Bluetick Revenge (17 page)

“You probably don’t like football,” I said. “Too many niggers.”

“The Broncos got a Jew, too,” Scott said. “Don’t forget about that.”

“You’ve been warned,” Skull said. He turned and started to walk away, but one of his goons made the mistake of spitting on
Scott, and the fight was on. It didn’t last long. From his seated position, Scott punched the spitter in the groin, and when
the spitter bent over Scott executed a palm heel strike to the area between the man’s mouth and nose. That was that. I covered
Skull and the third skinhead with my Glock to make sure they didn’t become involved.

The spitter was on the floor, blood dripping out of his mouth and nose. Skull and the other one helped him up and began to
assist him in walking toward the door. “I hope the Aryan Resistance has a good dental plan,” Scott said to them.

In between the time the skinheads left and the time the patrol car pulled up, we listened to the incident on tape on my microcassette
recorder. “Wish we could have gotten him to talk a little more,” I said. “Hope we got enough.”

The police officer was in his mid-twenties. We told him the truth, more or less. We had been minding our own business when
three skinheads came in and started a fight with us for no reason. Scott defended himself, using no more force than was reasonably
necessary under the circumstances, and I pulled my gun to make sure the others didn’t join in. The skinheads left. We had
no idea who they were. Yes, we had permits for our handguns. After we finished telling all this to the officer, he asked each
of us to complete a written statement, so we did. Then we headed back to the cabin.

Darkness came and with it came snow. Lots of snow. We couldn’t watch the game because we had no TV, but we listened to it
on my shortwave radio as we dined on pizza. I drank diet Coke; Scott drank beer. The dogs started barking just before halftime.
I looked out the window and saw Chief Prell walking toward our cabin. Buck was already at the door and ready to attack, so
I held on to his collar, which gave my lats a good workout, and opened the door to let the chief in, then closed it to keep
the cold air out.

“You guys are stirring up a shitpot of trouble,” he said.

“It’s one of our few skills,” I said.

“One of Biggs’ men showed up at the hospital yesterday afternoon with a gunshot wound in his leg. Said it was an accident.”

“That’s why firearms safety training should be mandatory,” Scott said. “Ever since Nixon ended the draft, nobody in this goddamned
country knows how to handle a weapon.”

“What are you two up to?” the chief asked. “There’s no Bobby Jackson wanted in Colorado on any rape charge. Not that I ever
believed a rape suspect would be free on bond.”

“You want a diet Coke?” I said. Buck had calmed down, so I let go of his collar, guided him up onto one of the beds, and gave
him the hand signal to stay there.

“No,” he said. “I like mine with good-old fashioned corn syrup in it.” I took his jacket and he sat down on one of the old
wooden chairs near the fireplace. He reached down and rubbed little Wheat’s belly. “Interesting assortment of dogs,” he said.

“Buck is our muscle, and Prince over there is a tracking dog, but Wheat’s the brains of the operation.”

“Why do you call him Wheat?” the chief asked. “He’s as black as the ace of spades.”

“Buckwheat,” I explained.

“I don’t get it.”

“I had a dog named Buck, so I named this one Wheat.” He stared at me as if I were out of my mind. “Don’t you remember Buckwheat
from the old Little Rascals movies?”

“I remember,” he said. “I don’t like thinking about it because it just reminds me of how damn old I am.”

I sat down on a chair across from the chief, but still close enough to enjoy some of the heat from the fire.

“You guys show up on Saturday,” the chief said. “Yesterday morning you’re in church asking about Skull and I tell you that
you can find him out at Biggs’ place. Yesterday afternoon one of Biggs’ men shows up at the hospital with a single bullet
in his thigh. He says it was an accident, but I don’t believe him.”

“Why not?” Scott asked.

“Because he and all his moron friends out there prefer automatic weapons. If he had shot himself with one of those things,
he’d have taken his leg clean off.” Scott nodded to show he followed the chief’s logic. “No,” the chief continued, “the ER
doc says he took one bullet from a twenty-two-caliber rifle fired at some distance. Probably a rifle similar to that one you
got over there.” He pointed to a semiautomatic rifle propped up in one corner of the cabin. Propped up right next to Scott’s
shotgun.

“I can live with that,” the chief said. “The guy that got shot is an ex-con and probably deserved a bullet in the leg just
on general principles. But then today, in the middle of the day, right downtown, Chuck Norris over there”—he gestured toward
Scott— “takes out one of Skull’s pals in front of a bunch of old people at the International House of Pancakes. And that makes
me kind of nervous because Skull isn’t the kind of man who is just gonna let that slide.

“So I figure maybe I should find out who the two of you are.” He looked at me. “I run your plate, get your name, and find
out you’re a private eye with a law degree. Marine officer. Former federal prosecutor. No criminal history other than a manslaughter
charge that resulted in an acquittal. I do a little more digging and find out your friend”—he gestured again toward Scott—”was
a Navy SEAL and holds a master’s degree in astrophysics. In short, you two ain’t your typical bounty hunters and probably
aren’t bounty hunters at all. And to top it all off”—he looked at me— “the FBI lists you as a ’person of interest’ in the
disappearance of a federal witness. You gonna tell me why you’re up here and what your beef with Skull is?”

Scott and I exchanged glances. I retrieved another diet Coke from the refrigerator and told the chief about my cousin Hal
and my belief that Skull was the man who had killed him. I also told him we had given up finding Karlynn. “The feds can follow
us until the cows come home,” I said, “but we’re not going to lead them to Karlynn, because we’re not looking for her.”

“Why didn’t you ask me to get Skull on tape?” the chief asked.

“You’re a police officer,” I said. “You have to deal with legalities such as search warrants and Miranda rights. We don’t.”

“Well, now that you’ve got his voice on tape,” the chief said, “I reckon there’s no reason for you to remain in Coeur d’Alene.
Why don’t you do yourselves and me a favor and head on back to Denver tomorrow. Skull won’t wait long to come after you.”
He stood up and headed for the door.

“We can take a hint,” I said.

“Good,” the chief said. “I won’t call the feds for a day or two.”

T
HE
B
RONCOS PLAYED POORLY
but beat the Chiefs 20-17. I woke before sunrise, let the dogs out, and started loading our gear into my truck. The owner
was already up, so I paid him. Scott was still half asleep, so I scooped up some of the powdered snow that had accumulated
in a drift outside our cabin overnight and sprinkled it over his head as I began to sing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
He pulled the blanket up over his head. Not sure if that was because of the snow or my singing.

“Let’s go,” I said. “We’re loaded up and ready.”

“You make coffee?” he asked.

“We’ll get some in town.” He sat up.

“I was having a strange dream,” he said. “I had to make an important phone call, but every pay phone I went to was out of
order.”

“It means you’re gay,” I joked. “Let’s get out of here before Skull and his Aryan friends find us.”

We bought some coffee and doughnuts in Coeur d’Alene, then started south toward Boise. Buck and Prince rode in the back, but
little Wheat rode up front with us. The state highway had been plowed, but patches of snow and ice remained. We listened to
Bob Dylan’s Greatest
Hits and rolled along at fifty miles per hour.

We’d been on the road twenty minutes when Scott said, “We’ve got company.” I checked my mirrors. A rust-colored Chevy pickup
was coming hard at us. There were three men in the front seat.

“Doesn’t look like Skull’s crowd,” I said. “These guys look pretty shaggy.”

“Who else could it be?” Scott asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe just some drunk rednecks who want to pass us. Don’t jump to conclusions.” Scott studied the passenger
side mirror as the vehicle closed in on us.

“They’ve got guns and they’re on our ass,” he said. “As an empiricist, that’s good enough for me.” He started grabbing and
checking the various firearms we had stored behind the front seats.

Now the truck was right behind us, a rifle barrel sticking out of the passenger’s side window. I punched the gas, but the
other truck kept pace. I was driving dangerously fast given the road conditions. A skid or spinout would have hurled us off
the road and into one or more of the massive trees that lined the highway.

“This is nuts,” I said. “I’m going to stop. If they stop behind me, I’ll slam it into reverse and ram ’em. That should give
us a couple of seconds to get out of the truck.”

I started braking and our truck began to slow. They tried to pass on my left and ram us, but I wouldn’t let them. I let my
truck come to a stop. The other driver pulled up close to my truck and stopped within a few feet of it. Just as the men in
it were about to open the doors to their truck, I shifted into reverse and hit the gas. I hit them hard and drove their truck
back at least five yards; then I put it in park and rolled out my side of the truck with my Glock as Scott dove out of his
side with a rifle and a handgun. I landed behind a bank of snow created by the snowplow. I couldn’t see Scott, but I knew
he was probably behind a similar bank on the other side of the two-lane highway.

A burly man exited from the Chevy’s passenger side with a pump-action shotgun. He wasn’t a skinhead and didn’t look like the
men we had encountered at the Biggs compound. But he looked familiar.

I heard two men exit from the driver’s side of the Chevy. I crawled on my belly, behind the snowbank, hoping to get behind
the Chevy and behind the man on my side of it. “Y’all might as well come out!” one of the other men yelled. “You ain’t a-goin’
nowhere.” Later I got a laugh out of the fact that we’d been listening to Bob Dylan just seconds earlier, but at the time
it didn’t seem funny.

I heard one shot from the other side of the highway, then heard glass shatter. The three men turned in Scott’s direction,
and I took that opportunity to scamper up into the trees. I found a spot behind a boulder, hidden by spruce trees. I caught
my breath and thought for a minute. I knew Scott’s purpose had been to divert their attention and give me time to get into
the trees, but I wondered why he had shot a window rather than a tire. Then I realized he didn’t want to disable their vehicle—he
wanted them to get in it and drive the hell away. I aimed my Glock at the passenger window on my side of the Chevy and fired
one round. I put a nice hole in it. I hoped my shot had given Scott a similar opportunity to find better cover.

I was higher now and could see all three men. They all looked familiar. They were the three bikers Prince and I had encountered
across from the park as they were leaving a burger joint in Coeur d’Alene on Saturday. One of them had specifically asked
if Prince was a bluetick. Were they members of the Sons of Satan?

The three were perplexed. We had them sandwiched. We could see them, but they couldn’t see us. We could have easily killed
all three, but we kept still, remained silent, and watched.

Finally, one of them took charge. “All right,” he said, “I’ll watch this side. Mike, you watch the other side. Pete, see what’s
in their truck.”

“I’ll tell you what’s in their truck,” Pete said. “Three loud fucking dogs. Can’t you hear ’em?”

“See if one is a bluetick,” the leader said.

Pete peered into the back window of the shell on my truck and jumped back when Buck’s muzzle banged against the inside of
it with a ferocious growl. “Jesus, fuck!” Pete said. “One of ’em is a bluetick.”

“I knew it,” the leader said. “That’s Bugg’s dog. These are the guys that took Bugg’s dog and helped his old lady disappear.
Bugg will pay top dollar if we pop these two.” I hadn’t helped Karlynn to disappear, but I had protected her, and it sounded
as though Bugg was onto me.

“Get the hound out of there,” the leader said.

“You get him,” Pete said. “There’s another dog in there the size of a lion.”

The leader stepped closer to the back of my pickup. Very quickly I had to engage in a form of moral calculus. Was I willing
to kill these men to protect Prince and my dogs? Was I willing to kill them to protect the three hundred thousand dollars
in the back of my truck? And, most important, if I did kill them, could I do it without going to prison? I had just about
answered these three questions in the affirmative when Scott fired three rounds over their heads. Instinctively they hit the
pavement and crawled under the two trucks.

They spoke softly to each other, and I had difficulty hearing them. After several minutes the one named Pete crawled out from
under their truck, got into the cab, and started the truck. The other two crawled out and entered from the passenger side.
They drove around my truck and continued down the highway. A solid wood bumper protected the front of their truck, so I hadn’t
done much damage to it when I had rammed it.

When they were out of sight, I stood and walked back to my F-150. Scott did the same. The back of my truck didn’t look so
good. There were large dents in the tailgate, and significant damage to the shell on the back.

“Sounds like Bugg’s onto you,” Scott said.

“He is,” I said. “Remember when we were in the park on Saturday and I had to chase Prince? Those three guys were coming out
of a burger joint across the street, and one of them specifically asked if Prince was a bluetick coonhound.”