This story happened before my time.  It may have been 50 years before my time, I don't know.  Considering that I am now 72 years old, you'll know that I have no firsthand knowledge of the affair, and I doubt that I ever knew anyone who did.

"How, then, can you write the story," you ask, "without any real knowledge of what happened?"

I only know what my mother told me, and what she felt.  I've adopted those feelings, I suppose, and can only look back upon them as possible facts.

The story concerns Mr. King.  I've tried to find him mentioned in the archives of the county, but there is a paucity of information.  If he had another name, no one knows what it was.  Mr. King he was, and Mr. King he'll be forever to those few who ever knew that he existed.

Mr. King lived up on "the Mountain Place."  The Mountain Place is a 70-acre field surrounded on three sides by evergreen woods.  It's my field.  As a boy I spent many hours up there enjoying the view and exploring the woods and the 8,000-foot mountains behind it.  I bought the property from my parents, so I've been intimately acquainted with the property ever since I learned how to walk.

From the top of the field you look straight down into the valley.  The view is magnificent, and the surrounding mountains are spectacular.  Mr. King must surely have loved the place like I do.

I never knew exactly where Mr. King's house was.  The old neighbor who was born around 1900 wasn't able to tell me, either.  Mr. King must have been before his time, too.  Mr. King might have been the one who cleared the land.  He probably made his living by making and selling firewood and rails.

Mr. King had a partner, but no wife.  He must have lived a solitary life.  The partner lived down on Rock Creek, so Mr. King was up there on the Mountain Place all alone.

One day Mr. King disappeared.  No one ever knew what became of him.  One rumor was that his partner did him in and buried him.  My mother always was of the opinion that Mr. King was under a rock pile near the top of the field.

That could be.  It's as good as any explanation.  But I have another theory.

As a boy I had a dangerous habit.  I'd go hiking up on the Mountain Place, and would look at the mountains, and would just take off in any direction that suited me.  I might end up on the summit of the mountain, itself.  I was perfectly at home in those woods, but nobody knew where I was.  I hadn't told a soul where I was going because I hadn't known when I set out.

And that was what was dangerous.  What if I'd slipped while crossing over a downed tree, and had broken my leg?  I'd have been immobilized there in some thick, dark spot miles from where anyone would have thought to look for me.

That's what I think happened to Mr. King.  I don't want to think that his partner did him in, though, of course, that's possible.  I'd rather think that Mr. King was like me.  He was independent, adventurous, and liked to explore.  He had no one to report to.  There was no one to worry about him.  He took off up the mountain, fell, broke his leg, and was unable to do anything but await death.  No one missed him.  No one went looking for him.  He was all alone in the world.  That's not an enviable situation.

"Remember Mr. King," my mother would sometimes say as I headed out the door for my daily adventure.  I remembered him, and thought about him as I hiked; but I wasn't able to tell my mother where to come looking for me if I didn't come home, because I didn't know where I was going.

I'm mildly surprised that in all of my wanderings I've never found Mr. King.  He's still up there somewhere.  Maybe he really is under that rock pile with no tombstone, no posterity, and no memories of his existence.

As they headed out the door, I've sometimes told my boys, "Remember Mr. King."  Maybe that made me, and them, more careful.

This is Mr. King's legacy, a warning for us to be careful, and to not do dumb things.