Madman Run

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The scorching July sun was perched at its zenith above the northern Minnesota landscape. A slight breeze provided scant relief from the heat, occasionally stirring a leaf in the verdant forest. Birds sang gaily and insects buzzed, indicating there were no predators abroad.

Three youths were hiking to the southeast at a brisk pace, despite the temperature. All three carried backpacks, and all three were armed to the proverbial teeth.

In the lead walked a teenager whose features revealed his Indian ancestry. The blood of the Blackfeet flowed in his veins, and perhaps it was due to his biological inheritance that he had always excelled at hunting and trapping. He wore torn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that fit his stocky frame snugly. Tucked under his brown leather belt were two tomahawks, one on either hip. He held a Winchester 30-30 in his left hand.

“Whose bright idea was this, anyway?” he asked while swatting a fly the size of his thumb.

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