by W L Ripley
The roar of the gun was deafening, filling my head and ears as if I were closeted in a small, soundless room. The bullet smacked into the tree as I relaxed my string fingers and sent the shaft away. The noise and flash of muzzle caused me to flinch slightly, but the arrow punched into the hollow of his right shoulder, then disappeared as if it had never touched him. The sixty-pound pull of the Browning compound powered the arrow through his shoulder and out the back. Cleanly. Five yards farther back and I might’ve missed him.
An arrow has no shock power like a bullet. An arrow kills by severing vital organs, without smashed tissue and splintered bones. I’d heard other bowhunters tell of arrows bouncing off bones or passing through the deer exactly like the arrow I’d just released. Sometimes, if the blades were sharp, the animal didn’t feel it. My blades were honed to a shaving edge with a fine-grained whetstone. I didn’t think the rifleman felt it pass through. He hardly seemed to notice at first. That is, he hardly noticed until he tried to raise the rifle again and found he couldn’t. His right hand dangled uselessly, the fingers twitching electrically, as if a wire had been severed inside him with tin snips.
His eyes were wild with fear and chemicals. He looked at the convulsive hand, then at me. His lips trembled. The rifle fell to the ground.
“Take it easy,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand. He posed no threat now. With considerable effort he pulled out a small plastic medicine vial, which fell to the ground. He started to pick it up when I stepped from behind the tree with another arrow ready. I didn’t remember pulling it from the quiver or fitting it to the string. He turned and ran. I raised the bow, pulled the string to anchor point, held on the middle of his back, allowed for his movement, then slowly, as slowly as you can let off a compound bow, I relaxed the string. Didn’t shoot. Didn’t need to kill him. Didn’t want to. I was uneasy about my instinct to do so.
I watched him crash through the woods, then up the hill. He was no outdoorsman. No gunman, either. When I examined his rifle, a Marlin lever-action, it was dirty and ring-wormed with patches of rust. Oil had congealed like rancid pudding at the seams of the receiver, the stock pocked with scratches and long, pale scars. No hunter would neglect his piece in such a manner.
I reached down and picked up the prescription bottle he’d dropped. Inside the unlabeled vial were two milky crystals that looked like rock candy. I opened the top and sniffed it. No smell. I thought about tasting it, then remembered the wire-tight look in the poacher’s eyes. Drugs? But it didn’t look like anything I’d seen before, and I’d seen about everything while in Vietnam, except a solution. I replaced the lid and put it in my pocket.
I hiked out of the woods. I was fatigued. Something deep within me ached and pulled. Reaching the Bronco, I placed the Browning X-Cellerator bow in its rack, started the truck, floored the pedal, and bumped down the rough, gravel-scrubbed road. And I thought—about what I’d done, about what had just occurred. About myself. Two miles down the road I stopped the Ford in a sideways spray of rock, threw open the door, and dry-heaved as the dust swirled around me. There were no other vehicles around. No other sounds. It was a lonely road I was on.
I drove back to town and thought about what I should do. First, I needed to report the marijuana without their knowing who I was. I could call it in. Involvement didn’t bother me, calling attention to myself did.
Second, I was supposed to meet a man named Chick Easton. Easton was a friend of a friend. My friend’s name was Matt Jenkins. Easton was returning a vehicle that had been stolen in Missouri and dumped in Colorado. Jenkins had asked if I would give Easton a ride back to Colorado. Said Easton was “colorful.” I owed Matt Jenkins. Not for anything he’d done, or for the reasons most people feel they owe another, but because I liked him and could trust him and trust is a tough thing to come by anymore.
As I neared town I passed a sign announcing:
PARADISE
City Limits
Pop. 37,523
Black letters on a white background. Paradise was a small city perched on the northern edge of the Ozarks. It was big enough for some big-town troubles and too small to have the solutions. It was spackled with the usual strip of chain restaurants and motels, convenience stores and gas stations, the mom-and-pop businesses linking them like a cheap lavaliere: too tired to keep going, too late to quit trying. Traffic was thick, but manageable. I parked at an open-air phone booth, lit the electronic bells with a quarter, and dialed 911. My quarter returned.
“Emergency 911,” said the answering male voice after the sixth ring.
“How many times does it ring when it isn’t an emergency?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“I know where there is a field of marijuana the size of Busch Stadium. Somebody took a shot at me, also.”
“This is an emergency line, buddy. A field of marijuana isn’t gonna pick up and move. And you sound pretty calm for a guy who’s been shot at. We don’t take anonymous tips and crank calls on this line.”
“It’s out on Farm Road H. Twelve miles south of Highway 24, then three miles west of the gravel, back on public-use ground,” I said, ignoring him. We’re a society of cynics. You dial 911 about drug activity and attempted homicide and it’s not considered an emergency.
“Dial 555-COPS,” said the voice. “Ask for Sheriff Kennedy.” He hung up before I could commend his compassion and courtesy.
I dialed the number and a female voice answered. My quarter didn’t come back this time. The cops and Ma Bell were in this together. I asked for Kennedy and she put me on hold. A male voice came on the line and said, “Sheriff Kennedy.”
“Twelve miles south of Highway 24 on Farm Road H, back on public-use land, there’s a twenty-acre field of marijuana that’s been partially harvested.”
“What’s your name?”
“I had to kill a guard dog. Doberman. Somebody shot at me. I wounded him with an arrow, but he ran off. I’ve got his rifle. Send somebody to look. Better send a couple of guys. I’ll leave the rifle where you can find it. I don’t think they leave the field unattended long.”
“Why don’t you come in and make a report?”
“Told you where it is.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Looking for Jimmy Hoffa.”
There was a pause. But it wasn’t for laughter. “Look, sir. Why not come in and make a report in person? How much trouble could that be?”
“I’m terminally bashful. How much trouble would it be for you to go and look without me coming in?”
The other end was silent again. “You say you wounded him with an arrow? Where did you wound him?”
“Right shoulder.”
“What were you aiming at?”
“Well, you see, he had this apple on his head and I bet him I could shoot it without—”
“We need a description,” he said, interrupting me. Humor is dead. “We’ve had a lot of drug activity in this county. It’s getting dangerous. You could be one of them, drawing us off on a coon hunt while you move drugs from some other place. Happened before.”
I wanted a cup of coffee and a shower. I said, “If I come in, you keep my name out of it and I only meet with you. Nobody else. Deal?”
“Too thin. I want to see you face-to-face without conditions.”
“You must think I’m pretty stupid. You don’t have any bargaining chips. You don’t know me, and I don’t need you or this. My way or no way.”
“Okay,” he said. “Come on in. You only talk to me and you’re out of it.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I said you can. And because this is the first solid lead I’ve had on the drug traffic around here in a while and I’m not gonna stick my pecker in it. Savvy?”
I did. He told me how to get there, and I told him I’d be in as soon as I picked up someone. Chick Easton.
Chick Easton wasn’t at the pl
ace I was to meet him, but I was running a little late. I found him at a saloon across the street called the Silver Spur. “If you don’t find him,” Matt Jenkins had said, “look in the closest bar. He’ll be there.”
That’s where he was, drinking Wild Turkey and chasing it with Budweiser. Drunk. At least, I thought he was. I would be, if the number of bottles and shot glasses was any indication.
“You Easton?” I asked. He fit the description. Slim build with shoulders like a middleweight boxer, forearms like Popeye’s. Couple inches shorter than me, sandy hair, sky-blue eyes, age indeterminate, between thirtysomething and forty-five, like the gun. “Don’t let the skinny hips fool you,” Matt said. “Boy’s strong as a logger.”
“Haven’t seen ’im,” he said, sipping off the whiskey. “You must be the guy Jenks said was coming.”
“I’m Wyatt Storme,” I said. “I’m supposed to take you to Colorado with me.” I looked at him. “He didn’t tell me you were a drunk.”
He laughed. “He didn’t tell me you were Sir Galahad, either. But that’s Matt. He’s not very judgmental. Sit down, I’ll buy you a beer.”
“No thanks,” I said. But I pulled out a chair and sat.
“Wouldn’t hurt you any.”
“Done wonders for you.”
“Thought all you big-time football players were big drinkers.”
“Another myth shattered.”
“Matt didn’t tell me it was you that was coming. I’m honored.”
“You’ll get over it.”
A leggy waitress bustled over. Nice figure, too much makeup, too little covering the nice figure. “Get you something, good-lookin’?”
“You have coffee?” I asked.
“I can make you some.”
“Fine. I take it black.”
“Do you like it slow and easy?” she said, flashing me a smile marred by one crooked tooth, but still nice teeth.
“Just black, thank you,” I said, smiling. She shrugged. I said, “Bring him some coffee, too.”
Easton laughed. “Coffee messes up my alcohol system.” The waitress looked uneasy. “It’s okay,” Chick said to the waitress. “Coffee’s fine.”
“Cream and sugar?”
Easton looked at me, giving me a bent smile. “I want cream ’n’ sugar, daddy?” he asked. I looked back at him. Then he said, “I’ll take mine black, too, like my hero and bestest buddy here. He’s a legitimate American hero, ya know? Caught three touchdown passes in the Super Bowl. Beat the Raiders with the last one. Fucked up the economy. For me, anyway. The Cowboys were a nine-point underdog. I had two bills on the Raiders. You caught that last pass and broke my heart, Storme.” The waitress was looking at me.
“He telling the truth?” she asked. Patted her hair.
“I look like a pro football player to you?”
“Some. Don’t know for sure what one looks like. You’re cute. Got nice shoulders. Could be.” She smiled. Nice-looking working girl.
“He’s drunk,” I said. “Never touched a football in my life.”
She sighed, then shrugged. Left to get the coffee.
“I may drink too much,” Easton said, a big grin on his face. “But I ain’t no liar. What’s the matter? You ashamed of it?”
“No. Doesn’t mean anything, though. Just a game.”
“There’re people who’d disagree with that. Like that waitress. She’s extra deadly. Rodeo beautiful.”
“So, what do you do?” I asked.
“Mostly, I drink,” he said. “Though it isn’t widely known.” When he smiled, little wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. He was going to be difficult to avoid liking. “I show off some. Hire out some.”
“Hire out?”
“Bodyguard. Bounty hunter. Somebody skips with your bail money down, I find ’em, drag ’em back. But I’m only wonderful at it.”
I considered him. He was twenty pounds lighter than me, rangy and lean like a Montana cowboy. Most bodyguards are steroid-bloated freaks with twenty-inch necks and screaming-eagle tattoos, their eyes dark and hooded under thick foreheads. Easton didn’t fit the mold. He seemed too affable, too relaxed. Too drunk. “You don’t look like a bodyguard.”
“I eat fire and shit ice cubes,” he said. “I’m jumping Arnold Schwarzenegger’s wife and he knows it. Chick T. Easton is the name, danger is the game. The T stands for Terrific.” I grinned. Very difficult not to like him. He drained his beer, then asked, “So, what does the man with the best hands in the NFL do when he quits playing games?”
Good question. I was still working on the answer. “Semiretired, more or less. Hunt and fish. Race the moon. You know, you don’t look like a bounty hunter, either.”
“Got a rubber hose, a pair of handcuffs, and an autographed picture of Steve McQueen.” The waitress brought the coffee.
“Thanks,” I said. She smiled. I said, “He says you’re rodeo beautiful.”
She leaned back at the waist and looked at Chick. “Rodeo beautiful? I never heard such a thing. What does it mean?”
Easton stirred his coffee with a swizzle stick that had a little spur on top, looked into the whirlpool he’d made in the coffee, a half-smile on his face. He looked up and said, “Means if I were to bust out the gate with you, darlin’, I’d ride the full eight seconds, jump off, and take a bow.”
She laughed. “You ornery thing.” She slapped him on the shoulder. “You better behave.”
“No offense meant,” he said.
“None taken,” she said. “Just let me know if you need anything.” She smiled at us and walked away.
I sipped my coffee; its warmth spread through me. I was still a little spooked by my encounter in the woods.
He said, “So, why’d you do it? Why’d you quit?”
“I grew up,” I said.
“It’ll happen, unless you’re careful. You were the first white boy since Lance Alworth who could go uptown for it.”
“Meanwhile, babies were born, people went to work at real jobs, got married, sent the kids to school. Me, I was catching footballs. Everybody acting like it gave me significance.”
“Pretty cynical.”
“Sorry. Don’t mean to be. After a while it didn’t mean what it did at first. Money got in the way of the fun. Besides, it’s not exactly real life.”
“Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,” he said, then sipped his coffee. “Or something like that.” He shrugged.
“Well,” I said, “you’re the most lyrical bounty hunter I’ve ever known.”
“Not just another pretty face.”
“Look. I’ve got to run over to the sheriff’s office. Think you can sit here without drinking the place dry and propositioning the waitress with your cracker-barrel wise guy routine?”
“Too much temptation. Besides, I need to go with you. Check wanted posters like us bounty hunters do. See if anybody’s wanted—dead or alive. The dead ones are easier to catch.”
“My truck’s parked in back,” I said.
“Good. I’ll drive. I’m in no condition to be walking.”
It was 6:30. We stepped over red-and-white Budweiser cans and broken pavement, grass peeking through the concrete like the last hairs on a balding man’s head. Twilight swallowed the opaque light from the sun, which was an angry orange blister on the western horizon. Easton smelled of cigarettes and whiskey, yet his gait was sure and his step had a spring to it.
We turned the corner and saw the Bronco. Three men leaned against it. They were laughing roughly and sharing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a six-pack of Olympia on top of the hood. I thought I heard Easton chuckle low in his chest. I didn’t see anything funny.
“What’s up, guys?” I said. I didn’t want trouble, just my vehicle. They were in their late twenties. Cowboy boots and baseball caps with seed company names on the crown. One of the hats said Shit Happens! Perfect.
They leaned against the Bronco, passing the bottle around, tilting it to their lips, the
n wiping their mouths on their sleeves. I felt very tired. The only other car in the lot was an aging copper-colored Mark IV with a torn vinyl roof, its glory days a memory. Two of the men were over six feet tall—one slender and one much heavier than the others, looked to go about 260. The heavy guy had a full beard like Charlie Daniels. Didn’t look like a fiddle player, though. Mr. Shit Happens was a small, ferretlike guy with a three-day-old beard. Been watching Miami Vice reruns.
“Evenin’,” said the third man, a lean cowboy with a long jawline. “This your car, boy?”
Two tours of Indochina, seven years in the NFL, and I’m still a boy. Oh, well. Dignity in the face of ignorance is difficult, but attainable. I nodded. Smiled. I was saving my searing Clint Eastwood squint.
“Nice ride,” said the fat guy.
“Hope you don’t mind us using it,” said Shit Happens, leaning against the door. “Not that we give a big shit.” Since he was so incredibly witty, they all laughed. Guffawed, in fact. If there is anything I hate, it’s being guffawed at by people with room temperature IQs.
I tried to get around the ferret to open the door. “Excuse me,” I said, trying for affable. He didn’t move. Odd. My affable is generally infallible. Must’ve had a hole in his upbringing. “May I get in my truck?”
“When we’re done,” he said, hooking a thumb in a belt loop and passing the whiskey bottle to Jawline.
I exhaled through my mouth. Rubbed my face with a hand. “Well,” I said, low, to Easton, “I’ve heard you talk and I know you can drink, but now I could use some of that Terrific stuff.”
“Showtime,” he said. Cleared his throat. Smiled. “Fellas. We don’t want to interrupt the fun. Just want to take the truck. We’re late for piano lessons. No problems, huh?”
Half the whiskey was gone. Enough distilled courage to keep them from moving. Local toughs. Probably roughed up drunks once in a while. Terrorized the college kids. Something to brag about on the night shift at the canning factory. Jawline looked the toughest of the three, though Fatbeard would be the hardest to put down. Jawline was lean, flinty—a couple yards of angles and bones. He unfolded his arms and eyed Chick. Ferret Face leaned nonchalantly against the truck, a nasty smile on his face. He was the least of our worries unless he was radioactive.
