Free An Embarrassment of Riches by James Howard Kunstler Page A

an attitude out upon the limb, hand on hip, jaw stuck out, Kentucky rifle held akimbo. His posturing reminded me of the tableaux vivants of the New York theaters.
    Uncle gazed at him as an old owl might regard some passing curiosity of the forest. Bilbo looked up with undisguised suspicion. Neddy growled lowly. It was impossible to interpret the look on Bessie’s face other than that of an hare stunned by the light of a poacher’s lamp.
    â€œW-w-who are you, stranger?” Bilbo inquired timidly. The intruder struck a new pose. I was amazed that he could balance himself so easily upon the limb with nothing to hold on to.
    â€œWho am I?” the stranger echoed him and struck yet a new attitude, one of self-bemused incredulity. “Some call me Pathfinder. Some call me Deerslayer. Others know me as Natty-o’-the-wilds. The Injun calls me O-wari-aka Yunno-kwat-haw.”
    â€œâ€™Tis Tuscarora,” Uncle explained aside, while our visitor struck new tableaux.
    â€œWhat’s it mean?” Bilbo asked.
    â€œThe rough translation would be White Buffalo Mystery Man,” Uncle said.
    â€œWhat shall we call you?” I inquired.
    â€œYou may call me …” he paused portentously, “… Woodsman.” His face lit up in an immense smile of satisfaction. With that, he leaped acrobatically from his perch and landed upon his feet as though he weighed little more than a bird. “Do I detect ragout of opossum?” he said, sniffing the air, and with a flutter of his long-lashed eyelids.
    â€œYou do, sir,” Bilbo avouched, a trifle coolly. “Would you do us the honor of joining in our repast?”
    â€œThe honor is mine,” the Woodsman said and sat down immediately by the fireside, legs crossed in the Indian style. He produced from his necessaries pouch a buffalo horn cup and a carved horn spoon. Bilbo ladled him a portion of the stew and he sampled it with attendant groans and hums of delectation. “Why, this is first-rate,” he pronounced. “But you have used a freshly killed varmint in it. I can tell.”
    â€œNaught but the best will suit our company,” Bilbo boasted.
    â€œI admire the sentiment, friend, but nothing flavors a ragout so well as a ’possum hung a few days. It gives the sauce a piquancy like none other. I learnt the recipe from my friends, the Wyandots, who esteem the critter above all other viands save buffalo’s tongue and wolf’s liver.”
    â€œHave you ever, by chance, seen such a prodigy as this?” I asked, hastily producing my sketch of megatherium.
    â€œWhy, I have wrestled with them by the legions,” the Woodsman declared. “And won each match, by our George.”
    â€œYou have!” said I, astounded. “Do you know what this portrait is supposed to represent?”
    â€œBeaver, o’course,” he stated with certainty, then stole another glance at the paper. “Isn’t it?”
    â€œâ€™Tis megatherium,” I informed him. “Or ground sloth. As big as an ox. A massive but retiring brute who dwells in caves.”
    The Woodsman studied the sketch carefully once again, scratching his brow.
    â€œMight I have a glance, friend?” Bilbo asked unctuously, and the stranger obliged by handing it over. The pirate examined the sketch with complete absorption, brought it close to his eyes, held it out at arm’s length, turned it to one side, then the other, and finally turned it upside down, all the while pursing his lips and uttering noises of cogitation. “Hmmmmmmm … hummmmmm … huhhhhhh … hmmmmmm …”
    â€œI admit the sketch is crude.”
    â€œâ€™Tis a queer-looking devil,” he concluded.
    â€œThink of the fortune in pelts, Bilbo,” I added, trying to excite his cupidity. “Why, ’twould compare to your former silkworm prospects as a gold mine to a mere doubloon.”
    At the mention of the word