Witch Clan: Warriors! - John Stormm (best thriller books to read txt) 📗

Willard was busily hanging cupboards in the unfinished kitchen. He had a few shelves to set in place, some doors to hang and then clean up. The new, attic apartment would be ready for occupation before noon. He had walked the city inspector through yesterday, and it passed for its certificate of occupancy. Whitey Schneider was hobbling up the steps on his crutches to come inside and look at the handiwork. Willard shook his head and smiled. Whitey had the better part of one leg blown off in a mortar attack back in the Korean conflict. One leg or no legs, that man wouldn't let anything stop him from going anywhere or doing anything he wanted to.

"Have you seen any sign of our new tenant yet, Willie?" Whitey asked, leaning on his crutches.

"Not yet, but the day's still young," he said. "I've got your rental papers for him on the shelf over there, for when he shows up. I'm still going to be here a while to hang the doors and sweep up. Why don't you take in a foot race or something, and I'll get the papers to you if I can catch up with you later."

"I just wanted to be sure that everything is ship shape for our new tenant," Whitey said, looking about.

"He must be pretty special," Willard said, "if you're making all this fuss over him. He seems like a quiet and friendly type of guy."

"You don't get around much at the V.F.W. hall these days," Whitey said with a chuckle. "Our Mr. Little Fox registered with us and we helped get his records. He's the talk of the hall. A genuine war hero."

"You don't say," Willard said, stopping a moment to look at his friend. "He's such a soft spoken, little fella, I'd never have taken him for entering even contact sports."

"Oh, don't let his size and demeanor fool you," Whitey said with a mirthful gleam in his eyes. "This fellow was some kind of commando back in the Korean conflict. His record's got pages of citations and medals on it. In his last battle, he had attached himself to a division that was fighting a holding action on a hill. In one day, that quiet, little man, personally killed over three hundred Chinese and North Korean soldiers. Some with his rifle. Some with their rifles, and the rest with a trenching tool, like it was a tomahawk or something."

"So, he really is some kind of Injun then," Willard asked.

"Don't let the blue eyes fool you either," Whitey said laughing. "His papers say he's a Mohawk from up north. Hey, I'm here to tell you, if there were more Indians like John, we'd be the ones living on the reservations. Personally, I couldn't be prouder if Eisenhower was renting this apartment himself. If he comes in and thinks he wants the shelves on the other wall. You go ahead and do the work and I'll pay for it without question. I want it perfect for him here."

"I'll keep that in mind," Willard said. "Now, how about you go run that footrace, and I'll get back to work making our new friend comfortable. I'll get those papers right to you when he comes."

"Thanks Willie," Whitey said, as he gimped towards the stairs. "You're the best, buddy."

Willard pondered the new tenant as he finished hanging shelves and doors. Since they had gotten Johnny back from California, Emma had taken a greater interest in her Native heritage and had even taken the children to the museum and several other exhibits and shows to school them about it. She had mentioned how some day, the boy would have an Indian mentor, among others, and the introduction of a genuine Indian war hero moving in across the street struck him as being more than a little serendipitous. He'd have to be sure to mention this to her later. The real test would be if Johnny likes this guy.

"It's very nice," a low quiet voice said from the doorway, startling him.

Standing in the doorway, was a small, athletically built man, a little over five feet tall with close cropped black hair, a hawk beak nose and bright blue eyes. He was dressed in a short sleeved, white polo shirt, casual black slacks and a pair of penny loafers. His mouth was a straight gash that cut across his face and turned up at the corners to smile.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Little Fox," he said, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

The smaller man stepped forward and took his hand in a firm, friendly squeeze and smiled broadly, looking about the new kitchen.

"Call me John, please," the younger man said. "The mister stuff makes me uncomfortable, like wearing a tie or something."

"I know just what you mean," he said. "I'm Willard, but Whitey and some of my friends just call me Willie. I don't mind either of those, as long as I'm not called too late for dinner."

"I know just what you mean," John said, rubbing his tummy meaningfully. "I'm sorry, I got here a little earlier than I expected. Could I give you a hand with anything?"

"I'll tell you what," he said. "You take care of those rental papers for Whitey, and help me hang these doors and sweep up the sawdust, and I'll help you move in your things and treat you to a first rate, home cooked meal with me and the missus. We only live across the street."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to be all that much trouble," John said.

"Good," Willard said, smacking him on the back, "then you won't turn me down and get me in trouble with my missus for not having you over for dinner."

With John's help, the work went by in no time at all. Willard helped empty the U-Haul trailer by carting boxes up the stairs. About midway through the morning, Johnny showed up out in front of the house.

"I finished Mrs. Clark's yard," Johnny said. "Grandma said to come over and see if you needed any help moving stuff, and to tell you both that lunch will be ready on the front porch in an hour from now."

"Well, boyo," Willard said. "You're just in time to take this box up all those stairs to our new neighbor. His name is John, too." Willard sat down on the back of the trailer to catch his breath a moment.

"Hey, we got more help, I see," John said, emerging from the side door to his apartment.

"This is my grandson, Johnny," Willard said, "and Johnny, this is John Little Fox, our new neighbor."

"Little Fox?" Johnny asked. "That's an Indian name, isn't it?"

"I'm Mohawk," John said with a smile, "from northern New York. Would you like to help me set up my citizen band radio? It's in that box you're carrying."

"Really?" Johnny asked, excitedly. "I've always wanted to see one of these. I've been reading a series of books called "The Radio Boys" and they get into ham radios and stuff like that."

"In that case," John said, companionably, "you'll probably have to stop by sometimes after I get home from work and I'll show you how the thing works."

"Could I?" Johnny asked, wide eyed.

"First, we get him moved in," Willard said. "And then we go get that lunch on the front porch. Then we get into hobbies."

"Sure thing, Grandpa," Johnny said, and dashed away with the box.

The boy had endless energy for running up and down the stairs with all those boxes. No sooner had Willard handed him or John off with one, Johnny was back for another. By the time Emma and Leona had made an appearance out on the porch with trays of sandwiches and a pitcher of cold root beer, the trailer was empty.

“Well, boys,” Willard said in mock solemnity, “Duty calls us and we have to go do justice to those trays of sandwiches as best we are able.”

“We’ll do our level best, not to let you down, sir,” John said, smiling and giving a snappy salute.

“We will eat them on the porches,” Johnny said, mimicking a famous speech, “We will eat them on the front steps. We will eat them in the kitchen...”

“Aw, c’mon there Mr. Churchill,” Willard said, pulling him along. “We’ll just eat them now.”

Introductions made all around, the men set into inhaling the myriad of cold cut sandwiches and tall glasses of cold, homemade root beer. The conversation was lively and with two "Johns" on the porch. the subject of names had to come up.

"Little Fox doesn't sound like any Mohawk name that I can recall," Emma said thoughtfully.

"It's not," John replied. "I got my Indian name from a Cherokee medicine man who had mentored me back in the service, and took it on as my legal name."

"Proud of the heritage," Emma commented with a smile.

"And why shouldn't I be?" John quipped. "I was brought up on the Akwesasne Reservation up north, and it took a while to find myself as a young man. I had help on the way, and when I found myself, I was an Indian. The Creator has been very kind to me."

"My father was Iroquois," Emma replied. "Though I was born and raised in my mother's clan as an Irish Celt. My father taught me as a child that we were