O'Creagh's Run

or, A Cabin by a Pond

Morning mist danced over the pond surface, carried by a faint northerly breeze. The sun rose just above the snow-capped mountains, igniting the dewdrops around O'Creagh's Run and the ancient cabin. The old man stepped outside his door, limping slightly on his wooden right leg, stretched and squinted into the sunlight and groaned a bit as his stiff muscles woke slowly. He reached back inside the door for his coffee pot and cup and walked out to the porch, absently pouring the freshly brewed beverage. He set the pot down on a small, wobbly wooden table and stood, sipping his steaming hot cup, letting the cool autumn air raise gooseflesh on his bare arms.

Tiny ripples disturbed the water in front of him as the buzzing insects woke up and were chased by the fish under the surface. He listened to the birds calling somewhere in the trees, and closed his eyes, breathing in the morning. With another small groan, he settled himself into the old chair next to the table and tapped his pipe on the side of the chair, shaking loose the burnt pieces of ash. He set the coffee down and picked up his leather pouch, delicately reaching in for a pinch of the sweet smelling tobacco, and proceeded to methodically pack the bowl. He lifted the bit to his lips and struck a match off the edge of the table, bringing the flame to the chamber and puffing vigorously until he saw the soft glow. He put his false leg up on the other chair, stretching out his knee. The work was very good, and no one would know at a glance that from just below the kneecap he was made of hickory and leather.

The old man leaned back with a contented sigh, shook out the match, and placed it on the table next to his mug. He let a slow stream of blue-white smoke escape his pursed lips and smiled to himself. The sun rose higher as he sipped his coffee and smoked his pipe, the pond now reflecting the light in a shimmering golden path. He heard a whinny and looked over at the side of the cabin.

Buell, his old horse, walked around the building in his typical unhurried manner, stopping for a moment to munch on the bullrush near the pond’s edge. After a few minutes, he turned and leveled his gaze at the old man. He snorted when the man didn’t move.

“Okay, you old mule,” laughed the old man. “Breakfast is coming.” He took another long drink of his coffee and stood with a groan and walked down the steps toward the cremello gold stallion. Buell had been his companion for nearly twenty years, and even though he was old as horses go, he was still as strong as ever and faster than most. He was also one of the most stubborn the old man had ever known, not to mention smart. “C’mon, old man,” he said, walking around the cabin to the small stable he had built. “Let’s get you fed before you get too ornery.” Buell huffed at him and followed closely behind, gently nudging him with his nose.

The old man entered the stable and went to one of the tied up bags in the corner among the hay. Buell waited patiently at the door, enjoying the warming sun on his coat. With an old coffee can full of oats, the man returned to his companion and rubbed the horse’s nose and ears, and fed him a handful of the dried treat.

“I’ve got a special treat for you inside, boy,” he said softly, rubbing Buell’s strong neck and shoulders. “You finish these up and I’ll be back, okay?” He poured the rest of the oats into the small trough he had built next to the stable and limped inside. His right hip ached a bit as he limped back towards the cabin door. With a sigh he called over his shoulder. “Don’t get old, Buell. It’s for the birds.”

Inside, the old man rummaged around the small kitchen and found what he had been looking for. He slipped it into his pocket and walked back outside, stopping to refill his coffee and take another long sip and relight his pipe. Buell wandered back to the stairs and waited expectantly.

“I picked this for you yesterday when you weren’t looking,” the old man said, walking back down the stairs gingerly. “You were too busy eyeballing that mare we saw. Now don’t deny it! She was a pretty one, I’ll give you that. But you are old enough to be her grandsire, so you had better behave yourself.” Buell ignored him and started sniffing around his pockets. “Okay, okay, you old goat. Here you go.” He produced a bright red apple from his pocket and Buell took it in one bite, happily crunching down on the ripe fruit. The old man patted his head and neck and got a nuzzle in return. Buell nickered softly, then turned and trotted off into the sunlight meadow just past the trees.

He stood for a while, leaning on the wooden post that supported the roof over the porch. He puffed on his pipe for a moment, looking out over the pond. It was a beautiful day. Maybe some fishing would be nice. Catch a big pike. A sockeye if he was lucky. He eyed his little canoe tied up on the small dock. Maybe later. He turned and made his way back up to his chair, letting himself fall back into it and one again putting his leg up. His coffee was lukewarm, so he topped it up with a splash from the pot and sipped contentedly.

The hum of the insects around the pond soothed him, and the far off bellows of moose and elk made him smile. The occasional yip and barking of the foxes and coyotes were the music to his world. He closed his eyes again, feeling the sun and breeze on his weathered skin.