Mike Johnson, Country Music's No.1 Black Yodeler

                                      
MEMORIES DIE HARD
Copyright 1998 Mike Johnson
Cover Photograph Copyright 1973 Mike Johnson
1999 First Print          Limited Edition Paperback
2001 Second Print      Limited Edition Paperback

Song Lyrics by Mike Johnson
"Just A Nobody"
"Please Don't Call No More"
"The Letter"
"Sammy"
"It's Spring, Spring, Spring!"
"Memory of Memories"
Courtesy of Pata del Lobo Music * All Rights Reserved

All Rights Reserved. No parts of this book may be copied, reproduced and or distributed whole or in part by any means without the written permission of the Copyright Owner and or Publisher. Except for brief quotations and passages for literary critiques and reviews.

MAJJ Productions
P.O. Box 100933, Arlington, Va. 22204
MP118702

Chapter One
   One of my many past-times was horseback riding through the canyons and rimrock of the southwest. Sometimes they were combined with a fishing or hunting trip, lasting anywhere from a couple of days to a week, depending on how much leave, vacation, or comp-time I had. Those were also some fast and furious times when me and my rowdy buddies often rode high-strung brush-poppers with bad trail manners that you hobbled down at night to spare yourself a long hike home. I'll always savor and relish those days, for they, like our innocence, were good.
   Lately I'd come to prefer a half-strung hoss. Full broke, laid back, but ready. The kind you can slouch low in the saddle and fall asleep on. I'd been hankering to enjoy what I'd missed in my youth, most of that time involved in fightin' gut-busters for the upper hand. Now I just relax and drape the reins over the pommel and feel not the least bit worried about my mount suddenly bolting or shying away from a ground squirrel, chipmunk, or a roadrunner scurrying underfoot. Just lay back and breathe the fresh clean air and enjoy the view and all those little things I know I've missed a couple hundred times sitting right under my nose.
   Or that horned toad sittin' on that rock I'd seen and not seen. And that big, juicy beetle he'd made such a mad dash for, before me and my mount, Bandit, scared'em off. He scoops'em up in one swift motion and freezes momentarily to check his position. Two swift jaw motions and the bug is gone. In the twinkling of an eye the toad turns and faces us and scrutinizes us intently. He flattens his body flattened against the ground in an effort to conceal himself. Like magic his splotches blend him into his surroundings and he all but disappears. I whip my camera around and snap a quickie in passing and let'em be.
   I had borrowed Bandit from a good friend of mine to take a few days off and escape. I'd been truckin' a hard year, loggin' nearly 500 miles a day back to back, several days stacked. The past couple of months had been a real rat race and I was just barely makin' those back to back deadlines my dispatcher loved to throw at me. I'd just spent the last two weeks wheelin' my 45-foot trailer around the middle of Shakey Town. That's trucker slang for San Francisco! And that ain't no picnic hoss! After you come off the Golden Gate Bridge you get a feeling like you're trying to thread a sewing needle with a knotted plow line. Not to mention the ancient apartments that some of my customers lived in. Always on the second and third floors, and always without elevators. Most of which were usually "Out of Service."
   I did manage to get a slow night in downtown San Diego and I eagerly sought out some of my old haunts. To my dismay I saw that my favorite old Broadway hangout was gone. A little greasy spoon hamburger joint that all of us sailors used as a hangout and command post to plan numerous Liberties back in 1967 and 1968. It was a Mom and Pop joint called the "Hamburger Spot" at 615 West Broadway, if memory serves me correctly. Next door to the Tower theater. They sold the absolute best, mouthwatering burgers you'd ever want to wrap your lips around. One-third pounders with all the trimmings for 75 cents, and half-pounders likewise, for a buck and a half each! All of the businesses that shared the block with the Haven were also gone. The block was now just one big commercial parking lot.
   The little park-like Plaza down on Fourth and Broadway had been renovated. The two all-night movie theaters that faced the Plaza were also gone. In their place now stood a sparkling multi-tiered and impressive looking shopping mall. Of course the pigeons, street musicians and gawkers remained. God, my breath was taken away by the changes. My mind was a cauldron of memories, each one fighting for instant recall and recognition. Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to cruise down to Tijuana, Mexico, or TJ as we affectionately called it. A gut feeling made me think the better of it this time, not to mention very vivid memories of a horrendous weekend that I had spent in the Tijuana Jail back in the mid-sixties.
   I got a rather welcomed surprise in the morning when I called my Dispatcher, Butch Newlon. He told me the load we wanted in National City had been picked up by another carrier and the other one in L.A. that was scheduled for pickup after it, had been canceled.
   "Boogie on over to El Paso," he told me, "and lay for a big one coming up next week from Daniel's Moving & Storage. He's got a twelve-thousand pound shipment designated for the Navy Base in Norfolk, Virginia."
   I really didn't mind missing Los Angeles. Tinsel-town gets old quick, even though there's always something going on. I copied down the El Paso information and the agent's address, which I don't really know why because I had been to Daniel's many times. They were up on Railroad Drive just on off of Hondo Pass, a favorite little hiking place for me also.
   As Butch gave me my instructions I could hear Lonni Love, our other Dispatcher, in the background, urging Butch to remind me to return to El Paso each night from Juarez, Mexico, so that I could check in on time in the morning. That drew a chuckle from everyone and I relayed to Lonni through Butch that I was still l-o-o-k-i-n-g for that white, feathered hatband for her Stetson. She urged me to keep l-o-o-k-i-n-g a little harder and seized the opportunity to remind me that I'd let one slip away down in Killeen. Guilty!
   Taking advantage of everyone's good spirits, I sprung it on'em. Break time! White-line fever was takin' over and had me feelin' like I was on automatic pilot. It was time to take a breather. Naturally, my first thought was my bike, a vertical twin Yamaha XS-650 with straight pipes and baffles. It was a great little roadster that I bought from Cycles Unlimited in Virginia Beach, Virginia during one of my layovers. Yeah, gas'em up and hit the open road. Road! Hell, that was the problem. It's been too much road lately. Besides, that meant I'd have to wait until I got back to our terminal in Woodbridge, Virginia since my outgoing shipment hadn't allowed me to take the bike with me, which I was sometimes able to do when I had a very specific round trip scheduled.
   So I'd just have to concede to circumstances and endure the long wait, knowing that I'd more'n likely be in El Paso the better part of a week. It seems that loads coming in and out of there often rewrote Butch's carefully planned schedules and I'd get to spend more than the usual amount of time that I would in most places when picking up or dropping off shipments. Places like El Paso, Nashville, Daytona Beach, and Fort Lauderdale, were also my favorite places so I really didn't mind the delays. And of course, let's not forget New Orleans, huh Butch? Christmas phone call from the French Quarter ring a bell? Ha, ha!
   Anyway, Butch gave me the green light, with Lonni's added blessings I suppressed some very anxious feelings as I double-nickeled past Pine Valley, a favorite ground squirrel hunting spot of my youth, and shot towards Diablo Canyon and the Arizona border.
   I breezed through Yuma without stopping and stroked the old Jimmy straight for Phoenix. There, other old memories tugged at my heartstrings and I found a motel near Camelback Mountain and drowned myself in a 12-pack of Budweiser. In the morning I was again tempted to call Laura, my late son's girlfriend, to see if she was still in the area, and how she was doing. But that old ghost of a bygone era rose and chased me off. It wasn't until I was nearly an hour out of Phoenix that I realized I'd also forgotten to call my uncle, Gordon. Next time I told myself.
   Then it hit me! Tucson! Just the place! Wide open spaces. Freedom! Nothing but the coyotes the cactus and me. I could just see the rugged Santa Catalina Mountains stretching southward, teasing me, callin' to me. Then a name poppedup. Jim Beard. An old Navy buddy of mine lived on a spread about fifty miles south of Tucson near the Papago Indian Reservation. More toward Nogales near the international border. I took the liberty of givin'em a ring and he threatened to hunt me down and hang me from a cottonwood if I rolled by and didn't stop.
   Our reunion was slightly spoiled by a sudden death in his family. His wife's grandfather, up in Scottsdale, right outside of Phoenix, had been hit by a drunk driver. He had raised her and her brothers after their parents had been killed in a flash flood. So it was more than just a casual closeness.
   Phoenix also brought my ward Gordon to mind and a myriad of emotions jockeyed for position. Even though it's been over ten years since he drowned, certain things like Phoenix, rivers, and floods, still resurrect images of him as vivid as life. Gordon's memory always instigated memories of my foster son, Tony, killed nearly a year after Gordon. Todd was definitely one of a kind, so I was totin' quite a void of my own.
   The three of us were inseparable companions who enjoyed the outdoors to the fullest, Camping, canoeing, shooting, hunting and horseback and motorcycle riding.
   Die-hard gun enthusiasts we had our own Lee Loading reloading equipment and often experimented with various hand-loads for our .30-30 Winchester, .444 Marlin, .45 Single Action, .38 Colt Diamondback, several .44 black powder revolvers, and a 16 gauge and two 12 gauge shotguns. We also had an indoor shooting range in our basement for which the SPEER Plastic bullets came in mighty handy on those cold rainy days when it was just to miserable to venture down to the gravel pit at Myrtle Grove. Just pop a primer and a plastic bullet into the plastic casing and you were good to go!
   Guns and motorcycling ran neck and neck on our priority list. During that time we had five bikes. My 1964 Harley Panhead was affectionately known as "The Beast. "The Roadrunner" was Gordon's 1958 Harley Panhead. "The Iron Pony" was my 1968 Kawasaki A7SS that was nicknamed by my Boy Scout troop. I purchased it in Japan in February 1969, just before our ship returned stateside at the end of our Vietnam tour. It was the only new bike out of nearly a dozen that I had ever owned. I gave it to Tony a year after the 1966 Suzuki X6 Hustler I had bought him for Christmas in 1971. And the last one in the group was a Yamaha 305 that we had rescued from a salvage yard and used as an all-around utility bike.
   Thanks to my friend Eddie Miller of Satan's Cycle Salvage up in Kennsington, Maryland who taught me how to chop bikes. I managed put that skill to good use. So our basement was quite busy, also serving as a paint and chop shop for our bikes. Wow, it's amazing how the smallest of things can conjure up so many memories of good days gone by.
   I did get to spend two days with Jim and his family before they left for the funeral. They would be gone several days and left me the run of the place. Big Jim Beard. Good old Jim. Saved my young-ass a few times in the thick of it. We were stationed together in San Diego on the U.S.S. Constellation CVA-64. The Connie and her twin sister, the U.S.S. Kitty Hawk CVA-63 were the largest of the oil-burning Super Carriers. She was the Pride of the Navy's 7th Fleet and more times than not, the Flagship of Task Force 77 during the Vietnam era.
   Jim and I had also done a little non-sanctioned rodeoing at some of the small spreads south of San Diego during our Navy days. His thing was calf roping and bulldogging, and mine was bulls. Bad rhythm made me switch over from saddle, and bareback bronc to eight seconds of gut-wrenching livin' hell.
   Jim and I and a number of our companions were definitely gun nuts. Pine Valley, California about forty miles east of San Diego, was one of our favorite gathering places for plinking, coyote, ground squirrel and jackrabbit hunting. The jackrabbits had scruffy little manes and long tails and rattlesnakes were everywhere! We also had access to an old abandoned farm spread near Mount Palomar that was owned by one of our shipmate's grandparents.
   Jim was a six-gun quick-draw artist. It was from him that I learned and received my basic six-gun expertise as well. It seemed plum natural for him to toss a can into the air and keep it aloft eleven shots out of twelve. Only he wasn't using birdshot like most trick shooters do. James Butler Hickock surely would've had some might stiff competition had the two of them ever had cause to lock horns.
   Jim was standing on the front porch when I pulled into as much of the parking area as I could, with my trailer tires cutting just off the drive. He was wearing his famous old mile-wide grins that made everyone feel at home, and totin' a Budweiser in each fist. Next to him stood a rather attractive brunette, an apron around her waist. Looking so much like his daughter, I knew it had to be his wife. Jim always did have a thing for younger women.
   Two Plotts hounds and a Bluetick hound rushed out to escort me, yapping and baying and nipping at the big tires. The setting of the air brakes and a shot from my air horns sent them scurrying for the porch where they eyed the big, metal beast suspiciously. Jim stepped from the porch and strolled over to greet me as I slide down the ladder from the cab.
   "Mike Johnson! Ya crazy old beer guzzlin' son of Anhueser-Busch!" he shoved a beer at me and embraced me in an unbreakable bear hug. "You ain't changed a lick! Still out there being different, huh, you old maverick you! How the hell you been?"
   "Hell, I reckon. I'm doin' just fine, you big old grizzly bear! Still don't know your own strength do you! Yeah, I'm still runnin' round chasin' rainbows. Guess it's in my blood. Good to see ya Jim!" we popped the tops off the Buds and chugged them down. Jim snatched my empty and handed his and my empty cans to his wife.
   "Honey, would you get us a couple of refills. Please? Pushing that rig can make a man powerful thirsty," he winked.
   "Mike. This is Diane. My little Honey. She pulled me from the den of sin and cast out the devil in me!"
   "Pleased to be sure," I tipped my cap to her. "That's a whole lotta castin' ma'am. Not just anybody can do that with the likes of him!"
   "Ain't that the truth," she quipped. Then leaning against him with an affectionate smile, "Well, he wasn't all that bad. But I did have to trim off some of the rough edges.
   "I also heard a lot about you and your Navy antics," her long eyelashes arched sharply.
   "Oh?" I eyed Jim sidelong. "Well, I reckon I'll be goin' now. Y'all take..."
   "Whoa hoss," Jim grabbed my arm. "Just told'er the standard stuff. You know..."
   "Nooo, I don't," I winked at Diane. "Don't recall too many things we did back then as being standard."
   "You two excuse me, I'll fetch some more beer," Diane tiptoed away. "Sounds like some real Navy scuttle-butt a brewin' to me. Speakin' of brew," she propped her hands on her hips, "I reckon I might as well call up to the market and have Jacob deliver a truck load judging from the way you two blitz these two cans!"
   Jim and I chuckled and slapped each other on the backs. He then went over to inspect my cabover. He cast only a fleeting glance at the 45-foot trailer and peered underneath the wheel well.
   "Astro-95," I read his mind. "318, 13-speed. It's got A/C too!"
   "Ahh, a Detroit," he beamed. "She'll haul-ass on flat ground, but ain't wortha shit on steep grades! That used to be the truck engine when we were younger. Yep," his eyes began to drift off to another time, another era, another pleasing happening.
   "Southern Truck," I quipped. "Yeah, she'll fly the flatland without a hiccup. Didn't know you did some gear jamming too Jim?"
   Jim was climbing into the cab so I doubt that he heard me. Ginger fingers ran round the steering wheel and played with the shifter. My air-ride seat bobbed up and down as he rolled down an imaginary blacktop.
   "Jim?"
   "Oh, he's reminiscing Mike," Diane was at my elbow. "Yeah, he was truckin" when we met. In fact, his old Dog's in the shed out back. Built the shed special just for it." She handed me a beer and glanced up at Jim. "Break one-nine. Break one-nine Desert Rat. Come on! Come on! Can I git a comeback trucker? You got your ears on good buddy?" she cackled out of the corner of her mouth. "How's your back door trucker? Mine's open clear back down to yard stick eighty two."
   "Come on! Come on! This here's . . ." and he suddenly snapped to, fumbling with the mike. He glanced down rather sheepishly when he realized it was his wife and not the CB, which incidentally was turned off.
   "Oh well, what can I say? Guess it stays in your blood, huh?" he started down the ladder.  "Yep," he slammed the door shut. "That's a mighty fine rig you got there. Yeah, I pushed'em a few miles. Thought you knew?"
   I shook my head negatively.
   "New-Lon, huh," he mused over the black bordered, blue letters on the trailer. It seems to me that we might've seen a couple of these rigs when we were coming through Texas sometime last summer. Remember Honey?"
   "Somewhere around Fort Worth or down near Killeen, I think. Or was it San Antone? But I remember those markings. They kinda stood out and leaped at me sorta. I remember remarking to Jim about never having seen them before. You know, never hearing of that company," Diane added.
   "Well knowing old Mike here, Honey, he won't work for no fly-by-nighters, huh, pardner? Mike don't cotton to no whole lotta bullshit, Honey. He hangs in there, stubborn old cuss! It's a good thing too or our asses would've been hung high and dry many a time," he hunched me. I knew he was talking about Nam.
   "Sooo," he slapped me on the back. "Outta Arlington, Virginia, huh. How they treatin' ya hoss?"
   "We're in Woodbridge now. Old man Newlon runs a tight ship, but he's about as fair and as flexible as anyone could expect, Jim. He's one of the top ten Independent Movers in the business. Got it down to a science too. Computerized operation and a ton of cross-referencing paperwork to boot. But, it's his maze of paperwork that keeps most of his shipments pretty secure from pickup to delivery. Notwithstanding the human error factor. Pay's not bad and there's some extra benefits, like being able to take a few days off in choice spots when things are slow, working around my other schedules, and... Let's put it this way Jim, I don't think I could ever work for another Bedbugger after this. Newlon's got his act right..." and I switched the subject back to him.
   "You said you were running the road, too? Well, you never was one for lettin' the grass grow too high around you either, you know. A Mack, huh? Big Dog! Well, I'll just have to scope it out, huh, trucker?"
   "Yeah. I done some freightin' and some bull-haulin' awhile back. Still do a little on the side for the locals in Tucson and down around Nogales. Don't think I could put up with that bedbuggin' routine though. All them hysterical customers trying to cash in on insurance claims, and them little old ladies with pointed noses and bifocals hovering over yer shoulder and all...
   "Me and my old Dog's logged in some hefty miles though. Hell Mike," a proud boyish grin on his face. "Can't let you have all the damn fun! But that was some time ago, hoss." he sighed. "She's out back now. Show'er to ya later. Come on up to the house hoss.  Let's get outta the sun," and he led the way to the shaded porch. He removed his Stetson briefly to wipe and sling away the sweat inside the hatband and from his weathered brow.
   Jim's attractive one level house turned out to be a doublewide trailer. Complete with a full deck front porch that Jim and his oldest boy built themselves. With some minor help from the youngest boy, he chuckled. Clay flowerpots adorned the top railing and guarded each corner. Purple violets, some hardy roses, integrated with some prickly pears and Black-eyed Susans occupied row gardens flanking the steps. Cowrie shells and polished rocks from the high desert and California formed the borders.
   The redwood porch was graced with several low-backed ash-wood chairs, a plain finished wicker table, similar couch, and a short swinging lounge couch. We retired there to be comforted by the cool breeze that habitually skirted the left corner. Frick and Frack, the two Plotts hounds immediately made their presence known, sniffing and whining, tails a waggin' to beat the band, cold noses, and gaunt bodies rubbing my legs and hands, seeking a pat on the head, a rub on the back, any show of affection. Buzzer, the Bluetick, remained aloof, sitting next to Jim, his eyes locked on me.
   "Down dogs!" Jim commanded. They dropped to their bellies, heads on their paws, baleful eyes rolling between us. "Gotta be firm with'em or they'll lick ya to death. Ain't that right, Buzzard Bait?" he pointed a convicting finger at the Bluetick. The hound's brows wrinkled thickly over guilty eyes and his tail thumped feebly behind him.
   "Right." I chuckled.
   We spent a couple of hours on the porch talking about old times and catching up on recent events. Diane graciously played waitress and fetched the beers. Jim wasn't too surprised when I told him that Lucky Hickenbottom had gone AWOL with my 1958 Oldsmobile that I had left in the care of Tim Spencer. With all of my gear inside the trunk! Two .22 caliber single-shot rifles, a bronc saddle, a small guitar from Mexico, some spare Navy uniforms, a few other personal treasures, and hundreds of Nam photos, the loss of which I have anguished over for years. And my Harmony guitar that I left behind, chained to my rack [Navy jargon for bed] in my haste to leave the ship on my discharge day! When I realized it and went back to get it, of course it was lone gone!
   I told him that I got a letter from Spencer telling me that he had finally got hitched and was moving to Union, Pennsylvania, his wife's hometown in westend of the state, somewhere up above Pittsburgh. We both got a good laugh about that, remembering how Tim used to fall in love with and vowed to marry every broad that he met every time he went on Liberty Call. Jim remarked that he'd never last long in Pennsylvania because he was definitely a West Coast boy. Sure enough, Tim packed up his new family and moved back to sunny southern California after several years and a very lean job market there. He was a Navy trained photo technician.
   I also mentioned running into Jay Ventress, one of our old rodeo buddies. He'd re-upped, made First Class Petty Officer, and was still a card carrying PRCA Calf Roper. Him and his calf-roping rodeo buddy, Johnny Crawford, who in his youth played the character of "Mark McCain" the son of "Lucas [Chuck Connors] McCain" on the popular "The Rifleman" TV series. Many years later I would meet and become friends with Jack Glover, the owner of the Cowboy Museum in San Antonio, Texas. This unique and colorful character was straight out of the 'old West" with numerous colorful tales to go with it. This was how I discovered that he had also been a property and weapons manager and technical advisor for several western movies during the 1960s. A very interesting one in particular was the 1965 movie "Indian Paint" starring teenager Johnny Crawford, his brother, Robert Crawford Jr., and Jay Silverheels, famous for his "Tonto" role in "The Lone Ranger" TV series. I have the 1994 VHS Starmaker Entertainment release of that rare movie in my personal video collection.
   Jim told me about another of our rodeo buddies, Craig Neally or Nelson, breaking both his legs. Craig was a bulldogger. He had a bad wreck during an event and in goin' down the steer trampled both his legs. He'd walk again though, cause Craig was a tough old bird. Then he told me about old "Drifty" Larry Cooper gettin' shot to death in his old man's store, two days after gettin' hitched. That was one guy who didn't have a mean bone in his body. Dead shot with a pistol. Kinda ironic that someone would get the drop on a good pistolero like him.
    When the conversation rolled round to Terrance Michael Anderson, or Terry as we always called him, well, things just got stone cold quiet. The silence whispered loudly echoed in our ears. At least it did in mine! My insides felt queasy and rolled from side to side and the bottom of my stomach plunged and parted. Jim toasted me and chugged his beer, a scowl forming on his darkening face. I returned the gesture, silent, sullen and suddenly haunted, uncertain of how to response. Diane, quite puzzled, and knowing that she shouldn't, dared to anyway.
   "I don't recall you ever mentioning Terrance, Jim.  Who's...?" she trailed off, sensing our great reluctance and the brittleness in the air. Her gaze rolled my way, questioning, probing. Mine went to Jim's and a silent pow-wow transpired between us for a quick second. Diane excused herself again and slipped inside on the pretext of more beer and chips and we simultaneously sighed in relief.
   "You tell'er Mike," Jim nodded. "It's been a long time now. Maybe we should talk about it and get it off our backs."
   I downed my beer, thinking, "God, could I do it?" I reached for another Bud and popped the top and stared into the opening, looking for what I don't know. Nor did it volunteer to step forth and identify itself. After a long sip it just blurted out.
   "All our operations weren't always confined to the ship. Or message monitoring or courier and system inspection duty."
   Diane's eyes locked onto me like a heat-seeking Sparrow.
   "I mean our Fighter Squadrons weren't the only ones doing the fighting."
   A perplexed expression wrinkled her brows, forming deep furrows in her forehead. Jim's hands tightened around his can and it creaked and began to collapse under his steady grip. Diane placed a consoling hand upon his.
   "What I'm saying is that we had certain carrier personnel that were flown inland for special covert operations.
   "I was a CT. A Communications Technician attached to a Navy Intelligence Group that was scattered throughout the Navy's 7th Fleet in Task Force 77. At times, in cooperation with the ground command under General Westmoreland, and sometimes without their knowledge, we carried out our own special assignments in North Vietnam and those neighboring countries aiding the VC and North Vietnam. We'd fly off the Connie by chopper or COD, supposedly on a courier dispatch to P.I. or the US Embassy in Saigon..."
   "P.I.?"
   "Philippine Islands, Honey. Navy jargon, remember?"
   "Oh! Sorry Mike. Go on," she squeaked.
   "Like I said, when we flew off the old Birdfarm... Ah, carrier," I caught her eye and made her blush, "it was usually to rendezvous with another chopper or a PBR that would take us inland and drop us close to our destination. Terminate communications installations and SAM sites. Critter Control we called it. Yeah" I answered that question in her eyes. "Everyone manning the posts were... terminated. We couldn't take prisoners mainly because we weren't supposed to be there. Except..."
   "But Vietnam invited us..?" a puzzled look.
   "Not Nam Honey," Jim patted her hand with a jaw-set grimace.
   She thought a second and then it dawned on her. "You mean you..?"
   "Exactly! We were playing just as dirty as them. But because of world politics and our real purpose, we had to keep an extremely low profile. Remember those bombing raids into Laos and Cambodia the President kept denying? Before we were officially allowed to?"
   She nodded.
   "Hell, we'd been doing that for some time. In fact, Jim and Terry and me were responsi... Never mind," I chugged my beer down real quick and cradled the next one for a few long seconds before continuing.
   "At any rate, what was it...? I searched for a date. October, November..., Hmm, sometime in early December '67 I believe... Not long before we returned stateside. Anyway, we had this termination mission about 50 clicks inside the east Cambodian border. We had to seize come Com-tapes and documents."
   "And a damn chip!" Jim scowled, sorely recalling.  "Some kinda damned new-fangled communication gizmo, damn it..!"
   "The three of us had worked several OPS together. The past few months before this particular one we'd been getting a lot of fragged intelligence from the mainland. Too many of our carrier birds were being hammered by SAMs and the Task Force-77 Fleet Command was really gettin' pissed. He finally got tired of locking horns with the mainland Intel units and ordered our own men in. A good number of the air surveillance we got was coming from U.S. Air Force recons and our skipper, Captain John Thomas, didn't like that one bit! He was constantly on the horn with'em about their screw-up coordinates and eventually told'em to shove their Intel where the sun don't shine and to let the real military handle things! He sent a lot of messages to Westmoreland and our own Fleet Command. Finally we got Fleet Command approval to do our thing."
   "Yeah. We finally didn't have to rely on them dumbfuck, pantywaist sons 'o bitchs!" Jim growled. "We lost a lotta men to friendly fire from them combat wannabes than I'd care to remember! They just couldn't seem to get it together!"
   "Jim!" Diane drew back, just a little startled. "Sounds like the old Navy creeping out!"
   "Sorry Honey. But when I think about some of the things we had to... Them dumb-ass U.S. Air Force jockeys couldn't hit the broad side of a barn and just couldn't get their bearings straight! Hell, the ground pounders made it pretty damn clear when they called for an air strike to send anybody but them bluebellies! Oh Christ, forget it," he scowled. "Sorry Mike, go ahead. But it just burns my royal hide when I think about it! Yeah, Terry, he was one hell of a guy, wasn't he Mike...?"
   "One of a kind buddy. You'd loved Terry, Diane," I found myself drifting and not really wanting to dig up old bones. But I knew that now we finally had to lay him to rest.
   "Everybody liked Terry. He had a subtle smile and a natural magnetism that just won you over without thinking. He was always sharing his letters from home. His dreams, pictures of his girl friend, his son and his family. He was always going on and on about his girlfriend and paint the prettiest pictures of the house he was gonna to build back in Colorado. He was goin' to raise cutting horses and motorcycles..."
   "Motorcycles?" Diane piped.
   "Yeah, we shared a passion for bikes," I blushed. "Hogs, Thumpers, Beezers. Even Riceburners. All kinds of bikes really. Yeah, we were a great team... real good...
   "Anyway," I eased into our forbidden past, "we hopped a COD off the Connie one night and dropped into a small jungle outpost on the southwest border, along side one of the Delta's tributaries. Our ride was a team of antique Navy river patrol boats, Swamp Snake-1 and 2. Their orders were to take us and two marine babysitters up river and drop us off about 30 clicks from our destination.
   "Dropping in by chopper was out because of all the intense activity along the border. It would have saved us a lot of time too, coming in west of Ho Chi Minh trail near a central mountain pass about 12 clicks from our target. We still kinda were lucky cause most times we had to penetrate deep into restricted territory. Like that time we had word of a POW camp holding several Navy jockeys, and... and that guy Ernie Brace, was it? Ex-Marine drummed out of the Corps or something like that? He was flyin' for a private firm that was fronting for the CIA some say..."
   "Yeah, something like that. I forget his name though. But he'd been held captive for a long, long time, though," Jim scratched his head. "I do remember most everyone thought he was dead and stinking. And then suddenly they release him!"
   "Yeah, I hear he went through hell while he was there. Damn lucky that they didn't waste him for all those escapes he made. That Grunt had balls!"
   "Big, brass balls," Jim's voice was full of bravado conviction.
   "But back to us... Sorry Diane, it's... It's..." I took a long pause. "You know, we never did find that POW camp!" I had to get in. "...the way they kept moving those temporary camps and the prisoners around..."
   Jim grit his teeth and muttered something. His chest swelled as he inhaled deeply and his body tensed. I noticed the white scar on his forehead from a bullet that had grazed him, glowing boldly against his reddish brown complexion.
   "It's all right, Mike. I can imagine..." Diane snuggled up close to Jim, consoling him. He goes through those little moments, too."
   "Sheep-dip, Honey," he snorted. "Go on Mike."
   I sighed, trying to knead out the knot tightening in my chest.

Chapter Two
   "Surprisingly, we slept the whole night while the two crafts sped up river. Come dawn our speed dropped and we donned our steel pots. Hot zone. Automatically we checked our weapons while our wary eyes sought to penetrate the dense jungle foliage surrounding us. A PBR crewman in a flak jacket was lying prone on the bow with a high-powered scope scanning the ever-narrowing river for mines, while another crewman was scoping out the treetops for snipers.
   "Native craft also used the river. Most of them we passed by, eyeing them suspiciously. Some of them the skipper singled out and searched. His intuition was usually right on target too. One boat contained two ancient Chinese rifles and a dozen Russian grenades in some rice bins. Another one had a dozen AK-47s, several M-16s, and two Government .45s. We interrogated them, confiscated the pieces and left. It was hard to tell who was who with them. War-torn countries always produced divided loyalties and Vietnam was no different.
   "Our conversations were limited, each of us concentrating on what the jungle might be hiding and the booby traps in the river. And undoubtedly locked up in our own little worlds somewhere far away. The setting sun didn't ease us much cause we knew Charlie loved the dark as much as the tiger.
   "The lookout on the bow adjusted his scope for night vision. I eased myself up onto deck and joined him. A taboo that was basically frowned upon because the mission rested in my hands and I was supposed to maintain a low profile so that I could at reach our objective in one piece. At times our youth made us take our survival for granted so I took the chance anyway. We all did at one time or another.
   "About a half an hour up the river a thunderous crack erupted from the port shoreline. It was followed closely by another one on the starboard side.
   "'Hit the deck!' the lookout yelled, at the same time he grabbed my shoulder and shoved me flat against the deck.
   "I heard the radio crackle. The Skipper was on the horn jawing at the stern craft. 'Drop back, enemy fire!'
   "'Roger!' came the reply, 'We're loaded up and ready!'
   "I managed to raise enough under Greg's pressure to see two big palms fall into the river across our path. When they hit the water, a similar explosion went off behind us. Two more palms fell.
   "'Goddamn it, trap!' the Skipper spun the wheel hard and slammed the throttle home, and vaulted the craft into some tight figure eight maneuvers. The jungle spit forth small arms fire. Dozens of muzzle flashes shattered the night. The spontaneous flames created by the mortar fire danced about like red, yellow, and white phantoms. Our Gunner laid down some heavy return fire and the rest of us poured out some heavy M-16 and M-14 carbine rounds into the night, adding to the minor inferno. The second craft was trying to push through the jam while its crew complimented our fire with a heavy barrage of their own.
   "'Lay low!' the Skipper barked. 'I'm gonna try somethin'!' With that he spun the craft about and sped down river towards the stern barricade. There he flipped about and let the craft drop dead still for several precious seconds.
   "'Gunner, fire up some fish! Fire one! Fire two! He shouted. As soon as the torpedoes hit the water he hit the throttle and the craft leaped to life and zigzagged forward, dodging the shore fire, and trying to keep from out-running our fish.  
   "'If it blows a hole we're going through!' he radioed the other craft. 'Pepper the starboard and follow through. We'll rake port.'
   "'Roger-wilco Snake-1! Loud and clear! On your ass like white on rice!"
   "The Skipper increased the width of his zigzag and we resumed our fire, which only seemed to infuriate our unseen enemy and caused them to pour in more lead. The first fish actually jumped the jam and skidded off erratically and exploded on the bank upriver. The second one slammed home and threw water and palm trees to high heaven.
   "'Got a hole Snake-2! Hang tight!' and we were shoved backwards as the craft rocketed forward at full throttle. A deluge of rockets rained down upon us from the starfire dotted sky. Fortunately, we weren't under them when they landed. I think.
   "'Damn yellow bastards!' was the last thing I heard the Skipper growl. A resounding crash echoed in my ears and I was flying through the air. No, I was in the water, soaking wet and gasping for breath. I was struggling and fighting, and dodging the debris, trying to keep out of the burning oil and fuel. Trying to collect myself and account for my crew.
   "Everything was a whirling blur of images and sounds. It seemed like an eternity of turmoil. I called Jim and Terry. I heard shouting but saw no one. It was hard tellin' one voice from another with the ringing in my ears and the explosions and crackling of the fires around me.
   "Then suddenly the jungle was quiet. And very, very dark save for the burning oil on the water's surface. I felt like I was in a vacuum. I felt weightless, senseless, and numb. Gradually Vietnam returned and my ears picked up the rumble of the other craft's diesels. I heard voices calling from the darkness and saw evil-eyed angry faces dancing around me. My mind kept telling me it was a trick. That I was really all by my lonesome. But the voices persisted, resounding in my ears. Soon the hull of the other craft emerged through the thick smoke and debris and threatened to run me down. Then Jim popped up beside me with his shit-eatin' grin on his face.
   "We swam for the craft together, splashing loudly to get the crew's attention. Shortly afterward we were hauled aboard we found Terry drifting along on an oil drum. He was dazed and dirty faced, but all right. Already on deck was the skipper of our craft. Dead. Him and the spotter I had been with on the bow. Three of the others were badly burned, our escorts included, and one man was heaving and choking on a lung full of Mekong. Snake-2's crew was intact. But I'd say from the looks on everyone's face, we were pretty damn shook up. Even the old salts. Enemy fire resumed briefly then ceased altogether. We answered the salvo then flopped down safe behind the gunwales while the craft moved up river as swiftly as the night would allow us.
   "I found myself staring at the two bodies, blaming myself some. Allen, the other Skipper, removed their dog tags and personal effects and handed the latter to a crewman to place below. He crammed the tags into his pockets and made sure the flap was fastened. Then him and another crewman wrapped the bodies in blankets and slipped them into body bags. While the wounded were being tended we shed our wet shirts and huddled in blankets. I was mentally somewhere else, questioning, demanding, tumbling the sealed envelope I'd been carrying inside my shirt, round and round. Terry nudged me and nodded to the Skipper's body, then snatched the envelope from me and handed it to Jim.
   "Ain't your fault, Mike. It's war buddy!'
   "'Is it worth it, though?' Jim growled. His eyes were hard, real hard, burning a hole in the envelope waving in his hand. I shrugged, feeling as lost as I probably looked. The moaning of the injured men didn't help much.
   "Jim handed the orders back to Terry and he gave'em back to me. 'War's hell, huh, buddy?'
"'And we're right in the damn middle of it,' I dropped the orders between my feet.
   "Morning came too quickly. I'm not sure if I slept. I felt restless, apprehensive. Parrots and monkeys scolded us from overhead and the sun teased us, taking its sweet time penetrating the thick purple overcast. Sweat beading up on my forehead and rolling down my neck and back told me it was going to be a scorcher and soon we were all broiling in the rapidly escalating heat and stewing in our sweat. We took turns wetting each other down with buckets of water drawn from over the side. It was that bad, that early. Far off, the sounds of artillery rolled over the treetops, followed by tiny rising columns of black smoke and the distinct drone of fighter jets streaking about. And all the while we were under our own attack from squadrons of every known variety of winged insects which zipped in and out like miniature Navy F-4Bs.
   "'Heads up! LZ ahead sailor,' the Skipper warned us and suddenly our own discomfort was forgotten and it was back to business. The mission. Termination. Nothing was important but the mission and we mechanically readied ourselves with the meticulous grimness of our combat forefathers. Slip in, hit hard, slip out. Zap! Critter Control!'
   "'I can spare you two men to take their place, Johnny,' the Skipper nodded at the two injured Marines. 'I'll need the rest to get us out of here, and maybe try and salvage the M-60s and some radio equipment from Hank's craft. If Charlie hasn't already butchered it. Damn scavengers would pick over their own mothers' bones!'
   "'I'll take what I can get,' I agreed, pulling my field pack and securing my webbed gear. Jim handed me the Orders and I ripped it open to read. The Skipper coughed, gunning the engines.
   "'Hot Zone, Johnny! The more we sit the slimmer our chances. Plenty jungle you hide in, Tonto,' he gestured.
   "'Sorry, Skipper. Let's hit it, guys,' I motioned them over the side.
   "'Johnny, we'll be back in three days. Maintain radio silence until then. Use your password if you get jammed and give Pappa Bear a holler. That's an Army sweep team, Bravo and Delta Companies, working the valley just east of here. They've got air support the lucky bastards. If we're late, give'em a ring and get a traffic report. They should be able to set you up on the right streets.'
   "'Good enough. Go slow, amigos.'
   "'Gotcha. Watch your backs dudes. Charlie knows you're here and he's gonna come snooping. Remember,' he cautioned us with a serious tone. 'You get caught, you're on your own. Later,' he mocked a salute and wheeled the PBR about and cruised cautiously down the river, both Gunners manning their posts, and everyone wearing his steel pot.
   "'He had to say it didn't he?' Terry growled. 'On our own again. What the hell else is new? Let's grab some fuckin' cover guys,' he led the way.
   "Once in the brush we went over our gear thoroughly. Then I pulled the Orders out and spread the map on the ground. Jim dropped a compass on it and oriented it while I read the Orders. My stomach groaned. I frowned and handed them to Terry, who quickly passed'em on to Jim, commenting, 'I'll find out soon enough.'
   "'They want us to take a prisoner if possible,' I slid out.
   "'A what...!' Terry lit up. 'Lemme see that goddamn thing!' he grabbed for the Orders.
   "'What the fuck...?' Roy, one of the PBR-men scowled.
   "'It says, IF fuckin' possible,' the other crewman, Bob retorted. 'And IF is a big goddamn word in my dictionary, hoss.
   "'What IF it ain't fuckin' possible? I mean he might not wanna come along,' Roy grinned, caressing his Carbine.
   "'What the hell they want us to do that for? They want tapes, they want photos, and some stupid damn chip. Now they want a goddamn gook to boot, who probably don't know his fuckin' ass from a hole in the ground. The whole goddamn countryside's crawling with VCs beating the bush to hang our heads on a totem pole, and they want us to drag out a goddamn prisoner! Jesus Christ Mike! What tha...' Jim spit.
   "'Just reading what the Orders say Jim. They wanna goddamn gook, IF fuckin' possible,' I grinned and winked at the PBR man.
   "'My kinda guy, amigo,' he gave me the thumbs up, and jumped to his feet and locked a clip into his rifle with a resounding click. 'Let's do it Bro! Let's kick some gook ass!' he took the point.
   "'Three days! Why the hell should this OP take us three days?' Terry was a little more than concerned. 'Did you hear that! The Skipper said he'd be back in three days! Hell we're only going 30 clicks... Something ain't right guys,' he kept at it while we moved. 'Mike, what's up? Come on Bro, give us the straight skinny. What the fuck's up?'
   "'You read the Orders. Didn't say no more'n what we read. Three days don't quite cut it with me either. Maybe the terrain we've got to cover's got somethin' to do with it. A hidden mountain, or big rivers, or something. Could be a lot of reasons, Terry...'
   "'Yeah, right, Mike. And maybe there's a whole tribe of sex hungry Amazon women hiding out there waiting to fuck our brains out, too! This mission stinks... Jim?' He was insistent.
   "'Das cool wid me, dude,' Roy quipped. 'A little jungle nooky to pass the time away. Ahhh bitch, sit on my face!' he exhaled pleasurably, his sweaty brown face upturned and his mouth wide open. 'I'm da plumber and dis Brother can lay some pipe!'
   "Terry only half heeded the comment with a quick grin and pressed Jim for an answer, seeing that I wasn't going to appease him this time.
   "'Your radar's gone haywire, kid,' Jim tapped the side of Terry's head. 'Cool it young'un. We'll find out soon enough.'
   "'Or them wild-ass women!' Bob chuckled. "Damn I loves them wild-ass women!"
   "'Goddamn lifers... Goddamn fucking lifers, all of you! I don't believe this shit! Yep! Surrounded by a bunch of real live bonafide Lifers!' Terry shook his head, chuckling. He poked me and winked and patted Jim on the back.
   'I ain't shippin' over, that's for sure! No re-up for me! No fuckin' way Jose! Bob... This man's Navy sucks. Soon's my four's over, I'm out! Gone with the fuckin' wind, dude. How 'bout you Mike?'
   "'Reckon so. Got things to do that don't include Uncle Sam.'
   "'But in the meantime, you two dreamers,' Jim winked, 'You belong to the U.S. fuckin' Navy. Yours is not to reason why, yours is just to do or die!'
   "'Right Dad,' Terry chuckled. 'You mean do AND die! Move it, Mike! You heard the old fart!'
   "We soon found out that three days was probably right on the money. We spent most of the first evening hiding in the thick undergrowth. Playing cat and mouse. Charlie's suspicious nature had been aroused and he was out in full force beating the bush. We'd barely covered three clicks from our LZ before we encountered the first of many patrols curry-combing the jungle, desperate to uncover the unseen. Us! They knew we weren't supposed to be there officially, so we knew they'd be real anxious to make our acquaintance. Tall feathers in their war bonnets for sure.
   "How they missed us I'm not sure, for I felt like we were sticking out like sore thumbs. Even though we were well buried in the thick tangle of creepers, ferns and other foliage. We knew then that it was going to be a touch and go operation all the way.
   "The foot path would have cut our time considerably. But with Charlie under foot we had to play hide and seek and fight our way though the dense undergrowth literally a foot at a time. Then it rained. One of those frequent, sudden downpours that soaked you to the bone and cut your vision down to the nose on your face. We waded on until it became apparent that we were only kidding ourselves. So we dug ourselves in, taking advantage of the thick foliage as best we could even though most of it was being battered to the ground by those big, relentless raindrops. Just as suddenly as it started the downpour quit and a merciless white sun burst through the clouds and had its way with us, steaming our clothes dry and sticking them to our skin. We were baked to a crisp in 100-plus degree heat. Hordes of nasty, stinging, biting insects homed in on us and escalated our discomfort. We sought out the nearest rice paddies and running streams to try and sooth our agony, all the while ducking and dodging the stalking VC patrols. Ultimately we did more hiding than moving the first day.
   "Sweat streamed out your pores and your heartbeat echoed inside your head and made it lob from side to side like a bad rod in a 390 cubic inch Ford engine. You just knew Charlie could hear it. You could see it in his eyes and hear his own heart pounding as he criss-crossed you, right under your noses. You could smell his sweat, his fears and his anxieties, competing with your own. You involuntarily swallowed the smell of the boiled rice and saki on his breath. Your anxieties prodded and pricked you and they peaked excruciatingly, urging you to react. Demanding you to relieve the tension. To stand up and challenge. Cut loose. But your loyalty to your team, your buddies, your brothers, harnessed you in check, and you bit your lips, endured, and rode it out, hoping against hope that Charlie wasn't baitin' you. Prayed that he really didn't see you. You knew he knew you were there, but you waited and played the game out. Nervous and tense, your sweaty finger anxiously yet hesitantly poises around the trigger of your piece, the safety, long since switched off, ready to squeeze at the slightest provocation.
   "When Charlie does start to move, a bee lands on your sticky bare arm, or a snake slides across your boot and sets up squatter's rights, right between your legs. Your self-control is tortured to the extreme as you fight to contain yourself until Charlie's satisfied that the area's clean and decides to hunt elsewhere."

Chapter Three
   Danny, Jim's oldest boy, came home and briefly interrupted us. He introduced himself and flopped down on the couch next to me. The two hounds howled at him from their shaded retreat beneath a wide limbed PaloVerde next to the head of the driveway, long tails thumping to beat the band. But they were obviously very reluctant to move.
   Jim took advantage of the break to slip in and make sandwiches and fill the cooler full of brew that Danny eagerly helped me haul out to the porch. Diane had made herself comfortable, not wanting to miss a thing. Our haunting past was creeping up on Jim, us digging up age-old bones. We allowed him to graciously retreat with honor.
   Danny on the other hand, thirsted for any information about his father's war exploits. Seems those times were only casually mentioned. Generally at a time like this, when one of his old service buddies dropped in. Terry, however, was a name never mentioned until now. I almost felt guilty. Urged on by an eager ear and an inner force commanding me to confront the devil, I continued.
   "The second day we reached our objective. We'd encountered only two patrols. From then on it was smooth sailing, though we still proceeded with utmost caution. Several hundred yards from the com-shack we huddled in some thick brush and shed our packs, and fought off a wave of insects. I pulled the packet and we studied the diagram carefully and held a quickie quiz then destroyed it. Instinctively we checked our weapons and fidgeted apprehensively.
   "'We scope it out an hour, then move in,' I ordered.
   "'Prisoners, Mike?' Terry grinned.
   "'Tell you in an hour. Move out sailor!'
   "Nothing unusual happened during that time.  Just hot sweaty jungle and the gooks stationed there going in and out of the shack and jabbering. My neck was developing a rash and a hot tacky sweat permeated my fatigues and began sticking to my skin. Terry called me again, running a finger across his throat.
   "'Prisoners?'
   "'Don't look too good to me. Terry, you know what to do. Jim and I'll move around to the front from opposite sides and take out the guards. Roy, you cover the north trail. Bob, take the south. Pick a thick bush. Figure most of the traffic will come from north anyway, but don't bank on it.
   "'Wonder why this is so damn important? Looks like a plain old comshack to me. Five minutes Terry. Then Jim and I move in. After we hit'em you move in and cover our flank while Jim plants his C-4 and I'm looking for that damn chip. Get some good flicks of the interior and make it quick kid.'
   "'Right!' he clipped me lightly on the shoulder. 'Dad!'
   "'Ready?' Jim cleared his .45 quietly and unsnapped his bayonet sheath.
   "'Reckon so,' I gave the thumbs up and swallowed the lump down. 'Let's do it!'
   "Everyone nodded and Terry started out. We checked our watches and eyed the two outside gooks while Terry did what he did best, sniffing for sniper nests and a possible back-up source. I signaled Roy and Bob and they slipped into the tangled underbrush. Then it was just Jim and me counting down.
   "'It's you and me babe,' I breathed, noting it was time.
   "'Right with you, Bro.'
   "The gook guards were so casual I really couldn't believe the comshak was as important as we were led to believe. But then again, it was so well hidden that one would've only stumbled upon it by accident. Must've been something important about it. The VCs and NVRs used every trick in the book. And invented new ones in the process. Never take anything for granted we were slowly and painfully learning.
   "Then that bit about the prisoner muddled things even more. Take a prisoner! Why? We had only 30 clicks to rendezvous...  That Army Unit crossed my mind but I kept silent. Something still wasn't adding up. Terry was right. It did stink. And it was less inviting when thinking about those half dozen patrols scratching the jungle for us. Saddled with a prisoner, the distance could be multiplied ten-fold, timewise. Especially if the gook decided that he wasn't going to cooperate. Might as well paint bullseyes on our backs.
   "IF possible, the orders said. If possible. The seeds of suspicion seeped in. Decoy! We were fronting for another mission! That had to be it! Swamp Snake did say that some unit named Papa Bear was prowling the nearby woods. Why wou... the coughing of one of the guards brought me back. Jim poked me, eyes urgent, inquiring. I gave him the thumbs-up and slipped my bayonet from its sheath.
   "Jim slid his bayonet out. He ran a finger across his throat and motioned to me. I tapped the side of the building several times. Finally a curious rice-muncher rose to investigate. I moved swiftly around the building while Jim did his thing.
   "The other guard was sittin' on a one-legged stool by the door. I caught a glimpse of Terry moving in. Jim coughed from the corner and the startled guard hopped to his feet and stared at Jim holding his throat-slashed buddy as a shield. The guard crouched, fumbling with his rifle, hesitant and uncertain. Nervously, he turned his head to call into the doorway and I made my move. One hand clamped over his mouth and the other slipped eight inches of cold steel beneath his right rib cage. He tiptoed in pain, eyes wide and protesting, his mouth straining to scream through my fingers. I tightened my grip and twisted the blade inside him. I could feel the serrated edge grinding against his rib-bones. His rifle slid from his grasp and he slumped. To make sure, I laid open his throat and quietly placed him on the ground. I didn't want to but I had to look. A cold wave rushed through me as I stared, transfixed, self-consciously guilty at the face. I couldn't help it. Hell, he wasn't even as old as me! Probably no more than eighteen at best!
   Jim crouched at the entrance and signaled Terry to move in. Without wiping the blood from my hands, I removed my silencer from my pack and slipped it into the Colt's barrel. Jim did likewise with his piece.
   "'Three, two, one,' he counted with his fingers, and we slipped into the shack. One man was sleeping on a cot by the far wall. The other was reading. Jim nailed'em both before either knew what happened.
   "'Piece of cake,' he grinned. 'Find that damn chip pronto! You get the tapes and I'll set the charges. Terry, get in here!'
   "We ransacked the shack and found what we wanted in no time. It was too easy. Just too damn easy! While Jim set the charges, I quickly checked the tapes to see if I had the right ones, and then both Terry and I watched the trail.
   "'I'll set one more out back while you two make cover,' he ushered us out.
   "'Roger that!' I pressed my back against the hut's outer wall, yanking Terry along by his web gear. 'Come on kid. What's that?'
   "'Another tape was hidden in the cooking gear,' he handed it to me.
   "'Shit, we'll check it out later,' I stuffed it into my pouch. And just as we were about to spring off I heard Jim swearing.
   "'Goddamn son of a bitch, there's five gooks! Mike, look it this shit!'
   "I poked my head in. Jim was pointing at some gear. 'Look at this shit... Where the hell's...?' Then directly to us, 'Git! And watch your backs. He's probably out taking a crap or out in the jungle on some dispatch or something. Slide out easy guys. Git!'
   "Terry and I hugged the side of the shack then slid into the nearby brush and covered Jim while he finished setting the outside charges. From there we could also see the North point and Bob moving cautiously towards us. He kept just inside the tangle bordering the trail. Sniffing.
   "'Where the hell's that fifth man?' Terry sizzled.
   "'G.I. Joe,' an unmistakable accent answered him. We froze. My temperature flushed cold, then hot, then cold, and half way between, all in a split second. I thought I heard Terry's stomach groan. The gook stepped slowly around in front of us with a broad triumphant grin on his sun-darkened face. His eyes indicated our pieces and we clutched them defiantly a split second, then dropped them. Then he unleashed a barrage of Vietnamese derogatories for which we really didn't need an interpreter. Some expressions are universal.
   "'Terry. What the fuck's he saying?'
   "'I guess that means we're his prisoners, huh? How the hell should I know,' he shrugged. 'I don't speak no fuckin' gook! Goddamn sure he ain't inviting us to dinner!'
   "'We could ask. All he can say is no.'
   "'Cute Mike. How 'bout puttin' in a Request Chit too,' and the soldier interrupted us by jamming his rifle barrel into my gut.
   "You know how you're suddenly overwhelmed with an urgent rage to kill? Well, mine was suddenly stifled when he placed the muzzle of his rifle between my eyes. He must've been reading my mind cause his face was scowling and his eyes and the tone of his voice was definitely menacing. His eyes dare me. I clamed up, shrugged my shoulders and conceded his temporary victory and flashed a shit-eatin' grin at him. He backed up, eyeing us suspiciously and called into the shack. One eye riveted rapidly back and forth from us to the doorway. No answer on the third call caused his confidence to fade. His expression turned into nervous anxiety when he saw Jim sneaking from behind the building. Quickly he yanked a hand set from his belt and jabbered into it.
   "'He'll have Ho Chi Minh himself down on us!' I swore. 'Let's take'em. He can't hit both of us!'
   "'My luck he'll go for me,' Terry shot me a skeptical glance.
   "Just as we were about to make our move, Bob sprang up and planted a good one on the gook's skull.
   "'Calvary's here guys! Didn't want to shoot and wake up the whole fuckin' neighborhood. Should I?' he tapped his bayonet and ran a finger across his own throat. Without confirmation he knelt beside the gook, slipped his bayonet free and grabbed a handful of black hair and yanked the man upright, his head back and his neck exposed. His blade hovered over the jugular.
   "'No! We'll take'em with us,' I blurted out. 'We might need him. Saddle up and move out!'
   "We stripped the gook of his weapons and roughed him up a bit, then tied his hands behind his back. A tight noose was secured around his neck. The trailing end was secured to Jim's belt. Then we moved out, pushing the gook ahead of us, knowin' that he'd steer clear of any booby traps along the way. We tried to set a fast pace, but the thick network of patrols honey-combing the area impeded our progress. Jim tried to interrogate the prisoner on the run. The man was cool as a cumber. Name, rank, and serial number, and something about an 'act of futility' was all he'd surrender.
   "His hand-set was alive with chatter and we turned it up periodically to keep abreast of the local traffic. Twenty minutes later we heard the comshak blow. Charlie beamed broadly and scoffed.  
   "We almost got into a firefight with a sweeping patrol. I had to gag the gook cause he was bent on warning them. Only the keen point of Jim's bayonet drawing blood from his throat convinced him that we meant business. So far we'd covered some seven clicks. We knew it was going to be touch and go all the way, for the area between us and our LZ was saturated with troops who were just as determined to rescue their comrade as they were counting coup on us.
   "Again Jim pressed his blade into Charlie's throat and threatened him with his life unless he showed us one of their rat holes. The gook resisted, his dark eyes narrow and contemptuous.
   "'Kill'em now and let's take our chances!' Roy growled. 'Or he'll get us all killed for sure! Hell, he'd just as soon die than help us anyway. Slit his goddamn throat Jim!'
   "Roy was right, but Jim was adamant. He sliced an opening along the man's jawbone about an inch long and held the dripping blade up so that the drops splattered on his nose. Then he loosened the gag and told him to cough up or be turned into lunchmeat. Charlie chattered like a tail-squashed monkey.
   "'If you're lying,' Jim hissed, 'you're buzzard bait!' he wiped the bloody blade clean on the man's shirt, and pointed. 'That way! A couple of clicks that way. We can hide out in one of their rat tunnels. Keep an eye out for booby traps. Pungee sticks, trip wires, you know the routine. Look sharp men. Let's move!' he shoved Charlie out in front of him.
   "We spent the night in the rat smelly hole. Human defecation, decayed and rotten food scraps were piled high along the walls. The darkness helped the foul stench burrow into our skin and made us feel contaminated beyond salvation. Ventilation sucked and we gagged on tongues swelling in our throats, and nostrils clogged like cork plugs in them. We had to force ourselves to breathe. And very guardedly, taking shallow breaths. Only the thought of being alive and temporarily safe held us.
   "Jim had a hunch. He interrogated Charlie again for he knew that the tunnels weren't placed just anywhere at random. They were very essential to Charlie's movements, and he was convinced that ours moved toward the river. Of course, our prisoner denied it. But the more Jim pressed him the more we became convinced that it did. When Jim slipped Sam Colt's Government Negotiator from its holster, Charlie eagerly pointed out the tunnel's end on our map.
   "A click and a half from the river. Couldn't beat that with monkey meat on a stick. We decided to go for it. Charlie was pushed ahead of us on his tether. Any booby traps and he'd be the first to get it. God it seemed like days, stealing through the putrid darkness. Occasionally we'd use a lighter or a match to break the monotony and relieve the strain on our eyes. We hadn't brought any flashlights.
   "That nauseating stench nearly strangled us. I'll never complain about another barnyard smell as long as I live. At the end of the tunnel we waited an hour before coming out. And when we did, we took long greedy gulps of fresh air.
   "'Damn shame we can't fire this shit-hole!' Bob growled. 'You'd like that wouldn't you fuck-head? He leered in the prisoner's face and poked him in the gut with his rifle. 'Let's move out 'fore I slit his Goddamn throat!' he hissed.
   Checking Charlie's tether and his bound hands we then checked the map and took a bearing. A little over a click to the L/Z. A piece of cake!
   "'Let's move down that way a bit and take a break. I've still got the shits from being cramped up in Charlie's house,' Terry was rubbing his stomach, doing knee bends, and sucking in deep breathes of air. I'm sure all of us felt the same way. The stench and sweat from that rat tunnel and the humidity had penetrated and soaked me so thoroughly that I couldn't tell my clothes from my skin.
   "'No, keep going. The walk'll clear your lungs kid. It's too hot here and we can't afford to miss the boat.'
   "God how I wanted to get out of those fatigues! We moved fast. We were anxious. And satisfied that we'd completed our mission and got away with all our fingers. I could taste a sirloin steak. Big, thick and juicy, smothered with onions and lots of jalapeno peppers.
   "'Pow! Pow! Pow!' our flank erupted. We scratched dirt.
   "'Damn it! So close! Anyone see anything?'
   "'Negative!'
   "'Can't see a thing 'cept boonies.'
   "The silence was followed by chatter. Charlie! Dark figures moved towards us. Our prisoner sprang up struggling to shout through his gag, his arms waving like a lead-bellied buzzard. He kicked Bob, wrenched free and beat feet for his comrades.
   "I jumped up and cut him in two at the waist with a burst of M-16. And then the two rushing to help him.
   "'Move out! Move it, Move it...' I shoved someone.
   "We laid down some heavy fire and back-peddled, emptying clips and jamming fresh ones in automatically. Charlie seemed to be popping up from every bush. He was all around us. A half dozen grenades baffled them long enough for us to turn and haul ass. Their anguished cries and gunfire soon faded. But we knew it wouldn't be long before they'd collect themselves and come after us. Our only hope was the river where we hoped to God that Swamp Snake would be waiting.
   "We ran and fired. Our muzzles spit out long yellow white flames trying to convince Charlie to quit. And as an extra incentive we kept lobbing grenades. Less than a click to go! My High School track and field days sure did stand me in good stead, though I never dreamed that one day, the stakes would be my life.
   "'Hit the horn and give Old Swamp Snake a ring, Roy!'
   "'Roger!' he keyed the mike. 'Tango, Bravo, Charlie, come in. Gunslinger here. Over. Gunslinger sliding in the drink. Over.'
   "The radio crackled and squealed, spittin' static. Roy tapped it against his helmet and tried again. No response.
   "'Keep tryin'!' Keep tryin'!' I urged.
   "In the jungle we heard Charlie approaching. Noisy. Confident. Intentionally trying to rattle us. A break in the treetops ahead told us that the river was near. We sprinted for it and threw ourselves prone on the soft beach, facing inland, and spread out a nearly two dozen clips of ammo in front of us and waited.
   "'Grenade count!' Jim snapped. 'Three!'
   "'Two!'
   "'Three!'
   "'One!"
   "'None!'
   "'Here's two,' I tossed them over.  Lock and load, and make each shot count!'
   "'And don't fire till you see the yella in their beady little brown eyes,' Bob quipped.
   "'Right Dan'l,' Roy chuckled, licking a thumb and wiping the bead on the front sight with it.
   "Terry did a 180-degree roll into me, a mischievous glitter in his eyes and nodded towards the jungle.
   "'Hey Mike, how about hitting one of your Tarzan calls and see if you can rustle up a couple dozen elephants to stomp on old Charlie.'
   "'Right kid,' I palmed his head and tucked it against his chest. 'Why don't we just swing away through the trees?'
   "'You know buddy, you just might have...' and he was interrupted by the radio.
   "'Tango, Tango, Lima! Anaconda here... We're booking jungle river cruises to the Gulf. One way passage southbound. Over . . .'
   "'Bless you swabbies.' Jim crossed himself. 'Thank God there's a God somewhere!'
   "'Gunslinger here, passage for... Anaconda? ID Anaconda. ID. Over.'
   "Terry clamped a hand over Roy's hand to prevent him from transmitting.  
   "Who the hell's that?' his eyes narrow and suspicious. 'Check'em out.'
   "'Hmm. Could be a...' and Roy popped off a few quickies at him.
   "'Roger Gunslinger! We bought out Swamp Snake the day before. Crew shot to hell dropping you in. Didn't like the neighborhood. Takin' over cruise schedule. Over.'
   "'Our tickets are pre-paid... Over.'
   "'Affirmative Gunslinger. Have passenger list here...' and he read it. '...Over.'
   "'Well, git the hell on in here boy, it's heatin' up like a hot tamale!' Roy couldn't control himself.
   "The voice on the squawk box suddenly changed. Official like.'
   "'Improper transmission. Identify yourself... Over!'
   "Goddamn shavetail boot. We're about to get our butts shot off and he wants a goddamn ID!'
   "'You want outta here?' Jim grinned.
   "'ID Gunslinger. Pappa, Pappa, Echo, 663. Great day for a cruise... Over!'
   "'Password, Gunslinger?'
   "'Jesusfuckingchrist, they want our goddamn life history!'
   "'Shit I reckon,' Jim grinned.
   "'Chrispy-critters. Gunslinger. Pappa. Pappa. Echo. 663. Crispy-critters,' Roy returned, and after releasing the microphone key, 'You goddamn stiff-necked, brass buttoned, by-the-book son-of-a-bitch! The right way, wrong way and the fuckin' Navy way.  And we get stuck with shit-for-brains with a broom stick up his ass!' He flipped the radio "the bird" with both hands.
   "A few seconds later the radio returned, 'Confirmed Pappa, Pappa, Echo, 663. Crispy-critters. ETA to L/Z 1548. Anaconda over!'
   "'Roger that ETA. 1548... Out!'
   "'10-4. Stick to procedure, sailor. Over and out!' and the box went dead.
   "Simultaneously we all gave the box the finger and checked our watches.
   "'Less than ten minutes. He must've been hanging down river. Listen!'
   "All eyes went to the jungle. Charlie! Trying to be unseen. Not exactly sure of our position and not wanting to be easy targets, they were poking and prodding along very cautiously. He's strange like that. He'll play cat and mouse with you for hours until he knows your position and your numbers. Only then will he make an all-out effort to get at you, sometimes sacrificing many men to accomplish it.
   "He was feelin' us out. We were ready. And safe for the most part, unless he could manage a river approach behind us. We knew for sure though that when our ride landed he'd definitely make a last ditch effort. The radio crackled again. In the background was a steady, deep roar, like rolling thunder.
   "'Cobra-2 to Gunslinger. This is Cobra-2 to the Brushpoppers. Can we be of assistance? Over!'
   "'Gunslinger here. ID, Cobra... over!'
   "'Gunship. Just finished a sweep with Pappa Bear in Qua-Lo Valley. Overheard transmission with Anaconda. Over!'
   "'10-4 Cobra. We're belly-down on the beach. Party crashers moving in. Can you scope Anaconda?'
   "'10-4 Gunslinger. He's hauling balls to LZ. Ten foot roostertail a flyin'. ETA 3 minutes. Slide into the drink and I'll drop Charlie some hot peas for his rice. Over!'
   "'Much obliged Cobra. Buy you a beer in Subic. Over!'
   "'No problem, Gunslinger. We aim to please. That's a Roger-dodger on the brew. Check you out at the Tri-Vee if you ever hit Po Town.'
   "Within a twinkling the big green gunship swooped out of the blue and hovered overhead like a bad omen. The pilot waved to us, tipped his bird slightly and let loose the last of his rockets. The jungle in front of us exploded into several mini fireballs. Charlie hollered and cursed and returned a thick and heavy fire. Cobra-2 moved in and his Waist Gunners poured in some good old-fashion .50 caliber whip-ass. We opened up from our position, tossing the remainder of our grenades and eased back towards the river's edge. An M-60 barked behind us. It was Anaconda, its Boston Whaler hull nearly airborne and a wide rooster tail streaming behind it. The craft dropped dead in the water directly behind us. The crew laid down a lead blanket so thick you could walk on it.
   "'Hit the drink! Move it! Move it! Move it!' Jim barked, emptying a clip and replacing it with a fresh one as he retreated.
   "'Get the lead outta your ass, my tail's burning!' a loudspeaker blurted out.
   Another Jolly Green Giant appeared out of nowhere and peppered the jungle with rockets and twin .50s, and crisscrossed the area with Cobra-2. They dipped and swept back and forth, guns blazing, and mowed the thick foliage down and fanned the leaping flames with their massive rotors.
   "We waded out to the PBR under their blanket of protective fire and scrambled aboard. Roy took a hit in his left calf. Bob's radio pack spared him a fatal back wound. I was bleeding between the fingers and my eyes were stinging from the gritty sweat streaming from my forehead. Turned out to be Roy's blood from when I had helped shove him over the gunwales.
"The craft spun about and did a hand stand, then leaped down river. We shed our packs and poured lead over the side. Cobra-2 and his wingman swept the brush once more with their .50s then cruised above us briefly.
   "'Cobra-2 to Anaconda. We gotta head for the barn. Looks like you've got a clean shot home. Over!'
   "'Many thanks Cobra-2. Got you covered on the beer. Over!'
   "The radio clicked twice then fell silent. Our big green angels banked hard and thundered out of sight behind the jungle. About three clicks down river the skipper broke out a cooler and tossed us some cold San Magoos. God Almighty, salvation! We slept real good that night even though we were still behind enemy lines. Knowing that we were nearing a safe zone was great consolation and made sleeping somewhat easier.
   Soon afterwards we'd be even safer, back aboard the Connie. Clean clothes, a bed with real sheets, and the best chow in the service. And very far away from the hostilities. But always the bitterness would linger. Especially when you were aware of the fact that tactically, Nam could've been wiped off the map in a matter of months with some very deliberate air strikes! But because of some stupid little rules, very stupid to us at least, we had to play footsies with an enemy who gleefully taunted and teased us at every turn. He knew full well that he could go on forever because this wasn't a war, and a full-scale invasion of his country would never happen. In the meantime, thousands of us kids on both sides were dying and being maimed for life, mentally and physically. Pawns in a savage chess game of manipulation.
   "I was up with the dawn. Something about those jungle sunrises moved me. Terry was also up, dreamy eyed and leaning on one of the big .50s. Looked like he'd been up most of the night. Terry and I'd been assigned to the Connie together. We were pretty much like brothers, squabbles and all. Both of us 21, anxious and adventure hungry. Ready to take on the whole world to do and see it all.
   "Terry was somewhere far away. In a way, so was I. My first guess was that he was home with his girlfriend, Dolores. Me, I was second-guessing myself, the war, and everything that caused us to be there. What are we doing here? The thought of it chilled me even though the morning had started at nearly 90 degrees.
   "I bumped Terry with a shoulder and he swung around on the big gun, an arm draped across the barrel. A slow Montana smile crept across his face.
   "'Home again, huh?'
   "'Yeah,' dreamy-eyed. 'Riding the backcountry on my pony. Damn I miss that. Rambling across the high mountain meadows. Fishin' that lazy old river and wadin' in Crooked Creek. Humongous trout just waiting to be hooked. Mike, you gotta see it! You'd better,' he pointed a stern finger at me. 'You gotta meet Dee. Man, she's the greatest. Since my Request Chit's been approved Best man,' he poked me, 'I'm gonna marry that girl soon's we get back to Diego so's our boy will have a proper Daddy. Keith! He's a real pistol. God, Mike, my son'll be a year old soon and I haven't even seen'em! I never even held my own kid! God that's unreal, ain't it? Just got his picture...' he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipped it open and fingered a snapshot from it.
   "'POW!' a single shot rang out above us. Terry's head splattered all over me. I grabbed him and shoved him to the deck and covered him with my body, shocked and angry, at the same time, snatching my .45 loose. The boat shot forward, the crew was simultaneously up and spraying a return burst. Angry glaring eyes searched desperately, stripping the jungle foliage to get a fix on Charlie. But there was no other sound. At least, I didn't hear any. Just that one single shot, echoing over and over and over.
   "A couple of clicks down river the craft dropped its speed. I was still covering Terry. My muscles were numb and heavy. My insides sagged heavily, an echoing hollowness swirled around inside of me. My hand throbbed from the violent beat of Terry's heart. Or was it mine? Both, I think. I'm still not sure. It just hammered away.
   "'Mike? Mike! Shit he's hit! Someone was shouting. 'Mike! Terry! God, Terry's hit, too!' I felt rough hands grabbing me, prying me away. A sharp pain hit me in the leg. A morphine needle! Not me, damn it! Not me I tried to scream!
   "'Damn it, it's Terry! Medic! Jim, Terry's hit!' the words choked out. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed me. I know I was pleading, begging. My eyes were locked on Terry's head. Half of it was missing, the other half was a sticky, jellied mess. He groaned through all of it and I pulled him up close to me and cradled his head in my lap. Blood, brains, and other precious fluids seeped out relentlessly and his body began to twitch. He was going into convulsions. While the crewman hit Terry twice with morphine I tried to scoop up the dangling mess and shovel them back into his head while two others worked around me applying gauze and ace bandages on his head. Inside I knew, as the blood bled through. Outside, I fought it desperately.
   "'Terry! Terry buddy! Hey, little brother, it's me, Mike! Come on kid hang in there! You can do it. Goddamn it Medic, where the fuck are you!'
   The two crewmen worked feverishly, rightly ignoring me, applying dressing after dressing. Their eyes told it all though.
   "'Damn you kid, don't you do this! This ain't happenin'! Not like this, damn it. Not like this! Come on Terry! Live! You can do it! Do it for Dee! For God's sake kid, do it for Keith, Terry! For your son! He needs you buddy! Hang on goddamn you! Kid, I'll ring your skinny neck if you die on me!'
   "Jim was right behind me. His hands felt like lead weights on my shoulders. He didn't have to say anything. His veteran eyes did. Yet they also protested and fought right along with me, desperate to right the wrong while an impeding sense of doom permeated my body. I felt the others' eyes on me. Tense, angry, hurt eyes. Everyone was silent. Even the jungle. I don't even remember hearing the diesel engines. Just a silent vacuum in which mine was the only voice to be heard.
   "Terry struggled, trying to raise his hand. He muttered something, clutching at me. I leaned forward and took his hand. He opened it and slid the photo of his son into my hand. Saliva and mucus mixed with dark blood bubbled from his coughing mouth and he strained to speak. 'Mi... Mik... Kei... Ta... take ca... Keith!' he labored heavily then slumped. His eyes fought hard though, saying what his lips couldn't. Defiant to the end, that was Terry.
   "'Don't you die on me boy! Snap too sailor! That's an order! Goddamn you, you hear me? Snap to attention, sailor! Jesus Christ Terry...! Damn you kid...!'
   "Terry closed my hand over the picture as tight as he could and I covered his hand with my other one and lied, rocking him back and forth, begging pleading, convincing him that everything was going to be all right. Just once a smile flickered across his face. He squeezed my hand a split second and closed his eyes. His grip relaxed and he fell limp. Air rushed from his lips as his lungs collapsed and Terry took the final trip. Jim engulfed both of us in his arms and I held Terry very close and cried like a ten year old."
  
   A long brittle silence followed. Diane and Danny moved closer to Jim and he nestled himself between them. I stared at my empty Bud, and ran a finger repeatedly around the rim. Finally, Diane spoke in almost a whisper.
   "I see it still hurts. You three being so young, it's no wonder."
   I could only nod. Jim sucked in a deep breath, exhaled loudly and pounded the arm of his chair with a fist. The dogs, having quietly ventured back onto the porch jumped up and retreated to the other side. Buzzer, the lanky Bluetick, retreated out into the yard again, and stood stiff-legged, and deeply growling his annoyance, his flat head low and nape hairs high.
   "Damn it, Mike, I still say we were decoys for that Army sweep. Big Bear in the Woods or whatever the hell it was...! There was a helluva lot goin' on then. The lower Mekong Delta was buzzing and that brown-water Riverine Force was gearing up with some mighty heavy stuff! You know how things went down, Mike," he snarled.
   "Yeah. It has criss-crossed my mind a few times like a coyote trottin' through dogtown. I do remember that our debriefing really didn't amount to a hill of beans. Kinda like they were tellin' us to forget everything. Hidin' something... Yeah, it's kept me awake many a night, Jim. Especially when I consider how this all went down about a month before Tet?"
   "They deliberately sent you on wild-goose chases?' Danny was surprised. "What's Tet, Dad?"
   "Better known as 'they caught us with our pants down,' he snorted. "North Vietnam violated their religious cease-fire agreement and launched simultaneous strikes against a hundred provinces and villages and the US Embassy in Saigon. No," he anticipated the next question. "We were stateside. We didn't go back over until May 1968. War is hell, son," Jim squeezed through gritted teeth.
   "War is hell, and angry are the demons it spawned!" I raised my can.  "To Terry!" I crushed the can. "I hope you found a better place kid!"
   "To Terry!" Jim frowned and crushed his can, "Adios amigo! So long, little brother.'
   "If you love someone, let them go," Diane half whispered.

Chapter Four
   We managed to tear ourselves away from the war and Jim took me to the shed to see his Dog. Neither of us mentioned Keith Beckworth, Terry's boy, though, I'm sure Jim had thought of him. I know I did. Particularly after I first met him, and then later when he was old enough to understand what happened to his father. How he used to shadow me, thirsty for everything we'd experienced. Keith was so much like his father. Sharp, outgoing, warm and personal. Dee left San Diego after Terry's body was returned stateside. A couple of months later, she took Keith and went back to her hometown in Pensacola, Florida and moved in with her family until she got on her feet. She didn't marry until years later and allowed the boy to keep her maiden name, Beckworth.
   Keith and his cousin Jonathan worked for me on my truck last summer in the Pensacola, Panama City, and Fort Walton Beach area. In fact, I'd just left there two weeks ago. Keith and Jon had tried their best to get me to let them make this run with me. They had just turned eighteen and nineteen and neither of them were looking forward to another long and humid Florida summer. I suddenly found myself somewhat wishing that I had let them come along with me.
   I shuddered involuntarily in the warm Arizona sunshine, but the rays reflecting off the shiny finish of the copper-colored conventional cabin brought me back to the present and temporarily erased a bad unpleasant memory. The long-nose Mack radiated like a brand new penny. A twin-screw with a sliding Fifth Wheel and chrome Moon hubcaps and jeweled lugnut covers. It was powered by a 400 Caterpillar Engine with a 10-speed gearbox, and fueled by twin chromed 150 gallon fuel tanks.
   And true to the trucker image Jim had those big rubber mud flaps behind his tandems. The thick ones with the chrome-silouthettes of big-breasted bathing beauties on them. A string of colored lights bordered the fuel tanks and around the back edge of the sleeper. The cartoon character, Speedy Gonzales, was painted on the cab doors, and under them, "Desert Rat," Jim's handle. Though Jim had retired from trucking a couple of years ago, he still blew out the stacks once in a while and did some local hauling on the side. Oftentimes he and Danny and his youngest boy, Chris, would go bobtailing in the desert. That's where the boys learned to handle it also.
   Over at the corral Jim banged a bucket on the fence post and four mustangs galloped into view.
   "Take your pick, Mike. They're sound and got good manners. Got six more roaming the sage. Green broke. Every one of'em. Care to do a little bustin' pardner?
   "Gotta bronc rig in the barn," he baited.
   "Vacation, Jim." I poked him. "Need these old bones. Say, that buckskin looks like Brambles," I pointed. "Remember that little Grulla with the dark socks, at Subic that kept bucking everyone off? Run that smart-ass kid Tommy through the fence."
   "Oh yeah. I remember now. Yeah! They do sorta favor don't they? I was thinking of Sundance at first. Yeah, I do. This one's Bandit. Got the same spunk. He's sharp as a tack, and he'll spin on a dime and drop you some change. Only you don't have to fight with him." Jim winked. We chuckled.
   "He's mine. I broke'em," Danny hopped up on the toprail. "Real good desert pony. C'mere boy. Come on, Bandit," he banged the bucket again.
   The buckskin stood aloof, pawing the ground and shaking his head, and snorting. Then he wheeled about and raced around the corral, arousing the rest, and they joined him, whinnying and kicking up their heels.
   "Show off," Jim laughed.
   Danny whistled and Bandit reared and trotted a small circle, his thick neck arched and nostrils flared. The others milled together and then joined him and presently all of them were thundering around the corral, heads high and brooms trailing like banners.
   A very familiar warmth invaded my body as I rattled the grain bucket attached to the post next to the gate. Several horses skidded to a halt and faced me with their pointed ears erect and the tips touching. Bandit ambled through them, nipping and nudging the reluctant ones out of his way, and paused right before us, his big eyes inquisitive and flaring nostrils working. I pulled out a handful of grain and held it palm up to him. He took it without hesitation and groomed my palm with his thick lips. Several others approached and demanded their due. Danny and Jim joined me as the small, anxious band vied for grain and an affectionate hand.
   Danny hopped his mount and gave a brief display of his bareback skills, whopping it up like an Apache brave. This instigated the rest into a minor stampede around the corral again. Jim and I retreated to the toprail, spitting and brushing off the rising dust, admiring and feeling a surge of our younger days watching Danny showoff.
   "Come on Mike, got something to show you pardner," he waved to his son. On the next revolution, the boy slipped his left leg over to the right side and slide off smooth as silk as the little band cantered past. He leaped to the toprail with a big gloating grin and was rewarded with a hair mussing from his father.
   "Come on, Geronimo, let's show Mike my toy."
   "Yeah!" he beamed at me. "Come on dude, you're gonna like this, I'll guarantee ya!"
   I followed along docilely, curious to no end, for it was obvious that they weren't going to tell me. Jim placed one of his big grizzly bear arms around my shoulder and led me off.
   "Don't look like a sheep goin' to slaughter, buddy, this is gonna make your day. I shit you not," he grinned.
   "Oh shit," I groaned, remembering that old Navy expression. "I shit you not," roughly translated in Navy terms meant the absolute truth, but most of the time it was a lead-in to a bullshit story or a practical joke.
   "We're almost there, Dad. Make'em close his eyes."
   "Close'em Johnny. We'll lead you."
   "I shit you not, huh?" I remarked, hesitant, eyeing Jim and Danny, all the while surveying the lay of the land. "Hmm," I rubbed my chin, mulling things over, trying to size up the situation. "No shit, guys? I'm gonna like this?"
"No shit!" they replied in unison.
   "Have I ever lied to you Johnny?" a crafty grin.
   "Oh, well, let's get it over with," I closed my eyes and let them lead me on. We covered about thirty yards best I could gather and then halted.
   "Now?" I asked.
   "Not yet. Danny..." I sensed him motioning the boy to do something.
   "Just a minute, Mike," and I heard his retreating footsteps. A door opened on creaky rusty hinges and shut shortly afterwards and followed by Danny's returning footsteps. Jim turned my body in a particular direction.
   "Almost ready Mike. Danny . . ."
   "Hold your hand out Mike," the boy directed.
   I did and a cartridge belt was placed in it. I immediately recognized the loops and the cartridges. A quick hand inspection revealed a holster containing a revolver. From the shape of the Plowhandle grip, I knew that it was a Single-Action Colt. A charge of pleasure shot through me. Jim placed a solid hand on my shoulder and told me to open my eyes. I was speechless, first eyeing the Colt, then the scene before me.
   "Well, Mike, how 'bout that?" Danny stepped up to me with two holstered Single-Action Colts slung from his shoulders. Several feet away stood a little metal shed. Where the door I had heard opened and shut. I turned to Jim, extreme pleasure and approval in my eyes.
   "Told you, you'd like it," he grinned proudly, one hand tucked in his belt, the other waving across his wild-west style shootin' range. Moving targets of banditos, javelina, coyote and pronghorn slid across the far ridge while silhouettes of other desert critters ran across your path, and armed banditos popped up spontaneously all over the place.
   Impressive! Very impressive! The shooting range I had in my basement when my boys were alive isn't even worth mentioning, except that it allowed us to keep sharp when time wouldn't allow us to get out into the field, or the weather prevented it.
   We spent an hour plinking and quick-drawing, reliving some of our boyhood fantasies. When Diane called us to supper the boy in Jim really came out. This was truly his toy. Reluctantly he hung his guns and we retreated to the house.
The inside was just as I expected. Typical Southwestern with lots of Navajo and Apache rugs, carpets, and curtains. Painted pottery, lodge shields, and carved figurines were everywhere. The essence of the early American furniture graced with gaily colored serapes and saddle blankets seeped inside me and made me feel warm and welcomed.
   The centerpiece in the living room was an impressive coffee table that Jim and Danny had made from a large piece of mesquite. It was mounted it on a knarly cottonwood base. The whole piece had been dipped into polyurethane about a dozen times to achieve its thick plastic like coating. But not before two scorpions and a small rattlesnake had been placed in the crevices, along with several fine pieces of Zuni Silver jewelry to add some sparkle.
   The interior walls of the house were wood paneled and the floors carpeted, except in the kitchen. That floor sported highly polished Oakwood. Seemed like a sin to walk on it. It quickly became apparent that the dining room was mostly a show place for Jim's carpentry skills. The buffet and china hutch, and the big heavy based dining table. I jokingly told him that if he planned on moving anytime soon, to hold off till I was on the East Coast somewhere.
   In every room hung some impressive copies of paintings by noted cowboy artists such as Charlie Russell, Tom Lovell, and a fella by the name of Olaf. I don't remember his whole name, but one of his works, "Drifting" which depicts a cowboy on the move with his packhorse, really struck me. And hanging by the kitchen entrance hung a copy of that famous Stetson Hat Company painting of the cowboy watering his horse with his Stetson, by Lon Megargee. Competing for picture space in each room also hung a rifle or pistol of some sort. Sometimes several pieces complimenting each other. Usually old Black Power Colt and Remington revolvers. A couple of Sharps, several Marlins and Winchester rifles, and an old Hawkins and a Zouave long rifle. In Jim's bedroom, in a very impressive rack above the headboard, rested a pair of handsomely engraved and inlayed Winchester Pigeon Grade Over & Unders. Set him back about $1800 each he beamed. But as we both agree, a quality gun IS an investment like money in the bank.
   Baked quail, fried potatoes, tossed salad, tortillas, home grown Indian maize on the cob, and celery sticks in a spicy jalapeno sauce. Choice of beverages included milk, coffee, and beer. I went for the milk.
   "Told you," Jim winked at his wife. He had told her that I loved my beer, but milk usually won out at dinner nine times out of ten.
   "And what if this were the tenth time?" I chuckled.
   "I'd skinned ya, hoss," he chuckled.
After supper, Diane showed me to the guestroom where I'd put up. Had it's own bath so that company wouldn't have to compete with the rest of the family. Danny and Chris, particularly. Chris, the youngest boy, was on a field trip up near Phoenix and wasn't due home for a couple of days yet.
   Danny helped his mother with the kitchen cleanup while Jim and I cut out four horses and cinched them up. Afterwards Danny met us at the barn door with three rifles for the saddle scabbards, and we all went over to meet Diane in front of the house. Jim explained that there'd been some border trouble lately with "mules" and "coyotes" and the Border Patrol. There had been a small rash of injuries among some of the locals who had inadvertently stumbled across a few smuggling operations.
   "There's a couple of bands of javelina in the area south of here. Wouldn't mind having one for the freezer. Sweetest pork ever," he hinted.
   I couldn't agree more. The thought made my mouth water.
   "Done," I flicked a thumbs-up. "I'll keep my eye peeled."
   "By the way," Jim cautioned, "Take that rifle with you. I'll give you a handgun, too. Don't you take any chances, Mike."
   "That bad?"
   "So, so," he shimmied a hand.
   We rode south, flanked by jagged western mountains marching in the same direction and followed the top rim of a shallow arroyo. For the most part it was dry, dust blowing through it in little swirling streams. Horned toads ran rampant, chasing the rolling tumbleweeds, only to squat rigid beneath the temporary shelters before they rolled on.
   Gradually, the terrain changed and rolling foothills flowed about us, bedecked with creosote, sage, and the giant sentinels of the desert, the saguaro cactus. Prickly pears and fat Barrel cactus paraded up and down the grades. The lower stems of the beaver tails were missing chunks and complete appendages, from such critters as rabbits, skunks, peccary, and possibly one of the roaming bands of wild burros. The saguaro forever vigilant, its tiny buds tempting to sprout into bloom, and needing only a sprinkle to create, were riddled with burrowed holes of owls and other birds they would host during their tenure. Rattlesnakes were also abundant, their big thick bodies gliding from bush to cactus and from crevices to cracks. Denning season shot through my mind, but it was way too early for that. So I settled for just a lot of rattlers and the stifling humid heat and enchanting scenery captured my mind and drifted me back to a rattlesnake roundup many years ago over near Midland, Texas.
   A large number of hunters had gathered for the spring ritual, armed with long-handled snake hooks, high thick snake-proof boots, and gunny sacks, eager to snatch up as many of those timid legendary critters as could be. That was a big to-do throughout the southwest and Oklahoma, generally complimented with a huge rattlesnake cookout and hoe-down. Grilled, fried, broiled, and Bar-B-Que rattler, with all the usual trimmings. French fries, potato salads, bean salads, tons of ice cold beer, bar-b-que flavored tostados, snake filled burritos, and contests. And lots of loud country music. Just a good old fashion, country good time.
   About midday some Kiowa boys hit the jackpot. They had found a little washout with steep, loose sides. They built a small fire and smoked the place and those buzztails came sailing out, madder than three wet hens. The rest of us swooped in and snatched'em up as fast as they topped the ridge to race for safety. One boy, Rusted Knife, I think his name was, in his enthusiasm, lost his footing on the fragile ridge and slipped over and down into the bottom before anyone realized what had happened. I can still hear that kid screaming like a banshee and see him rolling over and over, flinging snakes left and right, and struggling to gain his feet. He only made it once as I recall, doing what amounted to a wild, hysterically spasmodic dance in his desperate effort to free himself from the clinging reptiles.
   It would have been suicide to jump in with him since his frantic movements had infuriated every one of them buzztails, and they were so thick you couldn't see the ground. He almost got a firm hold of one of his buddy's hooks. The Indians typically used longer poles. But the boy was in so much pain that he couldn't hold on and he slid helpless on the ground, a swollen shivering heap, convulsing violently under the repeated strikes of over three dozen angry rattlers.
   When we finally did pull him from the wash with a pair of grappling hooks, he was rushed to the waiting chopper. He was far beyond our meager First Aid and Snakebite kits. His black and blue body, swollen beyond recognition, told us he wouldn't make it. His brown eyes were a murky gray and his pulse only a murmur. Probably just muscle spasm.
The spirit of the Roundup died to say the least. Only half the rattlers were skinned, dressed and packed for market. Those too small for anything practical were released. Yeah, that was some day.
   Bandit's swift gait jarred me back to the present. The winding trail we were on took us to the top of a cracked, sun-baked mesa. Before us stretched the scrub-lands and mesquite, dotted with a scattering of oaks, sage and saguaro cactus, the latter standing like giant stick figure men, arms forever waving. On the horizon loomed the mountains of Mexico, and just in front of them, I knew was the US-Mexican border.
   Jim pointed west and told me that the sun dropping between the protruding red buttes was a sight to behold. The glowing disk went from white gold to a warm, bloody orange, deep and pulsating, and spread itself across the Sonoran Desert and seeped into the hazy blue mountains like hot, melted butter. We dismounted and perched near the edge, savoring the unfolding splendor. Southwestern sunsets never let you down. Always warm and inviting. No matter how many you experience, each one is a totally new experience. This one, like countless others, fired my imagination and stirred my soul, and propelled me on boundless journeys through Nogales and the Papago Indian Reservation in the south.
   The ride back in the lingering light was mostly silent, save for the desert noises. A roadrunner flanked us for a spell then disappeared into the dusk. Bandit, his ears and eyes forever alert, caught everything. But he never spooked or shied. And he was obviously enjoying the pats and stroking on his thick neck I was giving him. One ear rolled back and forth in my direction anticipating my voice.
   Jim's bald-face Roan, Pistol, danced most of the way, his three white socks flashing in the last rays of the retreating sun. Neck arched and nostrils flared, he was the personification of readiness. Images of Sundance arose. A coyote nearby caused the big gelding to crow-hop and Jim gave him his head.
   "Yeeehaaa!" he shot forward, fanning his mount with his Stetson. "Come on ya'll!"
   We galloped the better part of a half a mile before slowing down to a brisk canter. Bandit glided lightly as though he had wings. My thoughts wandered back to Wrangler, my Quarter-Arabian Pinto. His canter was the next thing to flying, so smooth was his gait. I've often wondered what became of him. I had to sell him, me going to Nam and no one to tend to him properly that I'd trust.
   When we got back to Jim's place, Danny and I spelled the horses while Jim put the tack away. He took the opportunity to find out more about a trucker's life. I figured he had learned quite a bit from his father, but he wanted to hear more. About someone else's exploits. That look in his eyes held the eternal curiosity of youth. That unquenchable desire to know. And when his thirst slipped around to his father and Vietnam, I wasn't surprised. I figured Jim had his reasons for not talking about it, and he had that right. Not really wanting to be rude or duck the issues, I was rather discrete with my replies and steered away from any personal incidents about his father other than the one we had just recounted involving Terry.
   "It really was hell over there, wasn't it Mike? Dad doesn't want to talk about it. He gets that far away look in his eyes... something like yours, and..." he trailed off sensing he was intruding.
   "Sometimes it's kinda hard to sum up in words. No matter how hard you try, or how much you've lived it. Takes time, Danny."
   "You mean like the old saying, time heals all wounds."
   "Yeah. But there's always a scar. Sometimes that scar can be worse than the wound. It's like, well..." I found myself fumbling for words. "Hell, kid, I ain't quite figured it out myself yet, so I can't expect you to. Got a curry comb and a brush?" I tried to steer the conversation away.
   "Over there," he pointed. "Bring two and I'll give you a hand," he led Pistol into a stall and haltered his mother's horse and turned him loose. "Mike?
   "Yeah?"
   "I didn't mean to pry. It's just that, that... Everyone I know's really down on Vietnam. I've heard'em sayin' some pretty bad things about it. 'Bout our own men... Did you really kill babies? I...  I mean... It's like, like... Shit, Mike. I can't turn on my Dad. He's the best I... Hell, you're okay with me too Mike, no matter what they say about that damn war! Okay?" he extended a hand. His eyes still questioned but the sincerity within them dominated.
   "Thanks, Danny," I took his hand. "Thanks," Terry came to mind again.
   "Sooo, tell me some more about trucking round the country and all those wild women you got stashed away in each town you go jamming through," his hazel eyes glittered hungrily.
   After supper found us all gathered on the front porch talking about nothing in particular. The coyotes out on the mesas started a serenade. The dogs showed only a fleeting interest. The nighthawks and owls beginning their night forays flapped across the wood shed, and a squadron of swifts and swallows darted through the open loft in the barn, competing with the little brown bats for their winged supper.
   "You still playing guitar, Mike?"
   "Yep. Carry one with me most of the time. In fact I've got another tape for you. My latest release," a slight touch of bravado in my voice.
   "You make records too!" Diane's eyes lit up.
   "Well, somewhat. I've got a few small releases out. Two 45rpms and a cassette album on the way. No big deal though. It keeps me busy and pays for the beer. I just..."
   "He's just damn good and won't admit it," Jim butted in. "Talk about singing good country, Mike should be on stage beltin' them out for some record label instead of running all over the country trucking and goofing off. Go on and sing us a couple Mike. You ain't hidin' here, boy! Honey, he use to give old Roger Miller and Hank Williams a fit. Really!" then he elbowed Danny, instigating.
   "Just so happens," Jim leaned forward a bit, and confidential like spilled out the corner of his mouth, "You folks is in the presence of one of the best damn yodelers in Country Music!"
   "You mean like Roy Rogers and Slim Whitman?" Diane gasped, reappraising me with new eyes.
   "Sure as shootin' Honey," he crossed himself and pointed a convicting finger at me, causing me to squirm in my seat.
   "Holding out, huh, buddy? Come on Mike, let's hear it," he rose from his seat. "Where's your flat top?" he started for the cab.
   "Passenger side of the sleeper, in the corner. Grab a couple of those 45 records in the briefcase sittin' next to it too."
   "Yee haa! You betcha! Mom, would ya git my guitar?" Danny flung as he trotted over to my rig.

"I'm just a nobody and nobody cares
Don't even have a dog on my side.
I left home when I was ten, been travelin' ever since
It'd take a year to tell ya where I've been..."

   The smell of sugar-cured bacon lingered in my nostrils, tickling, teasing. I had to be dreaming. Hot melted cheese opened my eyes. The Arizona sun was up and blazing, and I could taste the fresh eggs, so soft and light, and moist. Quickly I pulled on my Levi's and slipped into the bathroom, threw some water on my face, swabbed the gums and grabbed a T-shirt and let my nose lead me to that heavenly aroma.
   "Don't need any alarm clocks with cookin' like that," I was licking my chops, entering the kitchen.
   "Pull up a chair, buddy," Jim gestured, himself bare-chested.
   "Be right back. My boots," I wiggled my toes, and turning.
   "Nonsense. Sit!" Diane pointed. "Just pretend like you're home. This ain't no museum, Mike."
   Jim raised a bare foot and Danny strolled in, rubbing his eyes and stretching, also bare-footed and clad in only his gym shorts. He flopped in his chair.
   "Hey, Mike," he slapped me lightly on the shoulder. "See you're fittin' in just fine."
   "Well, I reckon," I conceded and sat. "That coffee sure smells great," I reached for the pot.
   Jim told me that he had set out the basic gear I would need in the barn. Bedroll and First Aid Kit. A flashlight, matches, sheath knife, Winchester rifle and a Colt revolver. Both .44 caliber. Along with a slicker and an old Army pup tent. What stores I wanted I could help myself to from the storeroom. He also mentioned that he would call his friend, Joe Morgan, a local Deputy Sheriff, and a couple of neighbors to let'em know that I had the run of the place.
   While he was doing that Danny drew me a map of his place and its boundaries, X-ing the good camping spots and places to be very wary of. Again Jim warned me of the smuggling activities near Temple Rock, hinting that drug smuggling was more than likely involved, again cautioning me to take no chances. Particularly near a large arroyo that snaked around Temple Rock, called Mule Alley by the Chicano locals.
   "Mind yourself round them canyons, Mike. You know how a body can plumb disappear out there. I know you ain't no greenhorn Mike, but like I said, some things have changed round here. Seems a man can't even enjoy the great outdoors anymore.  Oh... Here," he slid me a small black case. "Snake-bite kit, complete with a syringe and serum. Some big ones out there! You ain't allergic to hoss blood are you?" he gave m  e a sidelong glance.
   "Not the last time I recollect. Sounds like you got me going on an OP Jim. I'm just out to relax a few days, remember? Still like an old mother hen," I chuckled mockingly. "Thank God for that though," I winked at Danny, "or this old body wouldn't be here."
   "Right Johnny," Jim clipped me lightly on the chin. "Seems to me you did your fair share of hauling my ass outta some tight spots."
   "I'll keep an eye peeled," I promised, comforted by the concern still evident after all these years. Holding up the kit, I thought of the rattlers we'd seen. "Yep, might not be a bad idea anyway. Just in case, mind ya."
   Jim and Diane had planned to start for Phoenix around noon. That would give them plenty of time to settle in before dealing with the grim chore ahead. Had it not been for a certain little female up there that he was anxious to see, Danny said he would've stayed and gone with me. I forgave him and suggested some other time. Jim chuckled, teasing the boy about playing the field, and being on the verge of starting a ruckus in the henhouse.
   "He's already got a pretty little filly here that he's sweet on. Right Danny boy?"
   "Nothing serious, Mike. But you know, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," he shrugged his shoulders, grinning.
   We departed about the same time. The Beards in their Jeep Wagoneer, off to Phoenix, and me on Bandit, south into the Sonoran wilderness. I headed straight for the mesa on which we had watched the sunset the night past. It afforded quite a view of the terrain. Of course, I'd get some snap shots while letting my imagination and curiosity guide me.

Chapter Five
   The air had chilled considerably from the morning before. A navy-blue darkness seeped into the lavender western horizon. That's all I needed. Rain. I headed down onto the flats and decided to work my way over to a small row of hills to the south leading towards Temple Rock. Bandit chaffed at the bit, eager, and I gave him enough free rein to move into an easy canter. He seemed to enjoy that. With his head high and both ears forward, he sailed effortlessly along, consuming several miles before I realized that I had overshot my turn-off. I shrugged it off however. I could always double back.
   Bandit broke down into a trot on his own and cut into the thick sage. He gingerly picked his way to a narrow passage and came to a halt at the edge of a small rise, tossing his head and snorting, pawing the loose earth under foot. Without urging he shifted his body sideways and worked his way cautiously down the slide. I almost startled myself with the ease at which I adjusted and my curiosity allowed him to continue. I gave him his head so that he could maintain his balance. Eventually there came to my ears an unmistakable gurgle. Water. Once reaching solid ground Bandit headed straight for it at a brisk walk. I slid down from the saddle and dropped the reins as the buckskin's head dove in and his lips plunged into the cool running stream clean up to his nostrils.
   "Seems you know your way round pretty good," I patted his thick neck.
He shook himself and whinnied, and resumed his drinking. Occasionally he shifted his weight back and forth on his rear legs, trying to find a comfortable position.
   The stream ran from below ground at the base of an outcropping of limestone or lava rock, and ran nearly a hundred yards and disappeared below a rough group of granite boulders flanking the smooth canyon wall. The surrounding ground was fairly rough for the most part. Hardy desert fauna, the cholla, Spanish bayonets, sage, and blankets of lichen maintained a firm hold on the terrain. As well as a healthy scattering of bunch grass and creosote.
   I'll never cease to be amazed at how anything could survive in the desert. But then, when you really take the time to see instead of look, it's really not deserted at all. Even in the most barren looking deserts, the odds are some form of life does exist.
   Like most hidden canyons, this one also had its share of mini caves, though too small for me to enter. But I did find one that sparked my interest and I used my flashlight to investigate as far inside as I could see and reach. Remnants of several unlucky desert dwellers greeted me. One was a ground squirrel, judging from the incisors in the skull. The long bill of another said roadrunner, and maybe a rabbit. Perhaps a coyote or bobcat had used it as a refuge at one time. Or maybe still was.
   Then something caught my eye. It wasn't bone, I don't think. I won't ever know cause when I reached for it, an unmistakable warning hiss checked my advance, and sent thousands of prickly goose bumps up and down my spine. Several inches away, two little beady black eyes stared at me. I jiggled the squirrel skull a little to entice whatever it was to come out. Well, it didn't take much let me tell you. A large black and pink lizard rushed forth, feet scrambling, and scooped up the thing I was after and swallowed it in one gulp. Then it boldly stood on its toes, snapping its heavy jaws loudly and lashing its thick, heavy tail back and forth, all the while hissing and blowing.
   My camera! Damn! I withdrew, searching about my belt. Son of a bitch...! There it was some twenty feet away just where I had left it to keep from banging it up while crawling up the ledge. I snatched it up, setting the lens aperture while in motion and quickly advanced the film. Son of a... the Gila Monster was gone. A rare shot for me was lost. I chided myself, remembering how many cameras of mine graced the bottoms of rivers, mountainsides and other out of the way spots in my determined quest for a good picture. Now all of a sudden on this casual excursion I was overly concerned about this camera's condition. Sometimes it just don't make a whole heap o sense, huh?
   The Gila Monster, generally a recluse, can be a holy terror when aroused. As aggressive as a badger or a wolverine, with bulldog like jaws having the strength of a bear trap. The Gila Monster and his cousin, the Bearded Lizard are poisonous, though I've never known of any humans who have actually been killed by one. One reason, I reckon, is because the poison comes from glands in the back of their lower rear jaws, and the reptiles literally has to chew it into the victim. Even without the venom, those heavy jaws do quite a bit of damage on their own.
   I sat back and waited for half an hour, but to no avail. Bandit was picking at some bunch grass and the wind had kicked up noticeably. Advance guard for the ever-darkening northwestern sky. And it wasn't even past 5pm!
   Thoughts raced rapidly through my mind. I was convinced that it would rain. And maybe more. If I headed out now, I'd more than likely get caught in the open. Then I remembered Jim mentioning a place about eight miles south with some scattered cottonwood groves and fresh water. Funny he hadn't mentioned this spot though. How was it that Bandit knew? I did figure that I was better off where I was under the circumstances, having shelter under an overhang, and fire wood lying about. The thought of getting another shot at old dogface settled the matter.
   Unsaddling Bandit, I tethered him to a picket near the stream where it ran close to the out-croppings. I pitched camp on a little rise several yards on, under an overhang that centuries of wind and water had formed. The pup tent I'd use to block the entrance should the rain turn to storm. Then I gathered enough sage and driftwood to keep a small fire going for a good part of the night and dug a shallow trench to lay the fire and ringed that with some healthy rocks. I placed the coffeepot on a very smooth, flat rock, and a couple of feet away, I placed my bedroll and guitar, the latter still wrapped in a light blanket. I kept the sleeping bag rolled up so as not to find any uninvited guests inside when it was time to turn in. And the saddle? A cowboy's favorite pillow, of course!
   Coffee was the first order of business. I topped the little kettle with fresh stream water and tugged on a thick strip of jerky while the java brewed. Next, I rationed out some oats to Bandit, then set out on a small expedition to take a closer look at the little canyon before the rain forced me to retreat. While doing so I found out how Bandit knew this place. Danny. I found the boys's name and initials, along with a few others, probably his buddies, carved in some rocks near the head of the stream, and on a couple of large tree trunks. Closer inspection revealed that the area had been used on several occasions as a campsite or gathering place. I recalled Danny saying that he had broken Bandit himself. Anyone who breaks a horse generally spends a lot of time with it, schooling and refining, and working off the rough edges in order to produce a good riding animal. This must have been one of their hide-a-ways. Why not, a boy's got to have some space of his own?
   Again thoughts of Wrangler arose. He was near seven years old when I got him. Green broke and wilder than the wind. Rumor has it that he was one of the original Marlboro ponies they used on the Marlboro Cigarette television commercials. Don't know for sure, but I do know that he ran me through fences, into barn walls, and rolled on me a few more times than I'd care to admit before I broke him. He didn't like the idea of being saddled and rode, and I didn't like the idea of being thrown to the four winds and baptized in the ground. But I was young and just as determined that I was going to break'em, come hell or high water. I wanted that Pinto, and I got my fair share of hell and high water in the bargain.
   My stubbornness paid off. That little Quarter-Arabian gradually figured I wasn't likely to give in until both of us was ready for the pasture, and he slowly began to trust me. Then we began to work together. We spent a lot of time in the field, and soon I could practically go to sleep on him and rely on him sticking to the trail and not go hightailing off on a whim, or back to the barn like stable nags do when given their head.
   Yeah, we had some good times, that old Paint and me. I just hope he fared well with the folks that bought him. I did have every intention of buying him back, if I survived the war. But good intentions may sometimes fall prey to the unpredictable hand of fate. Unfortunately for me, the Conklin's had pulled up stakes to parts unknown. They had lost their son Rick in Nam and didn't want to hang around the place being haunted by his memory. Wrangler was sold off to someone out of state and I figured it wouldn't do any good digging up too many old memories anyway and let it go. A lot of people suffered from that war, and a lot of them still are.
   The rain was light and warm. After a couple of hours it faded off to the east and left the Arizona sun struggling to stay atop the distant mountains, themselves in their evening gown of twilight preparing for the night. I was captivated by the spectrum. The lavenders, blue-grays, ambers and oranges, separate yet blending as one, pulsating softly and struggling against the encroaching dark shadows that weaved and danced across the jagged ridges and canyon walls, giving life to the water-etched patterns on the rough surfaces and simultaneously consuming them.
   The night dropped suddenly and sprang to life with serenading peepers, nighthawks, crickets and other desert critters, scratching and cackling on the ridge above me. In the distance a kit fox barked. The sharp yip of old man coyote answered, followed by another and another beyond. Mice scurried, and I caught a glimpse of a fair size snake making his way across a smooth rock and into the sage. And away from me. Bandit, for the most part, seemed to be asleep, almost totally unconcerned by the night noises, though occasionally an ear did roll back and forth.
   I fed my fire, pulled out a writing pad and unwrapped my guitar. It was just right for writing a new song. I had to build myself up though, with a few familiar ones. The inky desert sky overhead was speckled with tiny silver stars that seemed to enhance the sound of my guitar. Its plaintive, mellow sound bounced back and forth across the canyon walls then hovered overhead a few fleeting seconds before fading sweetly into eternity. The freshness of the light rain and the countless stars brought up memories of an old flame and the uncertainly of a new relationship that was slowing developing.

"I need time to think it over,
So please don't call no more.
I want to be certain,
Before I call you more.
I feel good when you're near me,
But feelings sometimes lie
I need time to think it over,
So please don't call no more..."

   The stars twinkled and pulsated as though they were singing along. Maybe they were. Robin's face surfaced, her liquid brown eyes inviting me. I imagined she was somewhere out there singing too. That would be just like her, the little nymph. I still chuckle fondly at how we met. I answered a knock at my door one day and there she was.
   "Hi, I'm Robin," she chirped. "I'm a friend of Kathy and she said I could be your girlfriend if I came over."
   Just like that! I swear on a case of Budweiser! Turns out she enjoyed the same things I did. Camping, photography, and guns. And, she really was a nymph! Her sexual appetite seemed endless. At times she just plumb wore me out! Sometimes I don't know how I survived her. Having sex all night long is generally top on a hormone driven young man's list. In her case though, that wise old saying kept repeating itself. "Be careful what you wish for..."
   The tranquility of the desert night stirred up a wealth of old memories. Some good, some bad. Important tidbits in my life that will always be a part of me. One not so pleasant memory insisted on fighting its way out for recognition. The letter I received from Tali after she took off, telling me that she had placed the baby, our baby she claimed, up for adoption. She had been dating someone else also. But just the possibility that David Joshua was mine made it hurt, for I never got the chance to see him. Just a photograph of him taken shortly after his birth, that she had sent. In fact, she had already given him up before I received the letter from the Adoption Agency! So I really felt shut out in the cold.
   I have often wondered about David Joshua. And the fact that she'd named him after my best friend David, with whom she also had been running around with. He was also at the hospital when she gave birth. Hmm. Her letter, which I still have, is still etched deeply in my mind like it was yesterday. And like so many other incidents in the lives of us country songwriters, this one inspired me to write my song "The Letter."  I'm constantly amazed at how certain incidents can do that.

"I never should have opened that letter.
I recognized the writing on the front.
It should have been thrown in the trash can.
And I'd never have to know the hurt it brung..."

   Tali was a very giving sort of girl. She was genuinely warm and affectionate, but too giving at times. I've always had some reservations about people who want to do everything for you. I've never quite gotten used to that idea, and frankly, I don't really cotton to it easily. But I'm sure I was partially attracted to her because of her unselfish willingness to please. But with me just fresh out of the Navy and not looking for a commitment, particularly settling in one place for any length of time, really didn't help matters. The more that I tried to convince her of this, the more determined she seemed to want to attach herself to me. What really pained me was not being given a chance to exercise the adoption option as far as David Joshua was concerned.
   I guess that's where the other young'un sort of fit in after the deaths of Gordon and Tony. An attempt to close the wound of something precious lost. It was good for both of us. A mutual bond of trust and concern and giving and sharing. All that pandemonium that goes with watching a hyperactive boy grow up and find his way in the world paved the way for my song "Sammy."

"Sammy was but ten years old.
When he came to me.
His deep brown eyes stared at me.
Oh, so pleadingly.
Are you gonna be my Daddy?
He asked of me.
I said, That's right, my Sammy boy.
That, I'll always be.

   Bandit snorted loudly and began dancing in place. He strained on his tether and his ears were straight up. I could also see the whites of his eyes. I strained an ear over the murmur of the breeze and the normal night sounds. My eyes tried to pierce the darkness at the canyon's mouth, where Bandit's attention was apparently focused. Quietly, I laid the guitar aside and slid the Winchester from it's scabbard. Ahh, the smooth Walnut stock felt so good! I would have drifted off into nostalgia again had it not been for Bandit's nervous snorting, head pitching and stamping.
   Though he wasn't frightened I couldn't ignore him. I set the rifle aside and grabbed my camera. After a spell it came to me just over the regular desert noises. The distinct clicking of hooves on rocky ground. Riders? Banditos? Or maybe some of Danny's buddies? Coarse grunting mingled with shrill squealing and sucking sounds changed the picture. I dug in and checked the settings on my camera, knowing now that it wasn't horsemen. I strained my eyes in anticipation also knowing now that the changing wind and Bandit's scent had given them reason to slow down and proceed with caution. If they were going to continue at all.
   Javelina. The desert wild pig. Though not actually pigs, the peccary's been tagged with that moniker for so long it's just commonly accepted. They were out on a feeding foray. I stoked my fire and added a few light pieces of wood to it and made myself comfortable. Presently they filed into view, six of them, four adults and two piglets. As they neared the stream, the piglets broke formation and headed for Bandit. He greeted them stiffly, staring hard as the two sniffed and grunted about him a few minutes before joining the rest, who were drinking very loudly from the stream. To tell the truth, they weren't all that concerned about my fire either.
   Since the wind was blowing between us I was sure they weren't aware of my presence. I was as still as I could be and still snap pictures. The youngsters were much more interested in poking about than foraging. One of them came within ten feet of me, sniffing and grunting heavily, his sharp teeth rasping rapidly together, his little eyes glazed in the firelight.
   "Not me," I whispered, knowing just how sharp those damn teeth and tusk were. My mind skipped back years to a trip that Gordon and I took. We were out plinking and shooting ground squirrels. Well, I winged the granddaddy of'em all, and he went down a tumblin'. Just as quickly he was up and hauling ass, dragging a shattered rear foot. We opened up on him, giving chase at the same time. We rolled him twice and he still had enough spunk to drag himself to his hole and into it. I dove for him, thrusting my hand deep inside the hole, feeling and grasping. Gordon slid next to me, anxious and urging, yet somewhat apprehensive. My hand closed on the critter's head and triumphantly I yanked him out, beaming like a possum.
   "Got'em!" and just as quickly my triumph faded and a cold sliver with the jolt of a cattle prod shot through me as about four angry feet of twisting, squirming rattlesnake buzzed his emphatic displeasure. Gordon rolled away swearing, "Holy Shit!" I was permanently locked to the reptile for a brief recognizing second, long enough to realize that I had grabbed him by the head with his nose jammed into my palm and my fingers securely holding his mouth shut. Then I flung him as far as I could and sank to the ground in a sweating heap and tried to keep my heart down my throat. Gordon was up and next to me, rifle in one hand.
   "You all right Mike?" he shook me. "Damn, that was close! Come on! He's gettin' away!" he started after the retreating reptile. He leaped in front of it and as he took aim I shoved the barrel aside.
   "What'd you do that for?" his shot missed by a country mile. The rattler coiled and faced us, tongue flicking, tail a buzzing, and body excitedly overlapping itself the way irritated rattlers do.
   "Let'em alone kid. Wasn't his fault."
   "I know, but he's gonna make a nice belt," he took aim again. "Look how clean his patterns are. They're almost perfect, Mike. Please?" in a voice like the fifteen-year old he was.
   "Don't you have enough belts already? Besides, you know you wear that one," I tugged his favorite one, "most of the time. Come on give the critter a break. We already scared him outta his wits."
   "But... but... Aww, Mike!"
   "Good thing we don't have any raspberry sherbet around, huh?" I clipped him on his chin.
   He grinned good naturedly knowing that sherbet was the ultimate effective bribe that he and Tony used on me, and bid the reptile farewell. Then he rolled his cocked head at me, a smirk riding there.
   "It seems to me he put a little scare into you, too," he teased.
   I felt myself blushing guiltily and he ducked the swat he knew would follow. I breathed a quick thank you to the Man upstairs, also.
   "Yeah, did kinda sneak up on us, didn't he?" I winked.
   We sat out the squirrel hole for a short spell and the heat succeeded in prompting us to move on. Between a set of rolling yucca and ocotillo studded hills we took refuge beneath a ridge and quenched our thirst.
   "Mine's half full," Gordon held up his canteen. "We should've brung some beer from the cooler."
   "And you'd be drier than a bone by now," I cupped a hand over my eyes and surveyed our surroundings, "We'll work our way between these hills and take advantage of the shade awhile, then head back to the car to cool off and eat, okay."
   "Sure."
   I think I must have napped for Gordon was poking me. I sat up rubbing my eyes, reluctant to emerge from whatever pleasure I had been indulging.
   "Listen, Mike. Over there," he pointed.
   "Nothing but the wind. Was I asleep?"
   "Yeah! Sawin' some big logs too! I dozed off too, but something woke me. Ain't the wind either. Listen!"
   I stood up and checked my rifle. Gordon was right next to me, his eyes searching.
   "Can you hear it now?"
   "Yeah. Come on," I motioned him and we stalked off in the supposed direction of the sound. Like distance, sound was also deceptive in the desert and hilly regions, and oftentimes misleading. We followed our instinct though, and the sound increased as we moved. Though the noon sun was on its decline, we were still blessed with a liberal dosing of sweat in the bargain. We moved cautiously now, again stalkers, hunters, ready for the kill. Gordon whispered with a finger to his lips.
   "Javelina?"
   I nodded, pointing to the sudden profusion of prickly pear and barrel cactus dotting the rocky slopes. We split up and worked our way up to the crest of a low ridge, carefully picking our way around the rocky outcroppings and between the stands of yucca and stunted cholla. The cholla burrs, as usual, sought to give us a fit. But we endured. At the top anxious eyes gazed down into a dry wash. We checked our rifles and waited patiently as the sounds drew near. Presently we were rewarded. A band of javelina filed into view. Several sows and piglets, rooting and grunting along. The piglets trotting briskly, inspecting and probing the arroyo walls and darting in and out of the sage then quickly retreating back to their mothers. Behind them strolled several young boars. Confident and bold they trotted along with heads low and noses wiggling.
   Gordon worked his way over to me, a gleam in his eyes. He stroked his rifle, his lips pursed.
   "Be a shame not to take one, wouldn't it? You make the best pork roast of anyone I know," baiting me.
   "Hmm," I mused, tapping my own rifle. "We left the big guns home, kid. Remember? Just these .22s and..."
   "Cut the bull, Mike! You know damn well we can drop'em with these. Are you tellin' me all that teachin' you gave me and Tony about emergency situations doesn't really work?"
   "Is this an emergency?"
   "Sure is! Most of the time we go lookin' for'em, they're in the next dang county or we can't spare a whole weekend. Today they drop in our laps and..." he raised his rifle and aimed and squeezed an imaginary trigger. "Pow! Right in the head," he breathed and turned to me with an entertaining grin. "One shot each from both of us, and that little sow with the patches on her rump is ours."
   "Just like that, huh?"
   "Just like that. You did say a .22 Long could do the job if used right, didn't you? Huh, huh, huh, buddy..." he bumped my shoulder with each huh. "We've got licenses, Mike," as if that would be the deciding factor.
   "Got me, huh?" I nudged him back.
   "Yep!" a triumphant grin.
   "Reckon so young'un. Come on," and we worked our way along the ridge ahead of them and then down to a bend in the wash. A nice flat top boulder provided a great stand and the wind was in our favor. We agreed on the sow with the spotted rump, and when the band trotted into view, we allowed them to file past until our sow was almost under us. When she was, I did a coyote imitation and she skidded to a halt. Her hackles went up and her beady little eyes glared as her stiff-necked head swung back and forth searching. The rest milled about, and I barked again. They pressed each other and began to turn back.
   "Now," I whispered, and both of us fired. We heard the Longs hit their target with a sharp smack and the sow squealed loudly, shook herself violently, then dropped to her knees.
   "Again!" Gordon urged, working the bolt to feed another round into the chamber.
"Wait!"
   After a minute or two the sow stiffened and fell over. Her body quivered and she panted heavily, her wide eyes rolling back and forth. Her legs began kicked slowly at first, then vigorously for several seconds as she struggled to gain her feet. Her voice became raspy and she let out a long agonizing squeal and shuddered violently for several seconds. Then she was still.
   "Yeah!" Gordon breathed, his eyes sparkling. "I knew it'd work! Come on! He leaped up and started down hill.
   "Hey, hold on boy!" I went after him and we both slid to the bottom. Our noisy decent checked the return of the band and they wheeled about and galloped down the wash. We briefly inspected our prize and dragged it off to a shaded ledge where we once again mulled over the tiny bullet holes.
   "Sniper clean, huh, sailor?" Gordon grinned.
   I ignored the comment and pulled my knife and pointed. Gordon propped the rifles against the bank and removed his blade also and a small honing stone he usually carried and handed the latter to me.
   "Well, don't let me stop you kid. Dig in!"
   About half way through the dressing the other javelina came back. And with a vengeance it seemed, squealing and snorting, and galloping full tilt. Without thought of the rifles, we leaped to our feet to first try and figure out why they were in such an all-fired hurry. Then common sense took hold and I barked, "Get the hell outta the way!"
   I shoved the young'un towards a low ledge and he nimbly leaped up and scrambled away. I suddenly decided to snatch a rifle and went back. The band was nearly on my back.
   "Mike, lookout!" Gordon yelled.
   I shot a quick glance over my shoulder and realized the rifle was a no-go, and darted to the other side of the wash, leaped and bounced off it, and over the head of the lead pig, a big bluish sow. I heard her teeth click shut beneath me. When I landed she was with me as I dashed for the ledge I had shoved Gordon to. Her hot breath seared my back and the rasping of her teeth ground in my ears and sent shivers up and down my spine, and urged me on. Gordon had come back down the embankment and was perched on the ledge, his hand extended.
   Come on, Mike, you can make it!" he reached his hand out to me. "Hii yaa! Yeehaa! Hii yaaa! Yee haaa!" he shouted, to no avail. They kept coming.
   I leaped for the ledge and my left foot slipped on some loose gravel. My knee crashed against the rock surface with a heavy thud and a numbing pain temporarily dulled my senses, only to be immediately replaced by the pain of a million needles racing through every nerve in my body. I clawed for a grip on a protruding root as Gordon moved closer and grabbed my hand. I felt myself being yanked in two different directions at once. Gordon had my hands and a big sow had a boot. Thank God it wasn't the injured leg. I struggled between them. Gordon was winning. But not before that damn pig pulled my heel completely off. She chewed it to a pulp and spit it out like a wad of tobacco, and trotted angrily back and forth, challenging, daring.
   So there we sat for nearly two hours, held at bay by those angry little devils. Throwing rocks and shouting only infuriated them more so we resigned ourselves to our fate and waited them out.  And by that time, the pain in my knee had subsided to an irritating buzz, tolerable enough for me to hobble out of there. Ever so quietly we collected our guns and the carcass, and made a very gracious retreat to the Mercury. A couple of cold beers from the cooler eased our humiliation and boosted Gordon's bravado.
   "We still got tomorrow, Mike. Wanna go get the rest of'em?"
   "Right kid!" I punched his shoulder. Ahh, to be young again!

   Bandit pawed the earth and strained on his tether. I got some close-ups of the piglet before he turned and scurried back to his kin. The javelina reacted by huddling together and facing across the stream, nostrils probing the darkness there. I caught a movement. A slight, dark movement, trying to be unnoticed. The nape hairs on my neck made me trade my camera for the Winchester.
   "Oooooowww!" plaintive and low.
   Coyote! It must've followed them here. I raised the rifle and took aim where I saw the last movement. I'd scare him off. Then, I thought the better of it. Hell, coyotes gotta eat, too.  They've got a hard enough time scratching out a livin' without me interfering with nature's delicate food balance. Then a horrid thought hit me. What if it was a person stalking the pigs? I hate 'sound' hunters that always go around lighting up the countryside and not knowing what they're shootin' at!  Always make sure of what you're shootin' at I'd been taught. I put the rifle down and waited.
   There came a rustling in the brittle sage from across the stream. The javelina grunted their displeasure and moved away slowly as one. A long-legged, raggy-coated coyote stepped out, his long tongue rolling and a look of desperation in his slanted yellow eyes made even more sinister when they reflected the silver glow from the rising moon. He paced back and forth on his toes, panting heavily, then boldly splashed across the stream, high-steppin', his eyes glued to the pigs. It was obvious that he had experience with javelina, and knew full well what those sharp teeth and hooves of theirs were capable of. Cautiously, he side stepped and semi-circled them several times before making a pass. The pigs pulled back and pressed themselves tightly together, squealing excitedly. All the time though, they tried to keep the young ones in the middle, the little brush-wolf's preferred target.
   That crafty old desert dog was testing them, yipping and snarling and snapping, pressing them with false rushes, trying to spook'em and make'em scatter. Then he or his mate would move in quickly and snatch up a piglet and dash off. I wished for my telephoto lens buried in my saddlebags. I made no effort at it fearing that any unnecessary movements would interrupt this little drama. So I sat tight. I didn't want to miss a thing.
   You can watch it on TV or see it in the movies, but its absolutely nothing like being a living part of it. And you'd best pay close attention, for it only happens once and there's no instant re-play. Instinctively I found myself searching the shadows for his mate. If he had one, I knew that she would be well hidden and not about to expose herself until the right moment. The dog began loping deliberate circles around the little band, probing for a weak spot. He seemed not at all concerned about Bandit and me. I figured he had to have known I was there by the fire. Coyotes are very uncanny in their ability to size up a situation. They're very aware of their surroundings. I reckoned that either I didn't pose much of threat, or he was desperately hungry enough to throw caution to the wind. Otherwise, he never would have shown himself.
   After awhile Bandit settled down and watched, his almond eyes never leaving the slack-jawed hunter trotting back and forth, feinting, yipping, and charging. Finally his efforts paid off. The pigs spooked and split up. Old man coyote was right in the middle of'em, snapping and growling, adding to their panic, at the same time trying to keep just out of reach of an angry female who dogged his every move. He squared off, nose to nose with her a couple of times, only to leap nimbly away when she bore down on him. Just as smoothly he moved back in, yapping and snapping, creating havoc. He snipped off the tail of piglet and it galloped away while he rolled from the path of its angry mother.
   I saw the movement, a dark, swift, blur among the shadows. The lone piglet was snatched off its feet, squealing and kicking frantically. The female shook her catch vigorously and slammed the piglet to the ground where she quickly secured a new grip and commenced to wring its neck. The hysteric squealing of the dying piglet drew the equally frantic and enraged sow to its rescue. The rasping of her razor teeth bounced off the canyon walls, and my skin crawled in response. The female's mate scrambled to her aid, snapping the sow's hindquarters in an attempt to hamstring and thwart her efforts. The dog coyote's efforts were successful and he veered off to scatter the rest of the band, which was beginning to regroup, before he dashed off in the wake of his mate.
   The cries of the piglet and the clattering of loose rocks eventually faded as the little band bunched and thundered up the draw in the wake of the retreating coyotes. I found myself holding my breath, and had to make myself breathe. No pictures or words could accurately describe the experience. It's permanently etched in my mind, you can bet on that.
   I had a similar experience on my very first spear hunt in the Philippines in the Luzon jungles above Manila. A wild boar laid open my right leg just above the knee.
   Immediately, I went to Bandit to calm and reassure him, stroking his thick neck and withers. He nickered softly and nudged me, his left hoof pawing a shallow pocket in the ground.
   "Such is life old buddy. We live and we die. Coyotes gotta eat too."
   I removed Bandit's tether and hobbled him so he could move about. Then I went over to the stream where the coyotes had crossed and momentarily examined the ground then stared off into the darkness where they'd disappeared. Stretching and turning in circles, I stared into the starry heavens and inhaled the cool night air, reveling in the experience, exhilarated, content. Coyote talk rolling over the high ridges took me to far away places.

Chapter Six
   I was up with the sun. Breakfast of coffee, eggs, a thick slice of Jim's special smoke cured bacon, and firebrand toast filled me with a hunger for the new day. Cold water from the stream really did the trick on the beer.
   One Bud and I was ready for bear. I drowned my fire good and scattered the ashes, then policed the immediate area, checking for stray embers. I buried the non-burnable stuff and topped the spot with a pile of stones. Satisfied that the area looked pretty much like it did when I arrived, I gathered my personal gear. It's funny how a couple of smashed cans and broken bottles can totally ruin an otherwise perfect picture.
   Naturally I wanted another shot at old dogface so I kept a wary eye out for him while packing and saddling Bandit. Afterwards I staked out his pad for half an hour. Kinda figured he'd already been up and prowling just before sunup to beat the heat. That suggested that he probably wouldn't reappear unless the temperature dropped some, or it rained. Other than that, I'd have to wait till sundown before the possibility of getting another crack at him. Some other time I told myself.
   Securing my saddlebags I coiled the lariat and fastened it to the pommel and swung aboard. No, I didn't have it spread around me while I was sleeping. And it wasn't made of horsehair. That's also an over-used Hollywood myth! Ha, ha!
   Bandit seemed just as eager to be off. He danced up the bank and picked his way gingerly through the narrow passage. Once out on the flats he settled down to an easy walk. I rested the reins over the horn and checked my camera to see how many exposures were left.
   "Thumpity, thumpity, thumpity, thump," very loud and distinctly from my right two black-tail jack rabbits raced along, their feet near as big as their ears. I chuckled at the thought of the mule rabbits that Tim and I had been introduced to by an old outdoorsman living in the Pine Valley Forest, just east of San Diego. Naturally we thought the old geezer was pulling our legs, until we actually saw them. They actually had short mains and long tails! But that's another story.
   A squabbling Butcherbird, feverishly trying to impale an insect on the thorns of his retreat, caught my eyes. He flew off several times, each time returning with either a bug a small lizard, or something. Some of the cactus still had remnants of their flowers blooming, and I couldn't resist. Especially since they represented several different stages of development. I shot a half a roll of film.
   After a couple of hours in the saddle I dismounted and tucked the reins in my belt and walked. I also wanted to get rid of the guitar I had been wearing. I tied it across the back of the saddle on top of my bedroll. Bandit's head moved up over my shoulder as we walked. He was definitely a people horse. Danny had done right by him.
   The valley floor narrowed and gave way to waves and clusters of barrel cactus, cholla, and scrub grass. They generously covered the rolling knolls and guarded numerous rock formations. On the sides of two opposing slopes loomed the intriguing shapes of three Joshua trees. I watched carefully as we moved through the twisted chaparral and cactus, a careful eye peeled for old buzz-tail trying to beat the morning heat. Saw mostly gopher snakes though.
   On top of a flat rise we rested. I surveyed the distance with my camera's telephoto lens. Yep. It appeared that I could cover the area in a wide sweeping circle and camp in the far canyon before working my way back north. As a precaution I pulled Jim's map to double check and orient myself. Yep, why not.
   A silver shimmer of light on the horizon towards the southwest caught my interest. It had to be water. A river runoff no doubt. The map confirmed it but I knew how off and on the water flow in this region was, depending on the time of the year. A small plane disappeared over the southern ridges running into Mexico. Minutes later two choppers moved in that direction and likewise disappeared.
   The thunderous engines of the circling Hueys buffeted my ears and dared me rush out into the middle of the hot L/Z and wave them in despite the red flares holding them at bay. Our RM and the chopper jockey hollered back and forth, instructing and demanding, seemingly making a general mess of the whole affair. Damn Air Force jockeys! Get some Grunts or the Air Cavalry in here we swore!
   In the brush Charlie waited. He had us pinned down and we knew it. He kept us pinned down and kept the chopper at bay with sporadic small arms fire. Maybe he was deliberately holding out banking on the chances of bagging our ride in the bargain? If not, he would move in to finish us off.
   Continued strafing from the chopper was fruitless because Charlie did not return their fire. He just laid low and concentrated on us, peppering us with small arms fire and mortar. The Huey finally exhausted his rockets, and this bolstered Charlie's bravado. I wondered if Charlie knew that the pilot was not only trying to zip in and snatch us out, but that he was also stalling for reinforcements. He had to know. Charlie wasn't exactly dumb. We kept up our resistance though, shifting positions and firing, trying to draw Charlie out. Four men against a dozen or so was really stretching it, but we had to sucker them into thinking we had the upper hand. If they made an all-out assault we had a ghost of a chance. We were that sure of our marksmanship, and our cover was good.
   The RM kept at it, barking demands from the chopper and the Command Post. VC mortars rained unmercifully upon us. The thumping rotors of our ride roared unmercifully over us and we protested and fought with ourselves, with our country and a thousand Vietnams, trying to make sense of the whole damn affair.
   High above me an eagle cried. A Golden Eagle. Its broad wings carried it effortlessly along on the invisible air currents. Long gunpowder clouds billowed in the south and rolled east. A colony of ground squirrels watched me pass, whistling their alarm to their kin in the next colony. I heard a grouse drumming and a small covey of quail exploded in our path in a whir of wings, then dropped just as quickly out of sight behind some prickly pears some hundred yards away.
   On a green sage stubbled rise, overlooking a huge grotesque oak tree, standing so warped, gnarled and forbiddingly alone, I let my imagination drift me back to the 1880's to the last days of cattle rustling and range wars. I saw dozens of Texas Longhorn outfits plodding along, squeezing through scores of dusty draws, crossing dozens of rivers, streams, and parched ground, urged on by stoop-shouldered, leather-chapped drovers in wide-brimmed hats. Boys, ex-slaves, and Civil War Veterans they were, their ruddy weather-beaten faces half covered with dirty bandanas to keep out the choking dust kicked up by thousands of hooves. So vividly could I see the hardness in those cowboys' steely eyes, and the grim resignation in the furrows in their foreheads, and hard-set jawlines that it made me shudder. I could feel their sore backsides, their aching hands and their sore, blistered necks. My body tingled excitedly.
   I saw well-used supply and chuck wagons sitting corner to corner, their dirty coverings trying to ripple in the faint warm breeze. Nearby, several fires crackled, and the head cook was scrambling to and fro with a black pot, then a side of beef, or a bowl of dough, and a Dutch oven. Occasionally he'd stop to shake a spoon or finger at his Little Mary dawdling over peeling taters and onions. Little Mary was trail jargon for the cook's helper. A job usually bestowed upon the youngest or least experienced hand till he earned his spurs.
   Boys quickly became men on cattle drives. Fighting the elements, rustlers, Indians, and their own doubts and fears even. Harsh journeys through harsh inhospitable country that showed no mercy and drained a lifetime from a body in the three to six months a drive took, depending on the destination. Those that survived sometimes weren't much better off than those that didn't.
   Beneath the oak four horsemen pulled up. Three of them quickly dismounted and one of them pulled the horses aside and held them by the reins. The fourth man kept his seat, his hands were tied behind his back. His stubbled chin rested on his chest and his shoulders were hunched. One cowboy wearing long batwing chaps, threw a rope over a stout limb while another placed the looped end around the mounted man's neck and fastened the tail end to the pommel of one of the other horses.
   A brief, harsh exchange of words ensued between the mounted man and one of the cowboys. The man in the dirty high crowned Stetson drew his pistol and pointed it at the doomed man, who drew back, showing wide fearful eyes with black and blue marks under them. The third man, who had been arguing, brushed his hand aside and ordered him to holster it. Then he slapped the rider's mount. The horse bolted, jerking the man from his seat, leaving him kicking and gagging, and swinging back and forth. The cowboy in the chaps grabbed the hanged man's horse and held him while they watched the man writhe and wiggle until he was still. Then very unceremoniously they dropped him on the ground, retrieved their rope, mounted, and rode off. The dead man's mount trotted about bewildered, then bolted after them, whinnying loudly. Frontier Justice!
   A big Redtail hawk landed in the tree. The dead man and his hangmen faded away. I pulled my camera and the hawk took to wing. He went straight up. I scanned the ground around the tree. Nada! But the hawk saw. He hovered, his wings moving just enough to keep him in position. Slowly he banked into a small circle then dipped a shoulder. Both wings folded close to his body and he dropped from the sky like a rock.
   Yards from earth his wings spread gradually and his taloned feet dropped. They swung forward and a blur rose from the ground just in front of them. There was an explosion of feathers. The hawk spun in mid-air and flipped over. Then just as quickly, he dropped to the ground with the flapping fowl clutched in its talons. The sharp beak flashed and slashed, administering the fatal blow. The prey fell limp and almost violently the hawk ripped away the soft white feathers to get at the juicy red flesh. After about three stringy mouthfuls, he paused, his head bobbing up and down, mouth agape, and stared wildly and suspiciously about, his wings half spread, poised.
   I zoomed in with my 400mm lens. It was either a grouse or a quail. From the darkness and broadness of the feathers I guessed grouse. My movement must've disturbed the hawk for he shot a glare my way then threw himself into the air, lugging his meal with him. He landed in the oak for a couple of seconds and still not satisfied, launched himself once again and disappeared over a hill.
   I snapped a couple of pictures of myself standing under the old monarch before I left then headed for the cottonwood grove where I could set up a base camp to work from. The ground rose and fell and became increasingly green against resisting creosote and blue sage. Ocotillo, tumbleweed, thistle, yucca, and other fauna dotted the area. Miles away, it turned again to almost barren ground. Then once again the greenery reappeared with prickly pears, lichen-blanketed rocks, and blankets of bunch grass.
   Our passing spooked a napping coyote. He bounced up alarmed, pointed ears forward, barking short, sharp yips. With his brush outstretched and bristling, he paced back and forth, eyes ablaze, still singing away. Presently he loped on down the side of the ledge, peering over his shoulder at me, daring. I scanned along the outcropping quickly, for he never left my sight, stopping as if waiting for me, as if calling me. Not forty yards away, I finally saw her peeping over the edge of the slab. His mate. I couldn't help chuckling.
   "Don't worry, you're safe." I snapped a couple of quickies and moved on. Bandit took it all in stride.
   As we moved towards the distant mesas and buttes, the ground constantly changed back and forth, alternating casually with the various plant life, each holding on in tight little clusters, guarding stands of stunted cottonwoods, gnarled mesquite, and young Palo Verdes. From a distance it looked like one vast sea of soft grass growing abundantly on rich, fertile topsoil. Close up, the rough, gnarled barks, and twisted reaching roots, often broke the earth's surface, speaking graphically of a desperate desire to survive.
   Somewhere in the distance I heard gunshots. It was hard to tell from which direction though, for sound just bounced all about among the foothills and canyons before obtaining their freedom in the atmosphere above. I figured someone was probably out varmint hunting or target shooting. Then it occurred to me that I hadn't even fired a shot since I had left Jim's spread. Plinking was usually a routine pastime around camp. I guess I'd been so caught up in the newness of things that a little plinking wasn't too important. I reached for the Winchester but only pulled it halfway. Naw, it was just too peaceful. Then I recalled the shots I'd heard and remembered what Jim had told me about the aliens and drug smugglers.
   As I rode I kept staring in the direction of Mexico, the gears in my mind turning. Should I? But why not? I was out to relax not get my butt shot off poking in someone else's corral. Besides, after this, my next stop was El Paso. And I definitely had a date with Juarez across the border when I finished loading my shipments. But somehow that just didn't seem as appealing as what was tempting me now. Riding across an unmanned border like some drifter of old. I'd head south, skirting around the northwest side of Nogales and pick a shallow bed along the river. It was a hard fight, but rationality won out. I headed for the cottonwood grove.
   A real oasis in the desert it turned out to be. Like riding through a time warp from one world to another. I was taken by the abundance of color. Greens, yellows, reds, purples, scarlets and oranges. A stand of Palo Verdes with their outspread slender branches competed with the stubborn cottonwoods. An army of Yuccas stood guard about them, and they in turn were surrounded by poppies and beavertail cactus, and more creosotes. The overall freshness of the little grove proclaimed a little bit of Heaven right in the middle of a hard and seemingly unforgiving land, hovering around it ready to move in for the kill.
   The only sign of human presence was a hitching post beneath a small group of trees next to a little pool that had been made by taking rocks and channeling part of the stream. Later I did find some initials on some stumps that quite obviously had been used for seats, and maybe a chopping block. I won't say whose initials though, or whether or not I added mine. Of course I did!
I removed Bandit's saddle and headstall and hobbled his front legs and turned him loose. It was just too pretty and peaceful to leave him tied to the hitching post. Camp was set within an hour. Since I had planned on at least three days, I spent most of the early evening gathering up all the loose wood I could. I dug a shallow hole and lined it with some small stones, then ringed the whole affair with some large rocks and placed a pile of tender in the center. I covered that with some squaw-wood then set a match to it.
   Once the blaze was going I removed the coffee from my bags. Then I emptied both canteens and filled them and the coffeepot with the cool stream water. Next the salted steak was rinsed and prepared for dinner. I diced up an onion. Another pot of water would cook the Trail Pack. Trail Packs, prepared freeze-dried foods, were quite convenient and tasty. Great for long hauls because of the light weight.
   While things were going, I made myself comfortable and stripped my cameras for a good cleaning. Afterwards, I mounted the PentaFlex on the tripod for some serious landscapes and close-ups of minute things often overlooked. Granules of sand being trooped across by a colony of ants. Delicate patterns in the leaves, tree bark, and the multitude of rocks. Sunspots on the water, footprints in the sand, silk trails fluttering in the breeze and dozens of other trivial things we tend to take for granted.
   Bandit provided some interesting shots also, browsing contently, unimpaired by his hobbles. Noticing that my fire had developed a good bed of coals I pulled unwrapped my steak and placed it, half of the diced onion, and a corn, carrot and green pea Trail Pack in a pot and drowned them in water. I placed the pot on a separated bed of coals so that it would simmer and cook slowly and retain the juicy flavor. This would give me a chance to explore my immediate surroundings. I checked my watch and grabbed my 35mm Hannimex.
   Naturally I started with the stream and followed its banks. The soft banks told of many happenings. Fox tracks, snake drags, the oversized footprints of jackrabbits, the tiny prints of the kangaroo mouse, and further on, some deer and a variety of bird tracks. And the tiny cloven prints of my buddy, the javelina. Instinctively, or should I say defensively, I reached for the Colt. Hell, it was still in my saddlebags!
   Several minutes later I ran across a set of tracks that set my spine to tingling and had me berating myself for not bringing the revolver. Cat. Big cat! But definitely not a Bobcat, or an Ocelot. Cougar was the only other answer. Or was it? I studied the pugmarks closely, urged on by my suspicious inner voice. I'd seen cougar tracks and even a cougar or two. But these pugs were screaming at me, clutching, piercing as though they were clawed. I also knew that this range had once been a stronghold for the elusive mountain lion until land development and hunting pressures thinned them out. Some stubbornly hung on while others like the Red Wolf and the Mexican Wolf, fled, heading north and south, wherever they could find refuge and seclusion. Maybe this was just a curious soul that came up from Mexico to visit.
   Yet something kept gnawing at me the more I studied and stared. The tracks spoke of a good size cat for sure. He moved boldly, deliberately, in and out of the stream from one side to the other. I followed, wading back and forth myself in water that sometimes topped my knees. Then the tracks entered and disappeared. I searched up and down the bank on both sides for nearly a hundred yards, my eyes anxious to discover the secret lurking within the stands of bordering ocotillos and sage. Nothing. Just like a coon. I photographed the prints and racked by brain trying to find a solution to the puzzle. My eyes kept sliding back to the Spanish bayonets guarding the distant knolls.
   I reminded myself that only house cats have a real aversion to water. Big cats aren't house-cat scared of water. Let the temperature soar high enough and see how quickly they'll take advantage of a stream, pond, or river's edge, to cool off their feet and even their whole bodies. Tigers in particular are notorious swimmers and water lovers. Cats like tigers and... Tigers? Tigre... Tigre! It crept closer and closer until it was perched on my shoulders and digging its claws into me. El Tigre! The jaguar!
   I knelt and reverently touched the tracks, gingerly outlining each toe print with a finger. A Mexican Jaguar! I was highly elated, yet deeply concerned, for I was also well aware of the Jaguar's very distinct reputation for attacking anything it damn well pleased. Up to and including man!
   My mind conjured up some of those old adventure stories I used to read as a boy. Frank Buck, the famous "Bring'em Back Alive!" animal collector, and Ernest T. Seton, animal tracker and wolf hunter. Sasha Siemel, a world-renowned Jaguar hunter and tracker whose name was whispered with the same awed reverence as Frank Buck and Jim Corbett. His specialty was hunting man-eating and stock killing jaguars in the lush, tangled jungles and mountain forests of South America. Brazil mostly, if my memory serves me correctly. He hired out to farmers and ranchers who had no hunting skills, or were just deathly afraid of the great spotted cats. In most instances the latter was the case, for the great, water-loving, spotted Tiger of the Americas had earned itself an almost supernatural position in the superstitious minds of the Indians and Latinos.
   Clear as a bell, I could see the bearded Sasha, armed with just his knife and a long bladed spear, following fresh pug marks in the soft virgin ground, weaving his way catlike through the riotous tangle of creepers, ferns, and vines. On rare occasions he was accompanied by a gun-bearer, but this time he was alone. The way he preferred it. Alone to concentrate and rely on all the craft and experience that his previous hunts had taught him. One with nature! One against it! Both secure in each other's company, and the sun bronzed Sasha, always respectful of the dangers within the beauty surrounding him.
   The tracks suddenly disappear and Sasha freezes in stride, listening, every fiber straining for the slightest breathing, the lowest of rumbling, and that odd out of place sound. A twig snapping, or a pebble clicking against another. His steely keen eyes scan slowly about, stripping each leaf and flower to the stems. His nape hairs rise and tingle. His blood warms and surges swiftly through his body, instigating and arousing the hunting instinct. Very calmly he wipes the sweat from his palms and checks the security of the spear's head on the shaft. Lowering to a crouch, the Indian pads back and forth, then backwards and to the left, the shaft firmly in both hands, its highly polished, steel blade, gleaming defiantly, menacingly, weaving a semi-arch back and forth, taunting, inviting.
   Knowing eyes searchingly rise into the trees above. The cat is there. He feels it. Each careful step brings him closer to pinpointing the elusive feline. The logical choice is the tree where the tracks disappeared. But Sasha knows that a hounded cat will naturally move to another perch to better check his backtrail. And possibly surprise his stalker. A common tactic employed by an experienced cat.
   Sasha thinks like the jaguar the jungle people say. He moves like the jaguar. He's cautious, deliberate, and intent. The cat's presence is now unmistakable. Sasha's sixth sense pinpoints him and he knows the beast is above him. He reaches within and lets the hunting spirit of his forefathers reach into the foliage and separate the jungle noises to pick out the exact branch. That out of place sound guides him. The subtle breathing, or the minute cough of disgust. To him, as loud as the horn on a diesel truck would sound to you or me.
   A pair of gray parrots swoop down and dart into a bush on his right, bickering and scolding each other. Suddenly all is quiet. Then they shoot away just as suddenly, screeching loudly and disturbing a Quetzal and causing him to take wing also, his long tail fluttering. The jungle around Sasha becomes ghostly silent for a fleeting moment. Far off in the thickness of the foliage floats the faint drumming of a swarm of bees, the moans of another cat, and all around, the incessant chattering and howling of various monkeys.
   The adrenaline in Sasha's body races, his muscles tense and he sets his jaws tight. Guardedly he wipes the oily sweat from his brow so that his hunter's eyes might penetrate the spot above where the parrots had landed. He half chuckles and moves confidently and silently forward, his blade arching slowly back and forth, protectively before him. He ignores the resounding pounding of his heart, the sweat bees taking turns on each arm, and the forbidding gnawing in his stomach. His entire concentration is focused on the vibrations coming from the tree beyond. There, is his prey. There, his full attention must be. And there, he deliberately places it.
   Sasha listens. He moves. He halts. He listens. He moves and halts again. His trained jungle ears hear the rustle, ever so slightly on the crusty bark. He hears the light thump. The cat is on the ground. He smiles a satisfied, knowing smile. More than likely a young cat. If so Sasha knows that the escalating pressure will easily provoke it into charging. Sasha moves very deliberately, his  spear on guard. The boa sliding across his path distracts him not. He steps gingerly over it, his ears focused on the warning grumbles of his prey. A low, ominous rumble, accented with a near tabby cat hiss, while the snake, undaunted continues unalarmed, on its way.
   Sasha hops tauntingly to the right, then back to the left. The cat growls and shifts about, uncertain. Sasha is convinced it is a young cat feeling threatened and not about to give quarter. An older cat that had not been treed or cornered, with an avenue of escape would have fled. Especially knowing that its pursuer had no gun. And they do know.
   Sasha moves back and forth, then boldly forward. He repeats the maneuver twice before kneeling into position. His steely gaze penetrates the cat's green veil of protection and produces the desired results. The jaguar rumbles lowly at first, then louder and angrily. Again, it thrashes about, tearing at the shrubbery, and stripping the slender stalks bare with its razor sharp talons.
   Sasha plants the butt of his spear into the earth just beyond his right foot and waits. Finally the brush explodes and the jungle echoes with the roar of an angry jaguar. Sasha's muscles knot as the orange and black spotted blur streaks towards him. Fifteen feet away the cat leaps, claws outspread, its round face wrinkled in a terrible snarl, exposing long, deadly canines. The long steel blade mounted on Sasha's sturdy shaft moves upward to meet the spotted white chest. The blade enters smoothly and swiftly as the cat descends, impaling and jolting himself to a screeching, agonizing halt against the sturdy pike. Sasha moves back along the shaft, just out of reach of the deadly rending talons, and in one swift motion he flips the cat to the ground, drives the spear deeper, down to the pike, and pins the cat to the ground.
   Thick streams of dark blood spurt wildly from the wound for a few minutes before the cat's violent struggling fades to nothing. Its horrid, agonizing cries of desperation and subdued anger, however, linger fleetingly, then lose themselves in the jungle noises. Presently all is still. Sasha does not let up though. He grips the spear-shaft tightly, his weight full upon it for he knows the jaguar's reputation for feigning death. After a while he twists the shaft, grinding it slowly. He releases it momentarily, then drives it home again. The hardy cat springs to life, yellow eyes ablaze, one last futile attempt to get at its attacker, to avenge itself, then falls limp, reluctant defeat grumbling in its throat. The distinct whoosh of air rushing from the lungs says it all. Muerto!
   After a minute Sasha relaxes. His sweat-soaked body somewhat relaxed as he leans lightly on the shaft. He inhales and exhales deeply several times then rubs the sticky sweat from his face with both hands. After wiping his hands dry on his sweat stained pants he reverently removes the blade from the cat and cleans it in the soft, humus earth and then lays it down at his side. With boyish gentleness he strokes the spotted coat and speaks to the great feline as a boy would to his sleeping pet. The hard, intent eyes of the hunter are noticeably soft for a moment. Almost remorseful, for Sasha greatly respected and admired the jaguar. To him the big cat represents the very essence of life and freedom.
   His world however has no place for stock-killers, much less man-eaters. The people depended upon their livestock and their freedom of movement in their frequently precarious existence. The taking of an occasional goat or pig was tolerated, but constant marauding and predatation, particularly upon the people, could not be tolerated at all. Just how or why this cat had turned into a man-eater Sasha could only speculate. His job was to put an end to it as quickly as possible.
   Usually it was an older cat too old or too slow to hunt its natural prey. Or one that had been wounded by a hunter and tasted human blood in killing or wounding its attacker. Or, perhaps the young cat could not find establish a territory of its own in the region. One thing was certain though, if left unchecked, this cat would have bestowed many years of terror upon the countryside. Sasha strokes the cat's fur one final time then begins the task of skinning it to take back the hide as proof of the kill. Sasha Siemel's time was long before the capturing and relocation of problem animals was a proven and accepted practice. Even before hard-core animal rights groups existed. Had they, I'm sure that Sasha would have been one of their biggest supporters.
   I stood up and surveyed my surroundings, awed, thrilled, and somewhat fulfilled, convinced that it really was a Jaguar lurking just out of sight. Keeping just one step ahead of me, yet watching my every move. I thirsted for the encounter. For just one fleeting glimpse of the great, spotted jungle legend. Almost reluctantly I headed back for camp, relishing my tingling elation. And as I stalked cautiously along I became Sasha, aware of the most minute of things.

Chapter Seven
   Most of the next day was spent on Bandit scouting the little canyons and arroyos nearby. I was deliberately backtracking the pugmarks of the jaguar hoping to get a sight of the elusive creature. The tracks eventually vanished in the craggy foothills that led towards the southwest into the lower Sonoran Mountain range. Since this really wasn't a hunt, I reluctantly let the matter drop and allowed my imagination to conjure up a fitting end to the mystery. On the way back, I spooked a band of javelina and dogged them at a safe distance to get a general idea of where they were holding up, vowing to take one back to Jim's place.
   A four and a half-foot rattlesnake became the main course for supper. I ate most of him and exhausted from the long day, I fell into a deep relaxing sleep. When I awoke in the morning the rest of the snake, a Trail Pack, and some of the jerky was missing. Now I assumed some varmit took the snake. But the plastic bag of dried food and beef had been in the saddlebags, next to me. With the buckles secured!
   I grabbed the bags, which were still secured, and opened them quickly. The Colt was still there. And the rifle was still under my saddle. I was puzzled for sure. I checked around the camp looking for signs. The coffeepot had been handled. I found only a slight impression of a footprint near the ashes. The stream! Snatching the Winchester from its boot, I stalked a semi-circle around my camp and worked my way over towards the gurgling water. Very carefully, I worked the soft banks, studying their messages. A few rib-bones from the rattler eventually turned up. I followed the trail, searching vainly for the footprints of the ghost. Whoever it was, made certain not to leave any trail in the soft earth by the stream.
   I was stumped and alarmed. Someone had hit me while I was sleeping! I was thankful that whoever it was, was merely hungry. Or just curious. But I just couldn't shake the thought that this one-sided affair could've had a very disastrous consequence for me!
   Following the stream for nearly a mile I carefully checked both sides. The snake's remnants had been totally dumped a half a mile ago. Still if found no footprints. Squatting over my last clue, the running water and the rattling of the brittle sage mingled with my thoughts as I sought to unravel the mystery. Nothing came to mind so I headed back for camp. After sweeping a thirty-yard area on both sides and away from the stream.
   I couldn't help admiring the culprit. This guy was really good. Overhead a military chopper thundered in and out of nowhere. It dipped back and forth, paused momentarily, then shot south over the distant ridges.
   Pack and leave was foremost in my mind. But curiosity stayed the urge. I had to know who had slipped in on me like an Apache and counted coup. Did they stumble on me by accident or had I been under surveillance? And most importantly, for how long? From the moment I left the ranch, or entered the grove? Was this phantom connected with the shots I had heard earlier? I wanted to know. I had to know. My security had been breached and that blew my mind.
   I needed a plan. Something to lure the culprit back in. Somehow I was certain whoever it was would return. More than likely under the cloak of darkness again. I found myself double checking myself. Damn! Caught cold with my boots off! I felt vulnerable.  Near defenseless. But I was determined to turn the tables in my favor.
   I packed up and killed the fire then followed the stream for an hour. Gradually, I cut southwest, taking advantage of the foothills and small canyons on one side, and the tall saguaros and thickets on the other. All the while carefully listening for the sound that didn't fit. A cough or a subtle sneeze. Falling stones or minor rock slide. Grouse or rabbits suddenly breaking cover for no apparent reason. Little, subtle things.
   A couple of hours later, I was back at the grove. Or should I say above it. I tethered Bandit and poured him a pile of oats to keep him content and trudged up the slope, Winchester in hand, camera suspended from my neck.
   The evening chill caused me to fetch my jacket. I ate a cold dinner of some jerky and drank the last of my beer. I worked back and forth along the ridgeline looking for a good place to roost where I could command a good view of my former camp and stay just below the ridge so that my silhouette wouldn't stick up against the bare sky. How long I'd have to wait wasn't important. I would see this through to the end, for sure. Then a little voice within suggested that the culprit might not return.
   A group of coyotes set up a chorus somewhere behind me. A long black stream shot out of the hills to the north and dispersed into little dots, scattering in different directions. Bats. My skin tingled and itched. The javelina were a noisy lot, rooting and grunting somewhere below in the encroaching evening shadows. I never got a glimpse of them though. On I waited, writing a few songs in my head.
    The western sky was ribbons of oranges, pinks, yellows, and blue grays, bleeding around the setting sun and stretching across the distant mountain ridges and buttes. I pulled my jacket collar up around my neck to fend off the icy sliver of air slipping over the ridge. I wanted to doze off but I couldn't. Bandit was quiet, probably dozing. I gnawed on another strip of jerky to keep from dozing.
   Suddenly my eyes were wide-awake. Something below me was stirring. I could just barely hear it. I strained my eyes in the diluting light. The figure's light apparel contrasting against the darkness helped them adjust. It was a tall figure covered by a serape. A man it had to be, wearing the typical white peasant trousers, floppy straw hat, and sandals. I guessed him to be Mexican, though I knew he could have been Indian, so garbed.
   He moved cautiously, though with a jerky stiffness. He turned once in my direction and I saw that he was using a cane to support himself. I surmised him to be either old or hurt. I couldn't tell for sure, for the fading light wasn't revealing much of his features. Except for his glowing eyes. For some unknown reason I could see them clear as a bell, and knew them to be the eyes of a very resourceful man.
   Every few steps he'd stop to look behind him as though expecting someone. His chest heaved heavily beneath his clothes. He drew a deep breath then moved on. I made up my mind that he was definitely older than me. Quite a bit older, though I'm not sure why that really mattered.
   Once within the grove where he could survey the area, back went his hat and he stood straight up, weaving just a little. He threw his hands up and I thought I saw a scowl of disbelief on his wrinkled face. Like a parrot, his head bobbed up and down and I knew he was evaluating the situation, leaning full upon his cane, one hand rubbing his chin. Presently he made his way over to my camp and examined the firepit. For several minutes he carefully picked over it and the ground around it. Finally he shook his head and started away. I let him enter the narrow passage before moving. Quietly I descended and started after him, leading Bandit by the reins. He moved rather swiftly for his awkward gait, which sometimes gave him the appearance of a cork bobbing in water.
   A couple of jackrabbits froze at his passing, pressing themselves flat against the earth, then rocketed away in the opposite direction. The man mumbled something after them and shook his fist, but did not break his stride. I froze also, until the rabbits were out of sight. The man turned his head briefly in my direction as he went, but did not stop. He went straight for a group of outcroppings that I had intended on checking out in the morning. Instead of climbing the well worn trail he picked his way over one end of the loose rock and earth to a small foot path, all but invisible until right on it. The ground was rough and rocky, loose rocks giving way under the feet of the quick and careless. Smart old man. I admired his savvy as I watched him move easily and near noiselessly along, despite the uneasy footing.
   I let him drop from sight before following. The rising moon was in its three-quarter phase and the sky was virtually cloudless. Clear, black, and star studded. The chill allowed me to smell the late blooms of the prickly pears, Spanish bayonets, and a particular smell akin to that of cucumbers?
   I tethered Bandit and pulled the Winchester from its scabbard and stalked my way over to where the man had disappeared behind the bend. I peered carefully over the sage barrier and saw him sitting next to a small fire and holding a cup in his hand. In one arm he was supporting a small person and holding the cup to its lips. Next to them lay a torn corn sack and a hemp basket with rope handles. Much like the Baja Coast fisherman used. Gradually, I began to smell what was left of my Trail Pack steaming in a shallow pan next to a wooden bowl sitting by the fire. After tending to the person in his arm, the man gently laid him down and took a rag and wiped that person's forehead. It appeared to be a boy, but I couldn't tell for sure since the man's body was blocking most of him, because he was sitting between the fire and me.
   Hmm, this required some thought. The person was obviously sick. But why were they out here in the middle of nowhere? The earlier gunshots flung at me! Hmm. They didn't have any guns. The shots persisted. Something brushing my leg momentarily distracted me. I fidgeted, shifting my weight, and disturbed some loose rock in the bargain. The old man turned, his eyes wide and glaring, searching, searing through me. His hand slid down his side and rose with an impressive looking machete. The reclining figure struggled to rise. The sharp, heavy accent of the man made him stay down, and still.
   A noise beyond and to the left of him caught both of our attentions. He turned, half crouching, his machete gripped tightly. The flickering firelight highlighted harsh lines on a granite-like face that spoke of hard years and confirmed that him he was indeed older?
   "Ola DeVargas," a rough raspy voice spoke from the shadows.
   "Buenos tardes," a slick voice trailed.
   The old man rose slowly, cane in one fist, machete in the other, the latter slightly behind him, weaving a slow circle.
   "Quien es? Who knows DeVargas?"
   Two men stepped into view, a slim flat shouldered one, and a stout bullnecked one. Rifles were cradled in their arms and holstered pistols at their sides. They were Mexican also. Both wore Levis and plaid shirts. Their large silver and gold trimmed buckles reflected the dancing firelight. The slim one had what appeared to be a radio or binoculars attached to his belt. His surly expression was highlighted by the dancing firelight. The shorter man kicked a rock at the lying figure and chuckled. His piercing eyes and sharp nose gave him an evil look that made my spine tingle. I immediately disliked him and thumbed back the hammer on the Winchester.
   "How long deed you think you could last weet that sick galina? You shood wring eets neck!" he gestured with his hands.
   "Don't touch thee boy, you swine! Preying upon your own people Perros! Curse you, Raul! And you too," he spat at the other man.
   "How does eet feel Hernando? Taking advantage of desperate people? Promising them a new life and a better future, theen butchering them en thee desert. And now you have come for an old man and a nino!"
   "Yes Senor, we have come," Hernando, the short one grinned. "Si. Eet eez time to close your account. Yes, DeVargas, eet feels very good. Da money eez good. Dee hours eez good. And dee work eez not very hard. Caramba," he breathed, "We have dee money but we cannot allow you and thee Nino to leeve here alive. That would ruin every theeng. That would be very bad for beesness. For us, no?"
   I thought I was dreaming or watching an old western movie as I watched them bantering back and forth. DeVargas stalling, and the other two prolonging the inevitable, obviously trying to get the old man to grovel. I shook my head and closed my eyes tightly, trying to clear the nightmare. Something pressed against my leg. I kicked at it and settled down on my right knee onto something soft and moving. It rolled away as my weight settled and simultaneously my leg exploded into a hot spasm of excruciating pain. The warmth of my body dissipated in a hot flash, leaving me shivering cold. Then just as suddenly the chill was replaced by an incinerating inferno which fried me to the core.
   I heard a brief buzz. A very distinct and well-known buzz. Then the faint sound of something moving across the rough ground into the brittle brush. Damn! I only caught a glimpse of the banded tail. I really didn't have to see it the whole thing 'cause the pain in my leg told it all. I'd been tagged! I wanted to shout. I wanted to stand up and fly off the handle, but the grim little drama unfolding before me forced me to grit my teeth and endure.
   "First we shoot thee boy. That way you know he's okay, eh?" Raul raised his weapon in one hand and casually pointed it at the trembling boy, who was trying to rise and help the old man I guess.
   "No you don't you pig!" DeVargas swung the machete above his head and lunged with surprising agility.
   My Winchester barked. The report echoed several times, bouncing off the canyon walls before fading away. A thick cloud of gray smoke erupted from the barrel and almost instantly I heard the big 200-grain .44 slug slam into Raul's chest. It slammed him to the ground where he lay writhing and moaning in pain. Hernando fired at the old man, ducking at the same time, warned by my shot.
   My second shot caught him high in his left shoulder and spun him around. He screamed like a panther and pointed his rifle towards the old man, then dropped to his knees. The rifle fell from his grasp and he clutched at the handgun in its holster and finally managed to pull it out. He cocked the hammer and pointed it unsteadily at DeVargas. I took careful aim at his chest but my burning body was numbing rapidly and made my head heavy and my eyes swollen and blurry. My fingers were very thick and seemed to be detached. It took all the strength I had left to pull the trigger. The .44 slug caught Hernando in the side instead. He stumbled sideways and fell, cursing at the angry eyed DeVargas hovering over him.
   The old man was half leaning on his machete, winded and stunned as much as Hernando by the unexpected intrusion. The falling pistol fired and DeVargas flinched and clutched his side a brief second. A quick gaze went to the boy, and he subtly brushed his hand against his leg and turned his attention to the fallen man, his body half crouched and poised.
   Raul was dead. Hernando swore an oath and staggered to his feet. He reached for the rifle, but DeVargas had enough in him to strike a wicked blow. He laid open the man's already wounded arm so deeply that it was nearly severed in two. Huge tears streamed from his eyes and he sank to his knees and doubled over, painfully clutching his injured shoulder and rolled his upper torso round and round, all the while cursing and snarling in pain and anger.
   The boy managed to slide close enough to grab the carbine and half toss it towards his father. Hernando rolled away and staggered to his feet. He glared viciously at them through glazed wicked eyes, the fist of his good hand clenched, yet still clinging to his bloody shoulder. He then turned and hobbled frantically away, cursing and swearing at DeVargas and the boy, and his unknown assailant. His useless blood soaked arm flopped along at his side.
   The boy was sitting up, his eyes fixed in the direction that Hernando had fled, while DeVargas' eyes were fixed in my direction, one of the carbines in his hands. I was sinking fast. If he wasn't going to come to me, I had to take the chance and go to him, hoping he wouldn't fire. I struggled to my feet and using the Winchester as a crutch, hobbled into view. DeVargas eyed me evenly, Hernando's rifle clutched in his hands, the barrel only half trained on me. Then the boy turned to stare at me. His black eyes darted back and forth from me to Raul, to Raul's rifle, and then back to me. Fear, concern, and great apprehension competed for dominance within them.
   My leg erupted into a pain worse than a thousand toothaches. It became so hot that it felt like it was melting. Its physical presence was quickly fading and my head burned and throbbed violently. My watery eyes could barely see through the puffy swelling that was closing them to mere slits. Sweat poured profusely from every pore in my body and my skin became so tight around my bones I just knew it was going to split open and spit my innards out. I knew the snake was a big one. Holy hell compared to the copperhead that tagged me many years ago when I was a Summer Camp Counselor.
   The boy mumbled something and struggled to his feet. DeVargas laid the rifle down and spoke to him, holding out a protesting palm to him, commanding him to stay put. He then turned and moved hesitantly towards me, his machete still in hand. Cold deliberation rode his face though.
   Surprisingly, I couldn't think of the Mexican word for snake, or help. I tried to force a smile, but the weight of my sagging muscles would not permit it. Weighted words choked from my constricted throat.
   "A... a-mi-go." I strained, faltering. "Po... por... Por favor se-nor. Por..." totally forgetting I had heard the man speaking in faltered English. My vision wasn't so blurred that I couldn't see the dark, growing bloodstain seeping through his clothing and covering his left side.
   "A... amigo," he nodded as I blacked out.

   When I was in my teens I worked at several summer camps as a Counselor, Lifeguard, and Cook among other things. This one particular time I was working at Camp Goodwill, a Girl's Camp in Prince William Forest, in Prince William County, Virginia. On "cookout day" I accompanied a couple of counselors and their campers on their outing to meet with some campers from Camp Pleasant, the Boy's Camp, on the other side of the forest. This was a weekly mutual cookout thing that the two camps did. Just beyond a place called Pirate Mines we met at a secluded clearing beyond the pine stands, deep in the hickory and oaks where the water tumbled out of the ground and formed a little pool before racing away. The gradual sloping banks were graced with finely granulated sand. Very much like that of Florida's Gulf Coast beaches. Something we thought to be quite unique sitting in the middle of a hardwood forest. Anyway, we swam, played tag and other games, had a cookout, and did the usual summer camp things. About an hour or so later the normal squealing and shouting was interrupted by a serious "Snake! Snake!" chorus coming from the water.
   I was the camp's official snake-catcher and generally always the first one on the scene whenever that word was uttered. Wet, shrieking kids stampeded out of the water and hid behind trees, bushes, and their counselors, with only their bug-eyed heads and wider mouths protruding. Along with a number of pointing fingers.
   A three-foot water snake was making its way across one end of the now deserted pool, its head up and dark eyes shinning. I snatched up a stick and jumped in after it, despite the shrill, concerned pleas and warnings that I'd get eaten, or worse yet, bit. Or "poisoned to death," as the kids termed it. I cut him off as he veered to avoid me and whacked him a good one across his back, stunning him. Quickly, I slid the stick under his middle, picked him up and slid my hand down his body to the back of his head where I secured a hold and held him up triumphantly, a mile-wide grin on my face. Discarding the stick, I cradled the reptile's body in my arm and waded ashore, amid numerous hesitant protests.
   It was a common banded watersnake. Brown with darker blotches of brown and black, and a very stout, muscular body. Within minutes it came too and immediately started to struggle. By this time the inhibitions of the group had worn off and they had dared to venture close, though constantly seeking assurance that I wouldn't let it loose. A deluge of questions ensued and I eagerly poured out my reptile lore, explaining that it wasn't poisonous, that this country only had four kinds of poisonous snakes.
   I didn't bother telling them that three of them comprised numerous different species, and that the fourth one, the Coral Snake was related to the deadly cobra. That would have been too much information for them, and more than likely would have caused them to have snake hysteria at lights out. I did explain that the double rows of teeth in the top and bottom of a snake's mouth pointed towards the rear so that it could hold onto its food since it didn't have arms, and lacked the constrictive powers of its cousins, the Corn, Black, and Pine snakes. But I did caution them that though most snakes weren't poisonous their teeth could cause some serious lacerations, and if left untreated, infections.
   A snake's tongue has always been somewhat of a curiosity to most people, and the kids were quite amazed to know that it was not a poisonous stinger, but actually a type of heat sensor used to locate its food by the body warmth of its prey. With the help of the Jacobson's Organ in the roof of its mouth, I had to add.
   A few brave souls dared to touch the reptile, glowing with the discovery that it wasn't slimy, as they had also been misled into believing. Within minutes the novelty wore off and I figured it was time to release the critter. Aided of course by the offensive odor some water snakes emit when they're irritated. Near as bad as a skunk, too. So I released him, but not before threatening to slip him down someone's back. Boy, did they scatter.
   Then there was my first poisonous snakebite, which I also occurred at Camp Goodwill. On this lazy autumn day I was cleaning up a camp storeroom. I was dusting a window ledge and not really paying much attention. Anyway, there was a copperhead on the windowsill and he hit me, catching the flesh between the forefinger and thumb on my left hand. I jerked my hand, causing one fang to tear the flesh and the other to break off in my hand. The snake slithered away, and I was rushed to the hospital. I got a shot and was released. It appears the snake was dry.
   The Subic Bay Naval Air Station in the Philippines is mostly jungle. A thick, tangled, green, inferno of vines, ferns, and trees, crawling with monkeys, lizards, deer, wild boar, snakes and long-fanged, fruit-eating Fox bats, sporting six foot wing spans. An awesome sight they were, gliding on outstretched wings in formations of a half a dozen and up.
   A favorite Subic Bay attraction was the Base Riding Stables tucked away in the lush and tangled vegetation on one of the many small jungle escarpments. Most of the riding trails snaked and wound their way through that green maze. And lets not forget that sometimes harrowing mile-long trek from the main base road up through the rocky, jungle foothills, if you missed the last evening bus or taxi out.
   Several tribes of rock monkeys had laid claim to various stretches of that unpaved road as their own. Often they would put on quite an impressive display by following and taunting riders, who were unfortunate enough to have to make the winding roller coaster trek, with their howling and popping long fangs. I know because a number of others and yours truly have had that very distinct "pleasure" of being harassed along the way after missing the last bus! Actual recorded monkey attacks however, were few and very, very far between.
   At any rate, on this one particular day while out riding Brambles on the north trail, a boa constrictor fell off a limb onto the horse's head. The buckskin gelding went up in a panic and deposited me in the stream beside the trail. With that boa in my lap! The snake was my least concern. The mile long hike back to the stables was. Especially when the roving bands of wild boars crossed my mind. And the cobras!
   Incidentally, it was in the Philippines that I encountered my first wild cobra. I reckon the point I'm trying to make is that I'm not afraid of snakes. Nor do I hate them. Over the years, I've caught and kept numerous kinds of snakes as pets. In fact when I was about five or six years old, my own mother used to catch them for me in our back yard. No shit!
   While I find all snakes very fascinating, I do have a very healthy respect for the poisonous ones. The rattler that had tagged me included. I wasn't really angry at him. More so at myself for forgetting that night is the rattlers' domain, and not keeping my sixth sense active. Had I paid more attention I would have been more aware of his presence and could have adjusted to the situation and still kept track of the little drama unfolding before me. Then that cucumber smell came to mind and instigated that old folk's tale about poisonous snakes smelling like cucumbers.
   I knew the rattler wasn't unduly upset either. Otherwise he would have warned me up front. I figured he was probably seeking the warmth of my body from the night chill. When I knelt on him, for I'm sure that's what I did, he reacted in a very normal and defensive way. And bit me. As most folks who've ever encountered rattlers know, they don't always rattle before they strike. A long misleading myth that's been overdone by scores of Hollywood producers and adventure writers.
   Pretty black-eyed Maria, my girlfriend from Peru, was sitting cross-legged on the pine needle carpeted ground, caressing my head, which was nestled in her lap. We were down on the edge of Ivakota Pond, staring at the bright moon and its silver reflections dancing on the water's surface. She was speaking in that soft, indulging tone of hers, which, combined with her thick Latino accent, always mellowed me and made me agree with anything she said.
   "I like thee way you are so different from the other boys here, Miguel. You. You have a way of...  How do you say, be... yes, bee-long-eeng. Feeting ento theengs surrounding you. Peeople. Aneemals. Deese woods..."

Chapter Eight
   Somewhere in a distant place I heard a horse whinnying and thunder rolling. The strong smell of cooked beef tickled my nose. Voices seeped in. Latino accents. Faint at first. Maria stirred in my memory.  Then Suzie, and finally Linda. El Paso sprang before me and I felt secure. The louder voices became, the dimmer the images of my old flames became. Then they dispersed altogether.
   I did know there were two voices. One coarse and the other one, light. My vision struggled through the fuzziness. My eyes burned and watered. Faintly, I recognized something hot touching my lips. An appetizing smell curled inside of my nostrils. And there was the thick smell of coffee. My body however, tingled almost unbearably and weighed heavily. Then it was suddenly black. A deep dark forbidding black. Black for a long, long time.
   Suddenly a little dot of light appeared. Soft and beckoning. It grew gradually, billowing and engulfing the blackness. I heard voices again. Someone was calling my name. I was standing in a cabin talking to Rachel. She was a counselor for the 12 to 14-year olds. Three girls burst in, bubbling excitedly, giggling. The girl in the middle had something clenched in her hands.
   "Show'em!" the other two girls prompted. "Show'em and see!"
   "Bet it ain't," the other pouted.
   Rachel gasped and stepped slightly behind me, ushering them towards the door with a long slender finger.
   "Out, out, out girls! Outta here with whatever it tis you got there!
   "Mike, they've got something there," she clutched my shoulder with one of her taloned hands, nudging me towards the girls. "Make them leave and take that thing with'em, whatever it tis. Go on..."
   "Look what we found, Mike," the girl thrust her hands up at me. "Is it poisonous? It's a baby copperhead, isn't it?"
   The baby snake was wiggling and twisting frantically in her tight little clutches, trying to extricate itself. It was a light cream colored, with brown jagged blotches, spread across its back. The big round eyes and the large scales on its head immediately told me it was harmless. I took it and the little varmint latched onto my finger and commenced to wrap his body around it to boot! I couldn't resist.
   "Owww!" I howled in pain. "My God, it's a copperhead!" and I sank to my knees, groaning. "Ohhh, the poison's rushing through my body! Arrrggghhh!" I choked and stuttered and shuddered spasmodically.
   The girls shrieked, arousing the rest in the cabin, and fled as one through the door, spreading the news throughout the camp, "Mike's been bit by a snake! Help! Help! Mike's been snakebit!" leaving stunned Rachel a bundle of trembling nerves. She was doing a funny little dance, biting her nails while huddling and jogging in place, very undecided as to her next move.
   I rolled over and sprang up laughing, petting the snake, and gently pried it's jaws from my finger and was met by Rachel's narrow and condemning green eyes and skinny wagging finger. She reproached me for "scaring the devil outta me!"
   My explaining that it was probably a harmless Pine or a Milk Snake meant nothing, and she laid into me with a good old-fashioned southern tongue-lashing. Hell, I went through three treatment attempts before the word finally got around that it was a joke. First came Jan, the tall freckle-faced Amazonian Senior Counselor. She tackled me head on and held up my finger, knife in hand read to slice it away. Then came Bob Wilkie, the Assistant Director. He had his trusty Snakebite kit in hand, with the tourniquet trailing from his mouth. And last but not least, the Camp Nurse, roaring up to the cabin in her station wagon, horn a honking, and the big Ford engine, racing, revving in the red line.
   "I'll get you for this, Michael!" she swore. "I'll get you for this. I'll get you..." everything faded into nothing. A deep black nothing with me suspended in the middle of it. I knew who I was. But where I was, I didn't. I was very much aware of my own presence, but of absolutely nothing else, if that makes a lick of sense. I could even hear me talking to myself, my words echoing over and over. Strange. Very strange. Here I was, a whole lotta nothing, yet so aware of being.
   Voices woke me. I felt warm and chilly at the same time. A hand touched my shoulder. I saw a blurry face. It was smiling, I could tell.
   "You are awake Senor. That eez a good sign. I did thee best I could, under thee circumsta..." his voice trailed off, giving way to rough, labored breathing. He paused to catch up with himself, then continued.
   "Thee snake. Eet was a beeg one, no? Are you... Ahh... Whee... Can you eat Senor?" he wheezed.
   Popping red embers in the fire drew my attention. My eyes darted about, taking in and deciphering as much as I could, only half listening to the old man. I was conscious! I had come back from the dead! Half the battle had been won. I considered myself very lucky indeed. Especially after having been knocked out like that. My Levis had been slit clear up the side. My leg was throbbing and saturated from sweat and the bleeding that DeVargas had performed. I could feel the tourniquet around my thigh, and the stick used to lock it in place. But I couldn't feel my toes. In fact, everything from my kneecap down seemed non-existent. Everything above it tingled to the touch. Then I became aware of the softness beneath me. I was lying on my bedroll. I tried to rise. The old man helped me up, propping me with a shaky arm.
   "Robin." he spoke softly. The boy sitting by him reached for a pot and poured some of its contents into a cup and scooted over next to us. He held it just under my nose for me to smell first, then gently placed it to my lips.
   "Try Senor, you need eet to geeve you strength to fight thee poison."
   DeVargas had taken my beef jerky and boiled it and mixed it with a couple of Trail Packs and some desert roots. It smelled like heaven to me. I gulped it eagerly, staring at the boy staring at me. His dark eyes pierced through me, seeming familiar. He was obviously over the sickness he had. My son Tony's face flashed before me, then Gordon's, each accompanied by a similar concern in their eyes when I had fallen from a cliff on one of our beach trips down at Westmoreland State Park.
   Bandit's nickering made me spill the broth and the picture dissipated. The boy drew back startled, and I apologized with my eyes. Something flashed in my mind and the sudden anxiety made me stutter my words.
   "My...  my bags. Get my...  my saddle... bags," I pointed.
   "Please Senor, do not excite yourself," DeVargas protested. "I have almost bled you dry. You cannot afford me to cut your leg open again. Por favor, Senor..."
   "Ple... please Senor. My saddlebags," I tried to raise my right arm. "There's medicine. Mouchilla..." I felt my strength sagging.
   "Ahhh!" he finally understood.
   DeVargas placed me down and rolled up my slicker and tucked it under my head. He motioned to the boy and the boy retrieved the saddlebags.
   "La cabeza," he sighed, placing a hand on my forehead. "Infermo. Maybe the snake has won Robin. Es loco? Medicine for thee snakebite?"
   "Es verdad abuelo. Si. The Anglo's have a medicine for snakebites. I have heard of such a theeng. But I thought you could only come by eet en thee hospital," all the while he was rummaging through the saddlebags. He held several items before me in succession. When he finally held up the correct one I nodded, and motioned him to bring it to me.
   "Open," I motioned.
   Robin opened the case and his eyes went wide at the sight of the syringe. He laid it down and slid it to me.
   "Ooh no, Senor," Robin withdrew, a very alarmed look upon his face. "You cannot do thees!"
   His brown face glistened in nervous sweat. He shot an apprehensive glance to his Grandfather. DeVargas took the boy's hands into his and hefted them. He looked straight into the boy's eyes.
   "If he says eet weel help him, you must. Hees life depends on your hands, Robin. They are young and sure. And much more steady than mine grandson. They are DeVargas hands of old. Thee Senor here saved our lives. Hees food helped to keel your fever and make you well. We are obligated grandson. You must try. Listen to heem and try. You are a strong one, and you are smart. You can do eet," he squeezed the boy's hands firmly in both of his and winked a confident smile.
   Robin's hand hovered hesitantly over the kit. Finally he lifted the syringe and the little vial, palming each in one hand.
   "Tell me what to do Senor. I am ready."
   "It's just like in the movies kid. Listen very carefully."
   I went through the routine once so that he could grasp it, then slowly coached him through the actual procedure. I took a little more than the recommended dosage since it had been a big snake and I had been out the whole night. I trusted in the fact that I had regained consciousness as a very good omen.
   "Eez that eet, Senor?" apprehension in Robin's voice.
   "That's eet keed," I mimicked his accent in an attempt to cheer him up. "Now we wait. And pray..." my eyelids sagged like lead weights were attached to them.
   "Praying we have done, Senor. For two nights we pray. God has made the boy well, and He has brought you back. Now, I must answer for my sins."
   He coughed hard, grasped his side and slumped over, wheezing a long hoarse wheeze.
   "Grandfather!"
   Robin was immediately beside him, supporting him.
   "Here. Lie down here. Let me see that!" he vigorously dug through the man's clothing to reach the soiled bandage. Quickly he removed the crude dressing and exposed a ugly little hole that was swollen and purple, and still oozing, looking as bad as my leg, which had been sliced several times up to my knee in an effort to stop the venom's advance. My mind reeled at the thought that I had slept two nights. Now I knew that somebody upstairs loved me.
   "I am an old man, Robin," his grandfather squeaked. "We talked about such, remember? My time eez now near. There eez notheeng else to be done for a wound such as thees."
   "Look in here, kid," I interrupted. "There's some bandages. And a clean shirt you can rip up and use. I've seen worse wounds in Nam. Use the hot water and clean the wound again. Use the shirt to hold the bleeding..."
   "Thank you kindly Senor," eternal gratitude in the old man's eyes. "But eet eez no use. The bullet eez steel en me and eet teez eating my life away. I weel not leeve, I know that already. God has allowed me enough time to see thee boy well and you alive. Maybe eet teez Hees way of forgeeving me my sins, no? Thank you Senor. Muchas gracias mi..." he drew a deep, pained breath then tried to brush the boy away. His eyes fought hard though, refusing to yield to the pain in his body.
    Robin ignored the man and worked diligently, cleaning and dressing the wound. I fell off to sleep and woke several hours later to the sounds of thunder clapping. It turned out to be a military chopper. It zigzagged across the area for a half an hour or so then faded into the horizon. I doubted if they saw us though, protected by the overhang. Robin mentioned that two had flown by the other day. And one the day before. He reservedly brought up the possibility of the Border Patrol searching for aliens and drug smugglers.
   I also learned that the gunshots I had heard a few days past had come from Raul and Hernando pursuing them. Seems the duo were members of an elusive band of "coyotes" whom both the Mexican and American authorities had been seeking for nearly a year. They had a lucrative little operation smuggling aliens from Mexico and using some of them to transport drugs in their belongings. They also had another enterprise going, one in which they robbed and killed off the old and weak, and buried them in the desert, and sold the young into slave labor in along the U.S. Gulf Coast area and southern Mexico and South America.
   DeVargas and Robin had been with such a group. They had left Mexico about a week ago. During the night Raul and Hernando shot all of the people. DeVargas and Robin, not able to sleep, and anxious to be off, had been out walking. The sudden gunshots sent them into hiding. Prompted by the agonized moaning of the wounded, the fatal finishing shots, and the shouts of angry voices crying that two were missing, they fled into the night. Most of the others had no family in the states and really wouldn't have been missed. This was a very important factor to be considered on their pillaging only trips.
   For the past year and a half Robin had been living just outside of Phoenix with his mother. They and his two siblings were staying with her brother and his wife. His father was in jail down in Mexico City. He had been accused of stealing hardware from his factory and was sentenced to five years hard labor. He still had three years left. Robin had been sent back to get his ailing grandfather, Leon DeVargas, who had once owned a modest 10-acre farm just south of Carborca, along the Magdalena River. Robin's own family had lived further south on their own little plot of parched land. Increased taxes and job scarcity forced them to move north to live with Leon DeVargas.
   Juan Pablo DeVargas, Robin's father, had taken a factory job to help supplement the meager earnings from their farm. The long tax-hungry reach of the greedy government however, eventually set their sights on the DeVargas land. Juan's factory job helped him keep the wolf from the door for a while, but his arrest and eventual conviction capped it off and the property was lost. Some suspected his arrest was a government set-up to prevent the senior DeVargas from meeting his taxes. Seems a certain ambitious politician in the district was interested in a number of farms in the area, including the DeVargas spread. Those who would not sell suddenly found themselves besieged with more than their share of hard times.
   "An age-old story, DeVargas said.  "First thee taxes go up. Theen thee price of your crops go down. No work en thee fields. No work en thee city for even thee skilled. Banditos raid thee isolated farms and thee government seizes your land for back taxes. And like en thee case of my son, Juan Pablo, he eez first fired from hees job, theen accused of stealing from hees employer. Madre de Dios!" he crossed himself with the Sign of the Cross, then threw his hands up despairingly.
   With taxes practically doubling every year, and the robberies and the scarcity of work, whole families began to migrate north. First to the surrounding pueblos, then the larger cities, and finally north to the border cities like Mexicali, Juarez, and Tijuana, which allowed some to work in the States on day-visa's. But crowded and competitive conditions there eventually forced some to venture further north, beyond the authority of their work visas. Others, not able to enter the country legally, stole and bought their way across to the land of milk and honey. Some made it to the homes of relatives and friends, and even became naturalized citizens. Others less fortunate, fell prey to the unscrupulous border runners.
   In six months Robin and his mother would be eligible for their U.S. citizenship. The family's greatest wish was to have the senior DeVargas brought to America and become naturalized also. Even though his application had been denied three times, the family never gave up hope, and every spare dollar they could afford was put away to bring him to Phoenix.
   Leon DeVargas loved his Mexico and he really did not wish to leave her. Knowledge that his declining health was terminal is what really convinced him that he should go to America and see his family one last time. His decision was enthusiastically received, but he did not, however, divulge the reason for his sudden change of heart. Robin was the only family member to know.
   "I love my Mexico, Senor. She has been my love and my life. And I have had a very good life for thee most part," staring absently. "But as all theengs must end, so must theeze old bones. But not before I see that my grandson here, eez returned safely to hees mother," he patted one of my hands.
   "I'm sure he will be Senor. I'm sure," I briefly placed a hand over his.
   DeVargas smiled indulgently and enveloped my hand in both of his. He shook it gently and squeezed it firmly with sincereness. The gratuitous wrinkles curling around his strong eyes supported the conviction in his voice.
   "You weel see that he does, Senor. I feel eet en your hands. I feel sometheeng special en them, Senor. Sometheeng good. My heart tells me, 'Here DeVargas, is an honorable man.' If I do not make eet I know that you weel deliver my Robin safely to hees mother. Yo sabe, Senor. Mi corazon, Senor," touched his chest over his heart.
   The brown in Robin's face momentarily flushed a pale red. He was about to protest but the old man silenced him with a finger. Actually, I was about to object also, but somehow the words knotted in my throat and refused to come out. The twinkle of satisfaction in DeVargas' eyes didn't help much either.
   "Enough, Robin!" he snapped. "Nino no es! You are a boy no longer! You must face thee realities of life as they were meant to be," his voice slipped into a paternal tone. 'Eet weel not always be easy. Nor always as we would weesh. But eet tees sometheeng you must endure. That eez the way."
   "But I love you, Grandfather. I, I weel make you well. You weel go to Phoenix weeth me. I, I weel not leeve you...  You must see the family..."
   "Ohhh, but you must go! Perhaps without theeze old bones to slow you down. You may have no choice. But I weel be weeth you always. Here," he softly touched the boy's chest over his heart and tapped it once.
   "Ahhh, mi Nino. Son of my son. When I look into your eyes I see your mother's smile and hear her soft, dove like voice. Sootheeing like a spring song. En your own smile I see your father. Strong, determined, and caring. And here," he ran his thick fingers through the boy's coal black hair, "I see your seester. So innocent, and so warm. And your brother, so daring and so bold, I see en your rich brown, Mexican skin."
   His right hand slid down one side of the boy's face and caressed his neck. DeVargas' eyes twinkled a message, causing Robin to blush, accepting it despite himself.
   "Yes, Robin," his grandfather continued. "I have seen them and I weel keep them here. Now you weel go and take me to them, here," he tapped Robin's chest again. "Take me to them. We weel never be apart. Never my son."
   "Look," he waved an arm. "We are en America now. En you and en our family, thee DeVargas name weel leeve on! Tell them not to mourn me, for I died a free and happy hombre. Promise me. Promise me you weel not look back. You weel not cry for theeze old bones, eh?" he grasped the boy's shoulders and shook him firmly, eyes demanding.
   Robin fought back the moisture in his swollen eyes, and forced an insincere smile. He bowed his head and muttered inaudibly. I knew he didn't want to commit himself, and so did DeVargas. The old man stuck a finger under the boy's chin and raised his head. Only his eyes spoke to the boy.
   "I promeese Grandfather," Robin choked, his lower lip trembling.
   "Bueno. Now I must rest and prepare myself for my journey," he patted the boy's shoulder and crossed himself with the Sign of the Cross.
   Robin rose and went to Bandit. He placed an arm about the stout neck and buried his head. Bandit nickered softly and nuzzled the boy's side. I knew he was crying. So did DeVargas. We held our silence and sat longfaced and helpless, staring at each other across the fire and into the glowing embers, each of us soon drifting off into our own little sympathetic worlds, while Robin engulfed himself in his. Nor could I help notice that universal bond between sad kids and animals at work. They just automatically attracted each other. Their saddest moments are sometimes our most consoling.
   "He eez a good boy," DeVargas broke the silence.
   I drifted off to sleep a little after him. When I awoke he was still sleeping. Robin was sitting beside him, singing lowly, his eyes far away. I raised on a pained elbow.
   "Your grandfather is a very remarkable man, Robin."
   "Si Senor. He eez a DeVargas!" he proudly stated.
   "How'd you find my horse?"
   "Grandfather went for heem. He just knew."
   "You were sick? Hurt?"
   "Si. From what, I don't know. We have been leeving on lizards, roots and snakes for over a week. Theen I took sick. Eet eez my fault that Raul and Hernando caught up weeth us. Eet eez my fault that my grandfather eez going to die. I cann..."
   "Whoa kid. What the hell you talkin' about? Stop it. Alto! Alto Nino! Jesusgoddamnchrist kid! It's not your fault okay! Your grandfather's dyin', didn't you hear him? You knew he could've been shot a long time ago. Just by makin' the damn trip with you, didn't you?" I accused. "So quit your howlin' and face up to it. It's not your fault, Robin. It's, it's just ... Life's a bitch kid!"
   "Your words are not very kind Senor! That eez not a nice..."
   "Welcome to the real world kid. Life really ain't like Disneyland! You came to get your grandfather because you love him. Or at least I thought you did!"
   Robin's eyes exploded. The corners of his mouth curled angrily and he was about to lay into me but I didn't give him a chance to speak.
   "Well, damn it, if you care so damn much about him then give'em some peace of mind and respect his last wish. How 'bout showing me some of that faith he has in you. Do you think he'd just pick up and take off on some desert fiesta with just any old body, knowing full well that this would be his last ride? Hell no, damn it! He let YOU!" I pointed an accusing finger at him. "You! His grandson! His own flesh and blood, share his last precious moments. That old man stood up to Raul and Hernandez, or whatever the hell the varmint's name is. He stood up to them with just a machete and was willing to bite the bullet for you.
   "And you! Look at you sittin' here whimpering like a little lost pup! Let'em die happy Robin. Let'em feel your strength so that he can feel redeemed in the eyes of God. Let'em know he did the right thing. Let'em know that his sacrifice was worth it. I think you're worth it kid! But he's gotta know. Don't quit on'em kid! If you really love him, don't quit on'em. Life's a bitch boy! But I know it here," I tapped my chest, "that you do love him. Show'em Robin! Don't quit on'em kid. His soul will never rest if you do."
   Robin was silent for a long time. His dark brows were curled under the wrinkled furrows in his forehead and his eyes indicated deep meditation. Occasionally, a hard stare slid my way, but he quickly retreated within himself. I felt the turmoil, the anger, and the conflict boiling within him. I knew the pain but I let him hash it out and started packing, grabbing up things closest to me and stuffing them in the saddlebags. Robin came back, shaking himself as though awakening from a trance.
   "What are you doing, Senor?"
   "We're leaving. If Raul or whatever comes back with some of his compadres, we're sittin' ducks. We need an edge."
   "Seet teeng ducks?"
   "Yeah... You know...  Ahh... forget it kid..." I kept packing my gear.
   "But my Grandfather...  He..."
   "He's still got a lot of fight left in him. He'll make it. We're heading over to my camp. It's a little box canyon, and we can protect ourselves a lot better than here. Be a fittin' place for him," I was almost sorry I had blurted that out. "God forbid that should happen anytime soon," I quickly added. "Come on kid, shake a leg. Gimme me a hand."
   I shouldn't have been moving either, Robin reminded me. But I knew it was the only way to keep the boy from cashing in the chips. He was treading a fine line. It's rough when someone close to you is dying. Especially when you're with them. The anger and frustration one endures knowing a situation is out of your control just can't be put into words.
   I recalled the hollow feeling I had when I visited my friend Tommy Kohansby in the hospital. He was on his last leg in a bout with cancer. Rather matter-of-factly he told me that he'd be dead within the week and wanted me to be a pallbearer at his funeral. It still chills me to think of it. Not more than three weeks later my father died of cancer. Then his mother died a week later.
   The canoe trip that claimed the life of my foster-son Gordon splashed before me. We'd run a couple of mile stretches a few times and were on our last run down the river when it happened. We had shoved off from a gravel bar into a swift slot and the water suddenly dropped from beneath us. Just as suddenly a wall of whitewater tumbled in and crested, and lifted the bow of the canoe, flinging Gordon from the bow. I went over with the craft and was pinned beneath it for what seemed like eternity, and given a thorough underwater battering against the insides of the craft and the surrounding boulders to boot.
   When I finally did surface, it was only to see that my situation was no better and to hear Gordon shout, "Mike!" Just once! One of those very rare times that I had ever heard anything resembling fear or panic uttered from his mouth, or seen it written on his face. He was in mid-river, stroking shoulder high, and being swept away by the rapid white-capped current. I was a literal prisoner in the swirling choppy soup and surrounding boulders, corralled in by a swift boiling side-stream which prevented me from entering the mainstream, saving my life in the bargain.
   Some trade-off it was that Saturday, 12 May 1973. The next day my sister phoned to tell me that my grandmother had been found dead in her chair that morning. Thomasina V. Bell, 13 May 1973, the oldest daughter of Tom Butler, a South Carolina Cherokee Indian.
   In March of 1974, my foster-son, Tony died from a gunshot wound to the head. Heidi, his stepmother, wrote and told me and filled me in on the last few months of his troubled life caused by his unwillingness to reconcile with his physically overbearing stepfather. Which is how he came to live with Heidi and his real father after he has been uprooted from the stability of our home. I am sure he would be alive and well today had it not been for those unnecessary conflicts.
   My wounds have healed some over the years, but a deep burning scar still lingers, festering and blistering, just waiting for an irritant to instigate the pain. Memories die hard, I reckon.

Chapter Nine
   When everything was packed we woke DeVargas. Robin told him our plan and his eyes twinkled at the thought of having another encounter with Raul. With an ambience of bravado he sought to climb aboard Bandit by himself, his machete swinging above his head, the look of a warrior burning in his eyes. I gave him Raul's and Hernando's rifles and he tied them to the pommel. One of the two pistols he tucked into his waistband and the other one he slipped into my saddlebags. I patted the saddlebags then lightly slapped Bandit's flank and told Robin I would wait for him at the mouth of the draw.
   He eyed me evenly, appraisingly. Concern began to form on his lips and I ushered him on before he could speak, urging him to hurry for I could feel the effects of the anti-venom creeping up on me and didn't know how long I would be conscious. He called me stubborn as a mule and insisted on helping me to the draw where he could found me a nice comfortable flat rock where I could wait. He laid Jim's rifle across my lap and propped my bedroll behind my head and stood back to appraise the surrounding countryside and me. DeVargas leaned forward in the saddle and winked at me.
   "As soon as thee young one eez safe en camp, I weel come back for you Senor."
   As they moved out of sight, I did wonder if Robin would go to the grove or try to make it to Tucson to save his grandfather. I knew DeVargas would not permit it, but he wasn't strong enough to really put up a fight if the boy took a notion. I had thought of taking Robin to the grove first, then coming back to pick up the old man, but my body wasn't up to all that moving. My gut feeling told me that Robin would return. He was bound by an unwritten code of obligation that was traditionally stronger than any treaty ever written or signed. Secure with that, I settled back on my bedroll and pondered on how I would spice up this little adventure. After first poking around with the Winchester into the loose brush and under the crevices, just to make sure that old buzztail wasn't lurking about. God knows I couldn't take another hit. Encores just weren't in.
   I must have dozed off for I suddenly found myself being awakened by the clicking of Bandit's shoes on the rocky ground. Robin smiled warmly and slid from the saddle. He checked my leg first, then took my guitar and tied it behind the saddle. After slipping the Winchester in its scabbard he pulled Jim's Colt from the saddlebags to show me that it was still there, along with the other two. He had left the other rifle with DeVargas.
   "Grandfather said that eet was a beautiful place," he slipped an arm under me and helped me up. He double-checked the tie-downs on the bedroll then slipped up behind me and clucked Bandit on. I think I dozed off on the way.
   Robin set up camp by himself, insisting that his grandfather and me conserve our strength. His eyes still spoke of a determination to see his grandfather to Phoenix. He knew I knew, but he didn't bring up the matter verbally. Nor did I.
   The boy stoned a fat ground rattler for supper. An even fatter ground squirrel sliding across the rocks made his mouth water. His eyes slid from the rifle to me, then back to where the squirrel disappeared. He half scowled, holding up the skinned snake, then sighed in resignation. Robin was tired of snakemeat, even though it had sustained him and his grandfather during their flight. It was like sucking the meat off the back of a skinny chicken he chuckled. An exhausting and tedious affair with smaller snakes. I had to agree.
   "You can use one of these?" I held up a rifle.
   "I don't know," he shrugged. "I theenk I may have shot one a long time ago wheen I was young. We had no guns of our own," a shyly embarrassed expression clouded his face.
   "When you were young!" I couldn't help chuckling. "Just how old are you?"
   "Almost eighteen, Senor."
   "Eighteen, huh? Oh, cut the Senor bit. My name's Mike, okay? Mike."
   "Mike?" he repeated. "Miguel. Ahhh! Si! Mike! Si, that eez a good name," his lips pursed approvingly.
   "How'd you come by the name Robin?" I was curious, as I only knew a couple of guys so named. One of them my own boy.
   "My mother said that when I was born, I had thee dark eyes of a bandit. She named me after Robin Hood. She had been reading a book about him while she was pregnant with me."
   Again the shy smile, his head tucked. His dark inquisitive eyes peered at me from beneath the long shock of black hair dangling down his forehead, waiting for my comment.
   "Hmm, that's interesting. And what do you think of it? Your name?"
   "Eet's okay, I guess. When you are leetle," a sidelong glance. "But then, eet's only a name. I guess I like eet pretty well," he sighed with satisfied finality.
   "Well it's okay by me Robin. I think it's a good name. Here. Take this," I handed him the rifle. "Reckon you'd better learn to use one of these. Maybe you can rustle us up some grub later. Meat! Hot, juicy, red meat," I licked my lips, eliciting his interest and approval. But more so from the suggestion that something other than snakemeat was definitely desired.
   He caressed the smooth stock and long blue barrel tenderly, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. As most boys are Robin was a quick learner. For half an hour we plinked away at stones, chunks of wood and a few of the flattened cans I had buried earlier. He had the eye of an eagle and the speed of a champion skeet shooter. He carefully went through most of Raul's ammo, methodically picking his targets, and where he would strike them. Ahh, to be young again!
   DeVargas awoke just before we quit, grumbling about his stomach being empty. That instigated my own stomach. I also figured it was time to quit lest our gunfire chased all the game within earshot out of the territory. Particularly that band of javelina I'd seen. Yeah. Along with the lingering and distinct possibility of Hernando returning with some of his compadres to even the score.
   DeVargas was in high spirits however. In fact, he carried on as though nothing had happened to him. His wound looked uglier but Robin pretended not to notice. He cleaned it, applied a fresh bandage and more of my torn shirt as a dressing, as though it was an every day event. His consoling voice, oftentimes in their native tongue calmed the man. DeVargas would likewise reply, his eyes twinkling, his craggy features, sometimes somber, sometimes a myriad of happy wrinkles, bled happily across his weathered face.
   I sensed a slight growing within the boy. His manner was now more confident and his movements deliberate and authoritative as he went about his task. Yet, very respectful of his elder. He laughed earnestly at the old mans jokes, his whole being riveted on each and every word the man spoke.
   DeVargas had covered some ground in his day. The length and breath of Mexico he claimed, pursuing the ultimate dream of a better way of life, security and stability. I let him have the stage and found myself as captivated by him as his grandson. He talked long into the night, with the glow of the flickering fire, dancing and complimenting his rugged, weathered, larger than life features. The solid, rugged features of a hard scrabble man who had survived a very hard life. Yet somewhere beneath his rough, macho exterior I sensed a real gentleness.
   Underneath those survival generated protective layers there lived a deep loyalty, love and commitment to his family and those closest to him. A sincerity that was generously reflected in the eyes of his a worshipping grandson sitting very proudly and attentively next to him. Wide, wondrous, admiring eyes that never left the old man for a split second. The boy was growing within and the old man fulfilling his last wish. This one tranquil night in the middle of August 1987, Leon DeVargas was a very happy man.
   "Boom!" the Winchester barked. I sat up quickly, ignoring my burning leg, and cocked the Colt, taking in as much as I could at once. "Hernando!" was my first thought.
   "Aieee yaa yaa!" came a triumphant shout from down by the stream and I saw Robin leaping in the air, the rifle above his head. When he landed, he crouched and peeped about him a second then stalked towards a struggling pig, lying on its side. Several other javelina were beating feet towards the draw in a cloud of dust and shrill squeals.
   "Robin! Alto!" I shouted. "Hold it kid! Shoot'em again, young'un!" I fired the Colt into the air to get his attention. He spun around, a puzzled look on his face. "Shoot'em again!" I shouted, gesturing.
   The boy halted and aimed. "Boom!" the pig jerked and kicked frantically a few seconds then fell limp.
   "Listen for the lungs collapsing," I breathed.
   "I told you he was a good one," DeVargas shook a gnarled fist. "Bravo muchacho! Ole!" he praised the boy in a barrage of his native tongue. "Fiesta noche! Miguel?" he elbowed me wistfully.
   "Si Senor!" I could already taste it. Then I noticed it was morning. Seems I had fallen asleep last night during one of DeVargas' raids with Pancho Villa. Or was it Zapata? Anyway, he forgave me, our circumstances taken into account and good-naturedly rambled on.
   "Two crippled men en thee care of a Nino. Ahh, such eez life, eh?" he beamed, amused.
   Turns out Robin had given me another shot of anti-venom during the night. I had been struggling in my sleep and broke out in a heavy sweat. Robin had sat up most of the night tending to me, falling asleep only a couple of hours before dawn.
   DeVargas ordered the carcass over to him so that he could help dress it. Robin obliged him and together they worked as one. Their union lifted my spirits and I couldn't help noticing that the swelling in my leg was beginning to subside. I wished that the lingering discoloration would fade with it, knowing full well that it would be a while before my normal flesh color returned. Loosening up the tourniquet some did allow more circulation, and I thanked the Lord above that it was a rattler and not a cottonmouth. A water moccasin bite left unattended for any length of time was guaranteed gangrene. And would most definitely in this scenario, result in the loss of most of my leg.
   Robin scattered the entrails on the other side of the stream, commenting on the harshness of the land and remarking that the poor critters scratching out a living deserved at least one good meal. I built up the fire and stoked it real good, creating a large, hot and healthy bed of coals.
   Robin then carved off a rump. The rest of the carcass was hung up and the insides smeared with the remaining salt, mixed with a light helping of desert sand. It was then covered with a piece of burlap brought along for just that purpose. DeVargas assured me though, that there was enough salt around for the taking, if we really needed it, sweeping an arm across the terrain. He then proceeded to tell me a short tale about a skirmish between some Anglo ranchers and some of his compadres from El Paso over the salt rights up around the Guadalupe Mountains near the New Mexico/Texas border.
   "There," the boy's mouth watered as he placed the rump on the spit and hung the spit over the coals. "How long do you theenk, Miguel?"
   "Hmm," I wet a finger and held it in the faint breeze. "Bout that long."
   He chuckled. "How do you feel?" he came over to me and checked the tourniquet. "You loosened eet!" alarm clouded his face.
   "Yeah, a few minutes ago. Leg's buzzing something fierce..."
   "No, Mike. Here," he undid it and cinched it up again. "There. Now that eez thee way eet should be. Too much blood and maybe too much poison sneak by. Eet should be very snug like so," he probed the binding with a finger that wouldn't slip between it and my leg. "Es good?" his eyes sought approval.
   "Si," I nodded.
   "Hungry too, no?"
   "Hungry enough to eat the whole damn pig," I grinned.
   "That would be very good," he laughed, not so much unlike my own Robin.
   "And I am fine too!" DeVargas piped up. "Tomorrow we leave for Phoenix," he pointed a convicting finger at us, and backed it up with an equally convicting glare.
   Robin was caught momentarily off guard. He hesitated, seemingly choking on something. He shot me a quick glance, then his grandfather, then my guitar. He moved over to the instrument and picked it up.
   "Ahh. Si. Grandfather. So be it! Tomorrow," he agreed. Then with gracious finesse he passed my guitar to me.
   "Mike, play sometheeng please? Would you play sometheeng for my Grandfather," a sudden urgency in his eyes. "Grandfather listen! Musica. Mike weel play for you."
   DeVargas settled back, beaming brightly. He began swaying back and forth and humming softly, his body posture showing his anticipation. His wise old brown eyes relived a thousand adventures. I obliged him, knowing what Robin was up to. I had a feeling that DeVargas knew also though he didn't let on.
   I ran through a few quick riffs just to get my numb fingers on the right track. Funny, I hardly recall fingering the strings at all. Automatically my fingers found a melody and presently the words of one of my old songs popped up kinda natural like, and I just slid into it.

"Hear the Robin sing.
It's spring, spring, spring.
Flowers, Blooming all around.
Hear the melodies,
Of the chickadees.
Butterflies, Dancin' like clowns..."

   Within a half dozen songs DeVargas was snoring peacefully. I forgave him and Robin thanked me. Then he checked his wounds, morosely shaking his head.
   "He eez a very proud and stubborn old man, Mike. Why?"
   "Because he has truly lived Robin. He's a very strong man who loves you very much. I think he's trying to leave you his strength, kid."
   A pea-green chopper streaked overhead and straight south. Another followed quickly in its wake. Something was amiss. I read the same misgivings in Robin's face as he stared after them long after they disappeared. I wasn't overdue. Yet. Probably a Border Patrol flight. Probably looking for... and I quickly dismissed the idea, becoming aware of the boy's eyes closely scrutinizing me.
   "Que paso, Mike?" casually.
   I evaded his question and grunted myself to one knee and struggled to both feet with the help of a crude cane I had started whittling on while Robin pretentiously turned the rump, secretly watching me. He punctured it in several places to allow the hot juices to drip into the wooden bowl. I hobbled a small circle, testing myself while the boy opened two Trail Packs and dumped the contents into the pan with just enough water to half cover them. Then, between stolen glances my way and to the mountains heading towards the south, he nestled the pan in the coals, and pretended to prepare more wood to increase the bed of coals.
   I surveyed our surroundings, daring to let go of the cane and trust my full weight on both legs. I could feel the boy's eyes on me. Silent, concerned eyes, betraying his apprehension of my endeavor. When I turned his way, he went back to the meal, his hands moving quickly from one item to another, slicing, sorting, and wrapping.
   "I won't fall," I assured him. "I'm okay."
He shrugged pretentiously, all the while peering secretively at me from under his dark brows and continuing with what he was doing, along with an occasional scrutinizing glance at his grandfather.
   Once the vegetables softened, he would drain off the water and add the pork juice and fry them. When that was done, and without a word, he rose and stood next to me, appraising me, my leg in particular, then nodded to the food, indicating that I should watch it. He stretched, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and went to Bandit and removed his hobbles. I was ready to sit up now even though my head was woozy. I made myself comfortable on my bedroll and strummed on my guitar and watched Robin work the buckskin around the grove. He was a natural rider if there ever was one. Without the saddle he was one with his mount. Kids and animals are an unbeatable combination.
   DeVargas awoke around two that evening and I enticed him into a game of cards. Robin was playing with my guitar. The heavy aroma of the pork began to curl up in our nostrils and distract us. We'd been slicing samples from it while it cooked.
   A warm breeze sailed through the grove. A Golden Eagle high up, cried out. Its long outstretched wings soon carried him from view. The stream sang a gurgling lullaby while we sank covetous teeth into the delicious, juicy, javelina rump. The vegetables disappeared quickly. No matter because meat was the mainstay of the hunter. Meat was the mainstay for a man of the land. We were eagerly content to gorge ourselves on the little porker without vegetables. A Godsend that made my aching body perk up and shout for glory. My system was slowly coming to terms with itself.
   Robin took what little garbage there was, the paper and plastic from the Trail Packs and dumped them on the fire. A couple of strips of fat and a few burnt veggies, he scraped from the pan into the wooden bowl and took to the stream where he sat them in little clumps for the night scavengers. Between trips he fed and combed Bandit and checked his hobbles. After washing and drying the utensils, he curried him down real good.
   I had to think about leaving soon. Real soon. I could ride now, I was sure, without any side effects. My leg needed more attention than we could give it here. I began to tell myself that maybe DeVargas could make it to Phoenix. He appeared stronger after our banquet. We could double-up on Bandit and Robin could lead us. He was a strong boy. A little desert hike wouldn't..."
   "Madre de Dios!" DeVargas exclaimed, his sudden outburst interrupting my thoughts. Both his hands were outstretched towards the heavens, gnarled and clutching. A sinking feeling oozed heavily within me.
   "Leon?" I started for him. God this is it! I could feel it. I could see it in his resisting eyes. They rolled back and forth, struggling.
   Robin bolted like a deer, quickly covering the distance from the stream in easy strides.
   "Abuelo!" he slid down beside him like a Little Leaguer stealing Home Plate. "Grandfather! Abuelo! Que paso! Que paso?" his black eyes begged, accenting the hurt expression on his lips. "Mike?" he pleaded, clutching the man. His voice lost, alarmed, and helpless.
   "Robin," DeVargas touched the boy's head. He rubbed the satin black hair with both hands and held the boy's face in his palms. Robin grabbed his grandfather's hands in his. His voice was choked and squeaky.
   "Grandfather, don't... don't go... I, I, love you," he closed his eyes tightly.
   DeVargas smiled warmly, broadly, and nodded. For all practical purposes the two of them were all alone together in a very private little world, and very oblivious to my presence and the great Sonoran Desert surrounding us.
   "Ahh, my Robin. Mi Nino. Heart of my heart," he kissed the boy upon his forehead.
   Robin's slender hands tightened around his grandfather's hands and his jaws set hard as he stared desperately into the old man's rebellious eyes.
   "Si, mi Abuelo. Corazon de mi corazon," he drew the man close to him so that he could nestle his head upon his shoulder.
   DeVargas inhaled and exhaled deeply, silently, then he slumped, his head rolling to one side. Robin supported him with both arms, himself breathing deeply, moving not except for one gentle hand caressing his grandfather's back. After a minute, a long, long, minute, I moved closer to them and dared to touch the boy's shoulder. His big round, black eyes, so wet and tormented, rolled up at me and unleashed a torrent of pain and anger that scorched my soul. I saw my son Gordon, the terror and uncertainty in his eyes as the swift river swept him away. And my foster-son Tony, misty eyed and angry when he made the decision that Misty, his precious dog, suffering from an uncontrollable cancer of the uterus, would have to be put to sleep.
   Robin held his grandfather tenderly, his head tilted my way, one eye staring at me, through me. Wanting, desiring, demanding. I felt the pain. It consumed me, and we shared it. His eyes thanked me, but he didn't shed a tear.
   "Robin," I dared to whisper.
   "I am fine Senor," a feeble smile colored his brown face. "I am fine."
   "Can I...?"
   "No, Miguel. I must do theese myself."
   Very gently he laid his grandfather down and reverently closed the old man's eyelids. He made a mock fuss over the man's wrinkled clothing then knelt beside him and bowed his head, his lips mouthing a silent prayer. After a minute, he sighed and took the shovel and stood and scanned the grove with a meticulous eye. They finally rested on the leaning cottonwood near the mouth of the stream, and to it he went. By it he dug the grave, each spadeful of dirt very deliberate and very carefully placed aside. I gave him my blanket to line the bottom of the grave. DeVargas' tattered serape, the boy covered him with, crossing his arms over his chest. He placed the old man's tiny Rosary between his fingers.
   The whole time Robin worked in silence. Nor did he quit until the grave was completely covered with stones to keep the coyotes out. A crude wooden cross was staked at its head. He placed the man's ragged straw hat on top of the cross and just stood there, his head hung low, the shovel dangling in his right hand. He stood for an hour or so while I sat helpless, so much a part of it yet so detached.
   Three coyotes appeared on the ridge above us and sang a sad chorus for several minutes then disappeared just as silently as they had arrived. Robin, as though snapped from a trance, crossed himself with the Sign of the Cross and reluctantly returned to the fire. He dropped the shovel and picked up my guitar. We stared at each other across the glowing embers. His sullen eyes spoke of things no words could describe, but we understood each and every one of them.
   Finally he came over and sat beside me, his shoulders hunched, his head drooped, and his straight black hair dangling over his eyes. After a while he flung his head back to remove his hair from his face, sniffed, and handed me my guitar. I strummed a few chords very lightly, watching him staring into the rising flames. He was fighting very hard to hold back the tears. His locked jaws and tightly grit teeth only added to the strain in eyes so red that the tiny vessels in the whites of his eyeballs seemed to be on the verge of exploding. The pain in my leg was very minor compared to the pain his grief caused in my heart. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could say. Nor did I try. I just strummed mechanically.
   "He said that I should not look back, Mike," he finally whispered, barely audible. "I promeesed I would not cry," he chewed on his lower lip, his black haired head cocked sideways at me.
   I dared. "I think your Grandfather would understand, Robin. Just this once." 
   He nodded to the guitar, let his eyes roll to the distant grave, then to me, and finally resumed staring into the dancing yellow flames. Though his expression stiffly resisted an emotional display, I could hear his broken heart crying for sympathy. I reckon the song was just waiting for this moment.

"Don't remember me with sorrow
Long faces, or with tears.
Remember me with smiles
And all the good times that we shared.
How together we shared it all,
And enjoyed what we shared.
Don't you worry, it's not over,
We'll have those times again.
And make a memory of this memory,
As we live life once again . . ."

   Almost half way through the song, the first teardrop slid down Robin's brown cheek. Within seconds the floodgates opened and released his reservoir of hurt and love. I knew then that the boy would be all right. When I finished playing he turned his tear-soaked face to me, not bothering to wipe it, and half whispered, "I believe Grandfather knew all thee time."
   "He was a very wise man," I nodded.
   We were up with the sun and packed within an hour. We paid our last respects to Leon Garcia DeVargas, then doubled up on Bandit and left. Robin did look back and waved a final farewell. A comforting satisfaction welled within me. He had made the break.
   I allowed Bandit to set his own pace and he headed home at a brisk walk, seemingly conscious of my situation. The noonday sun however, forced us to take refuge. It was particularly affecting me and Robin questioned the wisdom of us trying to cover so much ground in broad daylight. I had to agree with him and we waited until evening before setting out again.
   He led the way on foot for the most part. A fever tried to engulf me again, but the boy, one eye always on me, noticed the rising sweat and paleness, and responded quickly. How I don't know, but I was definitely grateful for his vigilance. We camped after midnight and I slept soundly the rest of the night, only vaguely remembering the boy tending the fire and my leg and forcing me to eat some of the pork broth he had concocted and mixed with some sliced pork and cactus meat.
   About an hour before sunrise, Robin rousted me from a drowsy sleep and told me we would get a jump on the scorching noon sun. We rode double for the first couple of hours, Bandit moving briskly along, Robin behind me, holding me upright, talking to me to keep me conscious. As the noon sun began to reach its zenith I thought we'd have to put to shade again and wait. Robin chaffed at the thought. I had commented about giving him my map and sending him on ahead to Jim's with a note, but he would have none of that. When we finally decided to duck the sun's rays and find shelter and some water for the canteens, our attention was drawn to some hazy figures approaching us.
   A mirage was my first thought. I was going off the deep end and this was the final leg. But Robin saw them too, so I figured both of us couldn't be going wacky. He urged Bandit on and the wind must have shifted, for he pitched his head excitedly, whinnied long and loudly, and locked his ears on the figures and strutted and strained on his bit. Straight for them he tugged.
   It was Jim and his boys, thank God. With a local neighbor tagging along. Jim had planned on surprising me by joining me the last couple of days. The flurry of Border Patrol activity in the area prompted him to come out sooner. And naturally they were also packing some heavy iron. Seems that all hell had broken loose. Dead bodies of Mexican aliens were turning up all over the desert around Nogales and just southwest of Tucson. Shallow graves had been dug up and picked clean, and scattered by foxes, coyotes and other desert scavengers. It was impossible for the decaying flesh to go unnoticed, especially with the tides of vultures wheeling and dipping overhead and dropping to earth like miniature black clouds.
   Jim naturally made a big to-do over my condition, giving me the whole nine yards about going through x-number of OPs in Nam without nearly a scratch only to get myself nailed by a little bitty snake. He drowned me in water to cool me off, and graciously thanked Robin for being there. He mounted me on Pistol in front of him and Robin behind his friend, and before I knew it I was back at his place bathed, and beneath cool sheets. Diane made arrangements at the local hospital for me to be seen and thoroughly checked out. Then she called my dispatcher to let him know I'd be delayed. Lonnie jokingly asked if I had the white feather hatband.
   It turns out that bad timing did Hernando in. And revenge. Unable to endure his wounds any longer he went to get treated at a border hospital just within Mexico, thinking that his own people would not betray him. His surly attitude however caused his unsatisfactory explanation of his wounds to be reported to the Mexican authorities by a staff member who had recently lost a relative on one of those precarious northern ventures into the states via the infamous "coyote" service. That and a ring he was wearing that looked suspiciously familiar.
   Convinced that there was a connection, the Mexican Authorities pressured him into spilling the beans by intimidating the already defeated man with the threat of additional bodily harm, along with a round of therapy in the hands of the deceased's family members. He not only pointed fingers and named names, he very eagerly volunteered to show them major smuggling routes, and took them to the locations of numerous graves of those who had been murdered. He had been promised a light sentence. But Mexico is full of rumors they say.
   That also explained all the choppers and small planes crisscrossing the area the past few days. On the way back to Jim's I filled him in on as much as I could and Robin filled in the loose ends. We all agreed with Diane that it was best to leave Robin's involvement out of the turmoil. Especially since no one knew that he had been involved. He had suffered enough, and since Hernando hadn't mentioned him, me, or DeVargas to the authorities, we saw no need in bringing it up.
   I spent two days in the hospital under the careful observation of both the staff and Robin. He was also there first thing in the morning on the day of my discharge. He had risen at sun-up, before the Beard's had awakened and hiked and hitchhiked all the way.
   "Don't worry," he read my mind as he stole into the room. "I left them a message."
   When we returned to Jim's place, Jim called my dispatcher to update him on my progress. He told me that Butch had said he had more than enough coming out of El Paso for the next two weeks to go around. That I was to sit tight awhile and heal. Quickly, Lonni added and hinted about a certain white feather hatband.
   The next week was spent getting my sea legs back. I called my ex-girlfriend Suzie, on a whim, and got an earful from her about trekking around in the wilds like I was still in my teens. Whew! It's a good thing I didn't call my mother also, cause I'd still be on the phone. She particularly didn't like the idea of me visiting or being anywhere near Mexico.
   In the meantime Robin was fitting in just like one of the family. Him, Danny and Chris hit it off like long lost brothers who hadn't seen each other for years, and the old ranchero brimmed with a new kind of life that only the exuberance of youth could provide. It was a very good week.
   About midweek Jim's family and me took Robin up to Tucson and outfitted him with some new duds. A couple pairs of Levis and shirts, and a pair of Double Eagle Acme cowboy boots he had taken a fancy too. Jim made him a present of one of his Stetson's and he made Jim a present of Raul's Winchester, and Chris and Danny, the two pistols. He gave me Hernando's rifle.
   "Had you not shot heem, my grandfather would have died en vain and I would not be here."
   I gave the rifle back to him, assuring him that I had more than enough guns of my own, and that it was time he owned one of his own.
   "Accept it as a symbol of the life your grandfather has given you, and not his untimely passing." I pressed the carbine into his hands.
   Protective fingers closed around it. But knowing his uncle's view on guns he thought it would be better if he left it at Jim's until his mother found a place of their own. Jim agreed on the condition, urged by his boys, that he came down to visit them regularly. A promise they had no problem extracting from him.
   Trying to locate Robin's mother by phone was another matter. No one would admit to knowing Mariposa DeVargas. We suspected that since she was not yet a U.S. citizen they were protecting her. Even Robin could not persuade them to divulge any information. We had to agree with Robin's speculation that since he had not arrived as scheduled they were probably suspicious that he was actually being detained by the U.S. Immigration Service, and that they were trying to coerce him into divulging the location of the rest of his family. In light of the daily TV broadcasts about the Border Patrol operations surrounding the recent graves discovered in the desert, we considered this to be a rational speculation.
   Robin had also been given another number to call once he was inside the states. A trusted family lookout that could verify his safe crossing. Only he had lost that number in the desert while fleeing from Raul and Hernando. But like any youth he shrugged it off as a minor loss, for he knew the way to his uncle's house and was very secure in the knowledge that I would deliver him to his mother as I had promised his grandfather.
   Before we left the Beard's we all rode out to the little grove. Robin replaced the rough mesquite cross with a nicely carved one that he, Danny and Chris had made during my hospitalization. Robin alone had carved the fitting inscription.

                                                            Leon Garcia DeVargas
                                                         Born Mexican * Died Free
                                                                 13 August 1987

   Good-byes are always hard. We went through the usual routine of hugs and handshakes and promises to keep in touch. On the way up towards the city of Tucson, Robin urged me to pull over. He hopped from the cab, pointing excitedly, and beckoned me to join him.
   "Isn't it beautiful?" he breathed. "Eet is the most beautiful church I have ever seen, Miguel."
   His dancing bright eyes were fixed on Mission San Xavier del Bac, standing piously against the commanding backdrop of the Santa Catalina Mountains. The ancient but well preserved old church, radiant in eye-pleasing splendor, and unquestioned majesty, overwhelmed the boy with a sense of obligation that could not be ignored. I myself was also feeling a similar compulsion, as we stood before a presence that had surely permeated many a soul and taken them into its bosom.
   "Please, Mike. I must. We must. For my grandfather."
   "We owe him that," I agreed, and we drove up to the church and parked and entered. There in awed awareness of something greater than mortal man, we paid homage and gave our thanks and regrets, and prayed a reverent farewell to Leon DeVargas.
   It was even harder when I delivered Robin to his mother. I think I received as many hugs and kisses as he did. There was a heavy dosage of fussing and pampering, and one helluva dinner feast. They put me up for the night and in the morning Robin and I stood in the steely gray dawn, hesitant, reluctant to sever good ties. He wanted to come and with me work with me and learn how to handle the big rig. The bobtailing that we had done in the desert with Jim and his boys had bitten him too and he saw new adventures ahead. In a way I kinda liked the idea. Not that I needed a worker mind you... Just...
   "They need you here first, Robin... And you need them. There's a lot that you must share with them. One day we'll..."
   That wasn't the answer that he wanted, but he graciously accepted it.
   "Perhaps you are right. But I weel not forget you Mike," he hugged me briefly then tapped his chest over his heart. "Here, you will always be my friend. Siempre."
   "I won't forget you either Robin. Here. Always," I touched my chest over my heart, then his.
   Robin stood in the middle of the road waving to me as I pulled off and I watched him fade away through my rear view mirror, his lithe figure boldly resisting the engulfing brightness of the rising Arizona gold. 
                                                                           The End

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