A Rendezvous to Die For Read Free Page A

jeans. Then, with new cards
inserted into each of the cameras, I headed back to the contest
grounds, arriving just in time to see the contest get under way.
    It probably wasn’t written in
’hawk throwing rules, but every contestant sauntered in an
identical walk to the throwing line. The all-male group stood
motionless for a few seconds, squinting at the target. Then they
swiveled their heads and, to a man, spit out a brown arc of tobacco
juice. The spitting ritual over, they wiped their hands on their
trousers, and then held their long-handled ’hawks in front of them
shoulder high, while they took a bead on the target. The target was
about fifteen yards in front of the throwing line. I’d seen one
like it in my landlord’s yard—a foot-thick cutout from a fat,
ten-foot round tree, propped up on its side.
    Once they had sized up the
target, the marksmen stepped forward, at the same time lifting their
throwing arms above their heads. Depending on each of their personal
styles, they took either two or three steps and then threw the ax
with a powerful swing. The axes flew end-over-end toward the target.
About one out of three struck the target and remained imbedded.
    Finally, Tomahawk Pete was
announced—the thrower I’d heard about from Ground Kisser and the
one who had held up the competition. I watched as a husky, bearded
man strolled up to the throwing line and began the same ritual as the
contestants before him. I focused my long lens on the thrower and
suddenly did a double-take. Tomahawk Pete was my landlord, Marty
Madigan! Now I knew why his weird backyard hobby was throwing
tomahawks.
    Today, his aim seemed to be off.
Maybe he was flustered because, as the latecomer, he had held up the
competition. His throws were only good enough for third place. After
the points were tallied and announced, I searched for him on the
sidelines. “Too bad about the contest,” I said. “I heard you
were the favorite to win.”
    He snatched off his slouch hat
and ran his fingers through his wavy gray hair. “Aw, hell,” he
said, “I’d have had a better chance if I could have found the
tomahawk I usually use. I searched high and low for it. Couldn’t
find it.” He slapped his hat across his knee.
    “ Isn’t one ’hawk as good as
another?”
    “ Mine’s special,” he said,
leaning his elbows on his knees. “I have my ’hawks made by a
blacksmith in town. The blade is weighted and shaped the way I want
it. I even have him tap some nail studs in a particular design at the
end of the handle. When I’m not using it in competition, I hang
leather fringe on the end of it.”
    “ Don’t ’hawk handles break
easily?” I asked, drawing on the little information I’d gleaned
from other onlookers of the competition.
    Marty fingered the ’hawk he’d
used that morning, stroking the wood. “Not mine. My handles are
made out of black walnut. I’ve had the same handle on that ’hawk
I lost for more than a year. I expected to have it for another year .
. . or even more than that.”
    “ Well, I hope it shows up,” I
said, turning to leave. “Better luck next time.”
    Eager
to take a break from the Rendezvous events, I decided to maneuver
towards the tribe’s encampment to “shoot a few Indians,” as
Eric had sarcastically suggested. One good thing . . . I hadn’t
seen anything of that menacing creep since our earlier confrontation.
Maybe the Rendezvous was big enough for both of us.
    I strolled along a well-worn path
that cut through the woods surrounding the clearing and found it
enjoyably quiet, after all the Rendezvous activity. Birds were
singing in the chokecherry trees and I could hear the rippling river
somewhere to the left of me, making its way to the mighty
Mississippi.
    As the pathway petered out, I
could see a couple of teepees that had been erected in a stand of
tall pines on a rise above the river. No one seemed to be around. I
searched for the sweat lodge, knowing it should be closer to the
river,