. He grabbed the 1/4 inch rope he used as line. He looked over at his son. Danny had the rifle up to his shoulder. He peered through the sights.
“Here we go. Let’s see what we got,” Mouton said. He slowly pulled up on the line, hand over hand. The weight on the other end felt enormous. “I think we got us a big gator, Danny.”
The beast’s snout came into view, but before it broke the surface giving his son a chance to shoot, the alligator went berserk, rolling and thrashing and spraying them with water. Danny jerked back.
“This one has some fight in him. But he’ll tire out.” Mouton felt the alligator dive back down. Their boat turned directions.
“He’s pulling us around, Dad!” Danny cried.
“They do that sometimes. But we’re not going anywhere and neither is the gator.” Mouton reeled in the line once more. He wore gloves to keep the line from cutting his palms and to aid his grip.
The gator thrashed against the boat, rolling so violently that it was all Mouton could do to hang on and not fall out. The gator dove back down into the depths to gather its waning energy. Mouton let out a deep breath and readied himself for the next assault.
“Here he comes again, Danny. Get ready. We’re going to get him this time. I can tell he’s wearing out.”
The alligator surged above the surface. Its snout thumped against the hull. Mouton watched Danny place the gun into position right above the sweet spot. The rifle cracked. And the alligator went limp.
“Great shot, son,” Mouton praised.
“Is he dead?”
Mouton nodded. “He’s not coming back either.”
“How are we going to get it up into the boat, Dad? It’s huge.”
“We roll it into the boat.” Mouton hauled the alligator’s snout up as high as he could and then grabbed a front leg. Grab his other front leg, Danny.”
“Okay, I got it, Dad.”
“Now, just start rolling and lifting at the same time.”
It took three concerted attempts before the dead alligator flopped entirely into the boat. The boat dipped into the water with all the added weight. “Man, this guy wore me out, Danny,” Mouton panted.
“How big is it, do you think?”
“I’d say he’s close to thirteen feet long. And I bet he’ll weigh around 800 pounds, maybe 900.”
“What’s wrong with his skin?”
Mouton studied the beast’s hide. There were several nicks in various places on the alligator. “It looks like he’s been fighting. Males are solitary and will often defend their territory against other males.” Mouton noticed Danny’s face pucker into a frown. And then the boy’s nose crinkled up. “What’s the matter, Danny?”
“Something stinks around here. Do you smell it?”
“The swamp always has a fishy smell about it.”
“No, Dad, it smells like something is dead and rotting.”
Mouton sniffed the air. “Yeah, I smell it now.”
Danny pointed a finger. “It’s coming from over there.”
Curious, Mouton put his trolling motor down into the water. He guided the boat over to a bank covered in tall grass and buzzing with flies. And then he saw it right away. A corpse lay half-hidden in the grass. The body had no legs and very little skin. What skin remained flapped on the skull. Birds had plucked the eyes from the corpse. Both skeletal hands were raised above the body’s head. Each bony palm clutched a gold coin.
Mouton heard his son swear. Normally he would’ve reprimanded his son. But Mouton nearly swore himself. Something did a number on this person, he thought. And maybe it was this gator we just caught.
“Dad, those coins are really old looking. And they look like…gold.”
Mouton leaned over as far as he could without falling out and, using his gloved hands, pried the coins from the corpse’s hands. He looked them over. Sweat beaded on his brow. His stomach clenched. “They’re Spanish doubloons. And they’re definitely gold.”