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I'd known Buddy Burton since I could remember, he was an old man before I was born, but now thirty-five years later, he was ancient. He had deeply tanned, wrinkled leathery skin, sparse white hair, and was as contrary as a mule, and damn near as stubborn. He was in polite terms a rascal, and from accounts given by my father and others in the community, much more than that. A living legend in our community, with a history of fighting, drinking, poaching, and anything else that fell in between, Mister Buddy was by all accounts a rounder. But, by the time I came to know him, he'd calmed down considerable and I knew only the gruff old man who would tell fascinating stories and allow me to hunt on the best damn dove field in south Georgia.He had become a surrogate grandfather to me, and eventually my sons as well, and we loved him with a fury.Born sometime in the late twenties, he was raised dirt poor on a depression era farm, served in the Army during the world war, and come home to bury. As the sun started descending toward the horizon they approached the backcountry campsite the rangers had pointed out for them on the map.When they neared the site they noticed 2 tents were already set up and some camping gear was scattered about like the occupants had left in a hurry. They approached carefully and looked the place over."I don't see any blood," Carl said poking at the now cold fire pit with his walking stick."You are so morbid sometimes," Don pointed out. He suddenly froze in his tracks as he opened one of the tents and looked inside. "Dude you better look at this."Carl rushed over and looked inside the tent. There was a sleeping back and pack along with some men's clothes lying out. It took a second look for Carl to realize what Don was talking about. The front of the shirt on the floor was torn and the buttons were gone or hanging loosely. The pants had rips down the sides as well and there was a strange, not unpleasant, odor in the air.They quickly moved over to.
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