The muggy August air clung to Billy Buckhorn’s Cherokee skin like a wet blanket.
He and his best friend, Chigger, were night fishing on Lake Tenkiller in eastern Oklahoma.
This region, part of the old Cherokee Nation, was filled with rivers, creeks, and lakes.
All nestled between heavily wooded hills.
“Drop that light down closer to the water,”
Billy said in a loud whisper.
Chigger let out a few more inches of rope until the camping lantern almost touched the water’s still surface.
sixteen-year-old Billy replied.
Chigger, also sixteen, tied off the rope and picked up his fishing pole.
Night fishing was one of Billy’s favorite things to do in the summer.
Well, really, he liked fishing any time of day or night, any time of year.
And hunting, too, for that matter.
He liked Cherokee bowhunting the best.
Billy had learned these skills from his Cherokee grandfather, Wesley.
From somewhere off in the murky distance along the lake’s shoreline, the boys heard the snap of a breaking branch and a rustling of leaves.
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