dontravis.com blog post #652
Dear Readers:
Even though I am personally "hanging it up," my mantra remains my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it!
Please don't forget my BJ Vinson murder mystery series published by Dreamspinner Press.
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Email: don.travis@aol.com
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Goodbye.
Don
dontravis.com blog post #652
Our
last episode ended with Bobolink Marco to his idol’s home with the clear intent
of having sex with him. Would it end well, or would shame and mortification set
in. Let’s find out.
****
NEVEREND
I parked alongside Marco’s Camaro
in the driveway and got out. My resolve—faltering until then—strengthened under
his brilliant smile. As I stood waiting for him to key the front door, I felt
as if the entire neighborhood watched from behind closed blinds and knew
exactly what we were up to.
Once the door closed behind
us, Marco turned and pulled me into his embrace. The kiss surprised me… I
didn’t know men kissed. But I liked it. Felt it… probably more than with my
last girl.
He pulled away, still clasping
me in his arms. “Any second thoughts?”
“After that?” I asked, panting
slightly.
He pulled out hips together.
“Guess not, from what I feel down there. What say we go to the bedroom and take
a good look at one another.”
Hip to hip, arms slung around
our shoulders, we made our way upstairs to his bedroom. As dazzled as I was, I
couldn’t help but notice the house, the place where he lived. His core, his
den… his lair.
Attractive overstuffed couch,
sleek, modern matching recliners. Good art on the walls, a blend of old
European figures, attractive landscapes, and not-too-far-out modern. But once
through the threshold of his bedroom, all that went away. To this day, I
couldn’t tell you the color of his duvet. He moved behind me, pressing himself
against my buns, and began a long, slow inventory of my parts with his
sensitive hands. Each touch was more erotic than the other until he reached my
crotch. When he held me in both hands, my legs went weak, and I was near to
fainting.
“Nice,” he murmured as he
nibbled at my ear. My ear loved it.
His fingers unbuttoned my
shirt, then explored my chest sensually. I thought he’d never get to my
trousers, but an eon later, he fumbled with my belt buckle. I was lost. No one
had ever touched me, explored me, measured me in such a manner.
After he pushed me naked onto
the bed, he performed his own strip tease, almost driving me wild. Finally he
settled on the bed beside me and spoke.
“You are one sexy man.”
God! I couldn’t possibly hold
a candle to him. No hint of hair on the chest, wisps peeking from his armpits
at times. A black thread beginning below the navel that wandered south before
blooming into a lush black bush. A throbbing—
He interrupted my inventory by
rolling atop me. “You ready for this?”
Unable to speak, I nodded.
“Then here we go.”
He took control. I was his
slave, his helot… his pin cushion to penetrate as he wished. I was lost to time
and space, existing only in sensations, some painful, some exquisite, some
painfully exquisite… and some merely overpowering. He achieved release and
continued without pause. I achieved my own volcanic detonation only once, when
he came deep inside me.
Never had I experienced
anything remotely close to the experience.
Still lying across my back, he
dropped his head onto the back of mine and fought for breath.
“Well? H-how was it?”
I clasp the arms enfolding my
neck. “Like nothing else.”
“How do you feel?”
“Exhaused, enervated. Like
coming off a high.”
“No regrets.”
“No! None. Well, maybe.”
“What?”
“I wish it would never end.”
“Doesn’t have to.”
I turned beneath his weight,
and we lay belly to belly. “Do you mean it?”
His grin almost cost me my
senses. “Absolutely. I’ve been watching you… wanting you all semester. I was
almost hundred percent sure you were who I wanted.” He planted a quick peck on
my nose and continued. “And after that demonstration, the almost went
away. I’m sure. I want you to move in with me.”
I thought my heart was
failing. My hearing gone. But he was sincere. I moved out of the dorm that very
afternoon and felt as if I were home. He was unstinting with his generosity and
unfailing with his attention. I had achieved Neverend.
****
The year passed rapidly… far
too quickly. The most glorious year of my young life. I graduated and took a
job in an art gallery where I learned about selling art, not just creating it.
As a part of the deal, the gallery featured my work, so I accumulated some
commercial success, as well.
But the most wonderful part
was Marco. Beautiful, sensual, athletic Marco. He was perfect for me, as I
hoped I was for him. Neither of us could go out in public without being hit on…
by members of either sex. But he was all I wanted; no other man nor woman held
any interest for me beyond merely social.
I think I sensed a change in
our thirteenth month. A young, sandy-haired engineering student from our alma
mater began showing up in too many of our social engagements then. A fortnight
later he—Glendon Marx was his name—frequently visited our home. At first with
others, and then alone. Soon, instead of Marco and Bobolink, it became the two
of us and Glendon. It was always Glendon, never Glen.
Frankly, I liked the kid, so I
didn’t become alarmed until too late. First, I came home from the gallery and
found them in the den having drinks together. Then it was in the pool where Glendon’s
fair skin played well against Marco’s Mediterranean tan. My lover did
free-lance advertising, and worked from an office in our home.
Of course, my suspicions rose,
but surely Marco, who was as attentive and athletic as ever in private, would
never jeopardize our Neverend. Still, as Glendon remained ever underfoot, I
couldn’t contain my jealousy. At work, I imagined all sorts of shenanigans
going on. Yet Marco was as attentive and energetic as ever, which undermined my
building doubts.
****
I fought my devils until I
could no longer fend them off. I feigned illness one day—only half false since
I was worrying myself sick—and left work early one afternoon. Glendon’s red
Ford coupe was in our driveway, alerting me to his presence. No surprise. That
was what I expected.
Entering the house as quietly
as possible, I found no one in the den… or in Marco’s office. No one in the
pool. I glanced upward. The bedrooms? Only place left.
I went up the stairs, avoiding
the squeaky step near the top of the flight and paused. Then I heard it.
Glendon’s sharp gasp and then a moan, then something that sounded suspiciously
like, “Oh, Marco!”
Walking down the hall, I
entered our bedroom’s open door to a sight I will never forget. A naked Marco
lay atop an equally naked Glendon, his strong legs wrapped around Marco’s trim
hips as my lover thrust against him.
Unobserved, I backed out of
the room and returned to Marco’s office where I took the pistol he customarily
kept in his right hand desk drawer and started back up the stairs, pausing only
when I heard shouts of exhilaration. They had climaxed. Glendon held semen that
was by rights mine alone. He had stolen from me.
When I entered the room, both
were startled, but neither seemed nonplussed. Marco gave one of his slow,
tremendously sexy smiles and spoke in his throaty baritone.
“Come join us, Bobolink. I’m
sure your presence will revive us. I’ll bet we make one hell of a sandwich.”
Had he not spoken, I’m not
sure what would have happened. If Glendon’s features hadn’t held such a look of
triumph, perhaps I’d have walked away. But I didn’t. I raised the pistol from
behind my legs and pointed it at Marco’s broad, sexy chest before pulling the
trigger. He merely looked astounded.
Glendon managed to get out of
bed and head for the bathroom before I shot him in the back of the head.
Then I put the barrel in my
mouth and pulled the trigger again. A click and a nothing. It either jammed or held
only two bullets. I sank to a sitting position on the floor and alternately studied
my hands and the little steel revolver until I heard the front door crash open
and heavy footsteps on the stairs. The nosy next-door neighbor must have heard
gunfire and called the cops. No matter. Neverend was gone now. Shattered.
Destroyed.
****
I turned from the gray
concrete wall and looked through the black, iron bars of my cell. Marveling at
the strange calmness that claimed me, I wondered if it would endure when they
finally came to deliver the final Neverend to my life. And would I still hold
the image of Marco’s broad back as he plunged into Glendon’s fair flesh and
eternally wrestle with the question of whether it was monstrous or erogenous
Looks as
though all of Bobolink’s supposed Neverends failed him. But this final one
might just be the one that holds. Not all stories end happily.
dontravis.com blog post #651
Last
week, we met Bobolink and Marco, just as they met one another. Bobolink was
knocked off his feet. But how did Marco feel about their meeting. He seemed
interesting in making a new friend.
Let’s see what develops in this second installment.
NEVEREND
The Saturday I first played
tennis with Marco was the most perfect day of my life. I had to scramble, but I
was a match for him on the court when I could refrain from watching him rather
than the ball.
Afterward, we showered
side-by-side in the school locker room, and my eyes feasted on his fantastic
naked form. Hiding my unintended erection at times became a problem, but if he
noticed, he gave no sign.
After what-should-have-been a
routine cleansing of the flesh—but was actually an exciting event of overwhelming
intimacy, at least for me—we stopped for a drink at a local tavern and freely
shared our past lives. I had never revealed so many petty confessions to any
soul before, and found it not only liberating, but also titillating.
Upon leaving the bar on the
way to our cars, he paused, threw an arm over my shoulders, and took a moment
to comment on the monstrous moon hovering in the sky. At that moment, I would
have done anything for him… anything at all. But we merely proceeded to our
cars, told one another how much we enjoyed the day and departed.
But not before he poked my
chest with a forefinger and arched his eyebrow. “Next Saturday, same time.
Date?”
I probably looked like an
idiot with my head flapping so hard.
****
We saw one another regularly
after that, not just on Saturday for tennis, but other times, as well. For me,
it meant falling deeper into love. For Marco, probably just an easy friendship.
During our first Saturday confession, he’d warned that he made casual relations
easily, but had trouble holding onto them over time.
Two months passed before the
true nature of things changed between us. I remember it clearly. The school
year was coming to an end, and I was desperately trying to figure how to hold
onto our friendship. My anxiety must have been obvious.
As we sat in the tavern for an
after-dinner beer—we’d both had the bistro’s famous corned beef on rye with
German potato salad—he put down his glass and touched my arm.
“Why so down, Bobolink?” The
nickname sounded beautiful when he said it.
“Graduation’s coming up.
And….” I swallowed hard. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to a friendship
that’s become important to me.”
“I’ve been thinking on that
too. Never had anyone worm his way into my heart the way you have. I’ll be
walking down the sidewalk and spot someone across the quadrangle and wonder if
it’s my handsome friend, Bobolink? Then I’ll see it’s only some guy, and feel
disappointment in my gut.”
“You… you do that too?”
“All the time. You’ve become
important to me, my friend. That’s why it’s so hard for me to do what comes
next.”
My heart dropped into my
stomach. He was calling it quits! “Which is?” I managed to say without
stuttering.
“I’m about to risk our
friendship by asking….”
“Wh-what?” I said through a
dry throat.”
“Would you go to bed with me?
I’ve never met a man before who makes me think of sex every time I see him. Never
known anyone who makes me lie in bed after one of our dates—yeah, that’s the
way I think of them—and ache for him.” He dropped his eyes to the table. “Sorry
if that turns you off, but… well, that’s the way it is for me.”
Ignoring everyone else in the
tavern, I laid my hand atop his on the table. “Turn me off? It sets me on fire.
I couldn’t stand up right now without embarrassing you and everyone else in the
joint.”
He turned his hand over and
gripped mine. “Do you mean it?”
I nodded.
“Are you experienced? Know
what you’re saying?”
I shook my head just as hard.
“Never been with man or boy in all my life. But I’ve lain awake just like you
have trying to imagine it. For months now.”
Marco’s sudden smile died.
“That’s good news, and that’s bad news.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some guys, for one reason or
the other, get attracted to someone of their own sex. When they give in and try
it out, they come away feeling ashamed of what they’ve done. Mortified. They
can’t stand to be around the guy they once idolized because it reminds them of
their supposed weakness.”
I met his big, sultry eyes. “Have
you… uh, done it with guys? Has that happened to you?”
He met my stared. “Yeah. I’ve
had sex with men. And to be honest, the first time I felt exactly that way and
avoided the guy from then on.” He rested his chin in a palm. “I think it was
because I was so young. Only sixteen. He was older, twenty or so. He knew what
he wanted, I didn’t. And I was more religious back then and considered it to be
a sin.”
“You don’t now?”
He shook his handsome head,
the shadows of the semidarkness playing over the planes and angles of his face.
“The next time I was eighteen. And I knew what I wanted from the kid—who was my
own age. I handled it fine. So did he.”
“Eighteen. That was only two
years ago.”
He nodded. “What do you say?
Wanna risk it?”
“I swallowed hard to moisten
my arid throat. “Y… yes.”
“Your place or mine?”
“Yours, I’ve got a roommate,
remember?”
I’ll never forget how unsteady
I was when I stood and got out of the booth. The slow, languid way we moved
into the night. The glorious display of the moon almost swamped the dazzling display
of stars. A sudden, frightening thought caused me to miss a step. Was this the
end of Neverend… or the reaffirmation of it?
“What’s the matter,” Marco
asked, reaching out to grasp my hand. “Have you changed your mind?”
“No,” I said firmly.
As I followed Marco’s
taillights down the road toward his off-campus apartment, the drive seemed
interminable.
So Bobolink’s
on the way to his first man on man sexual encounter. Is he prepared for it?
Were you? How did yours work out. The way you anticipated? Better? Worse?
Measure your reaction against his next week.
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it.
Check out the BJ Vinson stable of books at Dreamspinnerpress.com. The Zozobra Incident, The Bisti Business, and all the others are there waiting for you. If you've read them, tell a friend, leave a comment on Amazon.
My personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
X: @dontravis3
See you next time.
Don
New posts on the second and fourth Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.
dontravis.com blog post #650
This
is my first post after switching from a weekly post to posts on the second and
fourth Thursday of each month. Hope you forgive me for weakening after something
over twelve years.
For
such an auspicious undertaking, I’m doing a three-part story about an unsettled
young man bearing the nickname of Bobolink. I hope you get involved in his
story.
NEVEREND
I stared at the gray concrete
wall and recalled a scene from my childhood. My twelfth year, probably, since
we were still on the farm, likely early summer. I’d been rocking in Granddad’s
chair on the front porch after chores were done but before being called for
supper. Evening was coming on fast with the sun putting on a dazzling show to
the west, featuring reds and yellows and a touch of violet. Old Sol knew how to
make an exit. Didn’t do bad at entrances either.
“What’cha thinking, Bobolink?”
I had shifted my gaze from the
sun’s display and glanced at my little sister. “Just wishin’ this would never end.”
She clutched her Raggedy Ann
doll to her chest and spoke with ten-year-old wisdom. “According to Ma, Neverend
isn’t real. Something’s always changing.”
My sigh likely signaled
acceptance of that fact, as well as my regret. “Yeah, but don’t you sometimes
wish you could stop everything and get off right here? Like that sunset? It ought to never end.”
She shook her head so hard her
blonde curls scrubbed her shoulders. “Don’t be silly. The crops wouldn’t grow. And
you couldn’t go down to the swimming hole. Don’t you want to get out of school
and grow up and have girlfriends and get married.”
“Sometimes. But sometimes not.”
“I do. I can hardly wait. I
want a handsome boyfriend and an even handsomer husband someday. It’ll be
heaven.”
“Are Mom and Dad in heaven?” I
asked, thinking of how hard they worked and how tired the seemed at night.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I said.
As usual, Cheryl Ann Link, did
just that… paid no mind. Cherry—that’s what the family called her, she was
Cheryl Ann to the rest of the world—lived in children’s books she got from the
town library. They always seemed to point to the future. Me, I didn’t see
anything wrong with going fishing with Dad or squirrel hunting with my brother
or arrowhead hunting with my buds now. Pretty uncomplicated. Not like making a
living or raising kids. Don’t get me wrong. Living on a farm meant plenty of
work—hard work. But you could see the results growing right before your eyes.
If Cheryl Ann was Cherry, I
was Bobolink. Easy enough to figure. My name was Robert so Bob Link became
Bobolink. Trouble was, it wasn’t just a cutesy name restricted to the family
but shared by the whole world. If somebody yelled Bob, I probably wouldn’t even
react.
I don’t know why that memory
popped into my head at the moment, but it was a pretty good jumping off place
for the way life rolled out in front of me over the next few years. Neverend,
of course, never appeared. One day succeeded another and this week became last
week, and the months and years passed as they were intended. Cherry graduated
from high school then college, became a civil engineer, and married that
handsome husband she’d always dreamed of.
Me? Well, I held onto Neverend
until I couldn’t any longer. My college career was a bit more tortured than
Cherry’s. I kept making inappropriate friends who led me into situations that
always seemed to involve trouble. Is that a cop-out? Probably. A guy goes into
situations with his eyes wide open, doesn’t he? Might get fooled once or twice,
but half a dozen times? That means he contributed to his own problems, doesn’t
it? Definitely.
So we’ve arrived at what I
tried not to say. I’m either a rebel by nature or else a willing patsy. As sad
as it sounds, I hope it’s the latter.
Neverend seemed as if it might
have returned to my life when I started bumming around with Marco Roselli my
senior year in college… where I was an art student, by the way. Possibly not
the best way to make a living, but after years of changing majors, it was
something I became passionate about.
That and Marco Roselli.
It didn’t start out that way. In
fact, it wouldn’t have gone that way if Marco hadn’t been Marco. I met him at a
Frat party where, as a transfer to State, he was joining our chapter of the
Greek organization. I’d never seen anyone like him. Never been interested in
anyone like him, in fact. I’d had girlfriends in high school. I’ll swear I
never had a gay thought in my head until I laid eyes on him.
I’d never seen a beautiful man
before. Handsome, yeah. Buff, sure. Even sexy, I suppose, but Marco’s curly
black hair, large brown eyes, tapered torso… oh, I could go on forever
describing this modern Adonis, but you get the idea. I was smitten. Smacked
hard in the back of the head.
And miracle of miracles, he
seemed to like me. Found time to disengage from admirers at the party that
night to cross the room to speak to me at the table holding the doctored punch
I’ll never forget his first words to me.
“Hi, I’m Marco Roselli. Been
watching you.”
I managed to get out some
words that made sense. “You have? Why?”
His grin almost robbed my
knees of strength to hold me aloft. “You’re not like these other guys. You
know, Hail fellow, well met. You ration your friendship. Give it to those who
deserve it, not dole it out to everyone.”
That was a new take for me,
but I went along with it. “Not exactly the way to create a network for success.”
It’s noisy in here. Let’s go
out on the patio, okay?”
“Sure.”
I watched him as he led me
through the French doors into the cool night. There were others on the big,
covered patio, but at least you didn’t have to shout to be heard. He leaned a
trim hip against a post and set his drink on the banister.
“I’m taking a guess here, but
you don’t come from money. You worked to save for school and earned a
scholarship—academic, not athletic. Right so far?”
I nodded, preferring to look
rather than speak. I’ve seen beautiful girls that were pleasant to look at, but
after a while, their perfection became boring. Marco’s features were irregular,
but put together in a totally fascinating way. I could have gazed at him for
days without getting tired of it. The abrupt, athletic way he moved, his
throaty voice touched me deep down inside.
“So you’re not a business
major,” he continued. “Something ethereal. Creative. A painter.” He reached out
and squeezed my bicep. “No, a sculptor. You don’t get a build like that from
lifting paint brushes.”
I laughed, pleased and
flattered he was spending his time talking about me. “No, but you do if you go
to the gym after lifting those heavy brushes laden with globs of weighty oils.”
“Aha, an artist. Well, I was
close. It was that hunky body that deceived me.”
“Never been called hunky
before.”
“Oh, yes. You have. Not to
your face, perhaps, but men and women both have remarked on your form. You’re
quite handsome, you know.”
I felt my face glow, relieving
the darkness at this end of the porch.
“I’ve embarrassed you. Sorry,
wasn’t my intention.”
I managed a shrug. “It’s okay.
I’m not used to being the center of attention.”
“You should be. Do you play
tennis?”
I nodded. “My one sport. Do
okay. Not great, but I make a competition out of it.”
“Great. You have Saturday
classes?”
I shook my head.
“Neither do I. Meet you at
nine on the courts.”
“Sure. Like to.”
Bobolink! We’ve
all known people like him. Self-contained, introverted, awkward at making new
acquaintances, and often stumbling over their efforts… and ending up making
trouble. You might even be one of those people, as well. If you are one or know
one, stick with me for the second half of this story.
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it!
Don't forget to remind your friends of my BJ Vinson murder mystery series. And if you haven't read all seven books, get your rear in gear. The first is The Zozobra Incident.
My personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
X: 2dontravis3
See you next time.
Don
New posts on the second and fourth Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.
dontravis.com blog post #649
Image Courtesy of Pinterest:
Bart
Shortlance is chasing one of the killers south toward the Mexican border. It’s
a rough and dangerous ride on the backroads of southern New Mexico. Will he
prevail?
NOTICE:
Dear readers, after twelve and one-half years of writing a weekly post, life has
caught up with me. Beginning with the next post, I will blog on the second and fourth
Thursday of each month at 5:00 a.m., US Mountain Time. Thanks for sticking with
me.
****
BEARCLAW
SUMMONS (Part 8-Finale))
The three of them
spent another hour working out a plan before Bart drove Jack back to the
reservation so the fat man could organize his end of the plan. Then Bart went home
to pack an overnight bag. It was after six when he rang the doorbell to Mark’s
apartment.
The lawyer invited
him inside to make himself comfortable. “Nothing’s likely to happen tonight,
although we have to be ready for it if it does. But tomorrow, if the blood
turns out the right type, we might get a little action. You think Big Jack’s
got his end covered?”
“You can count on
it.”
They ate
hamburgers from a drive‑in down the street and settled into a childhood
pastime, playing chess. They were well matched. Each had to concentrate to hold
his own against the other. The first game was hard fought. Their attention
wandered in the second, and the third was mechanically played as they talked.
“How’s Willy’s
family taking things?” Mark asked during a lull.
“Living from day
to day. Not knowing for sure is hard on them.”
“There’s
absolutely no doubt in my mind what happened to Willy. They killed him, Bart.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “This whole thing’s hard for me to
understand. Here’s a guy who minded his own business, went to work every day,
and had a tremendous talent as an artist.
He’s here one day doing just great, then the next day he’s in trouble
for no good reason, and then he’s dead. I can’t help asking myself why?”
Bart shrugged, a
gesture he often used to save words. “Some people on the reservation will take
a look at what happened and say Willy was trying too hard to be a white man and
this was what happens when Indians try to play white. They’ll point it out to
their young people and say, ‘watch out you don’t get caught in the same trap.’
Don’t think for a minute it hasn’t already been said in half a hundred houses,
tents, tipis, and wickiups.”
“God, that’s
awful! You’re saying this is a racist thing.”
“What else? Burke
and Avila saw a sap they could trick and bully. He also happened to be an
Indian, and that was good because nobody gives a shit about what happens to
them. Even if he tries to defend himself, nobody’s going to listen. They
probably just wanted him to haul out rifles for them, but when he bucked and
they smelled trouble, he was the perfect patsy. Probably got the surprise of
their lives when he got himself a lawyer, a white lawyer who belongs to the
inside crowd. Things were getting out of hand fast. This redskin wasn’t lying
down and taking his medicine like he ought to. Okay, things can still be
salvaged. Just get rid of the poor sap. Nobody’s going to knock his head
against a wall over an Indian who showed his true colors and ran when the going
got rough.”
“That is the way a
lot of people will see it, isn’t it?” Mark thought for a moment. “Then by God,
let’s make sure they see it the way it really is.”
“You’ll have to be
the one. Jack and I will do everything we can, but you’re the only one who can
show the world what’s going on.”
Mark tipped over
his king, signaling surrender. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll do my best,
Bart.”
****
Accustomed to
rising early, Bart had eaten and was sipping a second cup of coffee before Mark
stirred. He was finishing the morning paper when the lawyer came in for his
first cup. Bart reluctantly agreed to stay at the apartment while Mark went to
the office so he would be near the phone in case it should ring. It did, twice.
Each time Mark was on the other end, first to let him know that the lab
said the blood was human, type O Negative and then to ask if there was any word
from Big Jack Bearclaw. The rest of the time Bart read, tried to watch TV, and
finally ended up pacing the small apartment talking to himself to keep from
going stir crazy. He was not used to being penned up in a room. He was an outdoorsman.
The moment Mark returned around five‑thirty, Bart bolted from the apartment
house and took a two‑mile run to calm his ragged nerves. Mark was waiting
patiently when he got back.
“You shot out of
here like a house‑broke puppy shut up inside all day.”
“My need was about
that urgent,” Bart answered. “Thought I was going to flip out before you got
here. What happened today?”
“Most of it you
know already. The blood was the right kind. Don’t know about the tires yet, but
somehow the rumor got out that they match Avila’s van. Damndest place for
rumors you ever saw.”
Ro laughed. “So
tonight might see some action?”
“Could be. Is the Jeep
gassed up?”
“Yep. Let’s eat
and get ready.”
“What did you
fix?”
“Fix? Me?” Bart
asked in astonishment.
“Hell, you were
home all day. Doesn’t the housewife usually fix dinner?”
“Has anyone ever
told you that you’re an asshole?”
“Does that mean no
dinner?”
“Exactly. Does
that mean hamburgers again tonight?”
“Exactly!”
“Shit! We’re going
to break out in pimples like teenagers.”
****
The call came
around two in the morning. Bart picked up the phone on the first ring. Big Jack
spoke in his ear. Bart listened a minute, then told the man he was on the way.
Mark came into the
room rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Was that it?”
“Yep. You were
right. He ran.”
“Who’s on his
tail?”
“Big Jack and one
of his nephews. I’d better get a move on.” Bart began pulling on his clothes.
“We don’t want them getting out of range of the radio.”
“Which way did he
go?”
“South.”
“Mexico.”
“That’s Avila’s
reservation, I guess. You going to call the law?”
“Yes, but I’m in
no hurry. I want it plain he’s planning to leave the state. He can’t do that,
not even supposed to leave the area, but I want him clearly in violation of his
bond. You keep in touch, so I’ll know what’s happening.”
Ro no sooner
reached the Jeep than the radio crackled. He almost laughed at Big Jack’s
voice. The man was self‑conscious about talking over the foreign instrument.
“Bart? You there?
Goddammit! Uh, let’s see. J‑Bar‑C Two, can you hear me?”
“I read you, Jack.
What’s going on? Over.”
“This guy’s going
like a calf on the prod. You ain’t never going to catch up with us. He don’t
seem to care if a cop catches him or not.”
“Okay. Be back
with you in a minute. Over and out.” Bart ran back into the apartment house and
beat on Mark’s door. Mark opened it instantly. “He’s running fast, Big Jack
says. Breaking the speed limit like he’s got no worries about patrol cars. Jack
says I’ll never catch up with them.”
“Fuck!” Mark beat
a fist against the jamb. “He must really be scared. Any sane man would go at a
nice slow pace. He’s panicked. Wait! A helicopter! You can catch him in a bird.
You head to the airfield. I’ll get Jim Hudson over there pronto. You have a
chance that way.”
****
The helicopter
pilot, who lived near the airport, was already warming up the whirlybird by the
time Bart arrived. He was, however, not in the best of spirits. He seemed to
resent being awakened at two‑thirty in the morning to participate in somebody
else’s goose chase.
Bart thought he
was going to lose his stomach when the machine took off, but he overcame the
nausea. Donning the headset as instructed, he told the pilot what they were up
to. He was disappointed that the helicopter radio did not have CB bands, but he
had already warned Big Jack that he was coming by helicopter. They overtook the
two speeding vehicles easily enough. There was no mistaking them even in the
darkness. The van led Big Jack by about a quarter of a mile. At first, the
pilot was reluctant to set the copter down in unfamiliar terrain, but he took
advantage of the lights of a closed filling station at some wide spot in the road
to drop rapidly to the ground. Bart about lost his meal again, but avoided
disgracing himself. The Avila vehicle had already whizzed through. Big Jack saw
them and had his nephew pull over. Bart unceremoniously dumped the protesting
youngster out of the truck and sprayed him with gravel as he got the pickup
back on the highway. They soon spotted the van’s taillights in the distance.
They gained steadily. Suddenly, the brake lights flashed as the vehicle turned
off the highway.
“Damn!” Bart
swore. “He spotted us.”
“Be a blind son of
a bitch if he didn’t. Probably saw the lights when the helicopter landed too.”
Bart slapped the
wheel. “He’s not headed for El Paso. He’s taking the back country to Mexico.
Shit! The law’s going to be waiting in the wrong place.”
“Can you reach
that lawyer on the radio?”
“Out of range, but
I’m going to try to raise somebody. You get out and start trying to catch a
ride.” Jack looked pained. It was pitch black, and they had not passed a car on
the Road for a considerable stretch. “I’ll work the radio and get somebody to
pick you up. But just in case I don’t raise anybody, you’ve got to get back to
that service station and phone Mark.”
Jack’s mouth fell
open. “That’s ten miles back!”
Ro braked hard.
“Yeah, and I’m hauling you in the wrong direction.”
Big Jack looked
doubtful about the whole venture, but he obediently grunted his way out of the
truck. Bart took off again. As soon as he maneuvered the turn onto the sideroad,
he managed to raise a northbound trucker about six miles south of him who
agreed to pick up Big Jack and get him to a telephone. In the meantime, the man
would try to raise a state cop in the area.
The van was
traveling too fast for the road conditions. Bart was able to anticipate some of
the worst jolts by keeping an eye on the lights of the other vehicle, but even
so he wondered how long the van could take the punishment the rutted dirt Road
was dishing out. Abruptly, the relatively good stretch played out. Avila’s
headlights went crazy, shooting up into the black sky, disappearing into the
ground, and wagging from side to side. Bart was reminded of a mischievous child
playing with a flashlight.
I had faith in
Bart in catching the fleeing crook, and equal faith in Mark Charles in seeing
that justice was done in the white man’s court system. Everything came out as
well as could be expected, as Bart says, “under the circumstances.”
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!
Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident.
My personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
X: @dontravis3
See you next time.
Don
New posts on the second and fourth Thursday of each month at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain Time.
dontravis.com blog post #648
Accepting
that the disappeared Willy Spurs is dead, Bart Shortlance, Mark Charles, and
Big Jack Bearclaw go about planning justice for the young Apache artist.
****
BEARCLAW
SUMMONS (Part 7)
The three of them
spent another hour working out a plan before Bart drove Jack back to the
reservation so the fat man could organize his end of the plan. Then Bart went home
to pack an overnight bag. It was after six when he rang the doorbell to Mark’s
apartment.
The lawyer invited
him inside to make himself comfortable. “Nothing’s likely to happen tonight,
although we have to be ready for it if it does. But tomorrow, if the blood
turns out the right type, we might get a little action. You think Big Jack’s
got his end covered?”
“You can count on
it.”
They ate
hamburgers from a drive‑in down the street and settled into a childhood
pastime, playing chess. They were well matched. Each had to concentrate to hold
his own against the other. The first game was hard fought. Their attention
wandered in the second, and the third was mechanically played as they talked.
“How’s Willy’s
family taking things?” Mark asked during a lull.
“Living from day
to day. Not knowing for sure is hard on them.”
“There’s
absolutely no doubt in my mind what happened to Willy. They killed him, Bart.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “This whole thing’s hard for me to
understand. Here’s a guy who minded his own business, went to work every day,
and had a tremendous talent as an artist.
He’s here one day doing just great, then the next day he’s in trouble
for no good reason, and then he’s dead. I can’t help asking myself why?”
Bart shrugged, a
gesture he often used to save words. “Some people on the reservation will take
a look at what happened and say Willy was trying too hard to be a white man and
this was what happens when Indians try to play white. They’ll point it out to
their young people and say, ‘watch out you don’t get caught in the same trap.’
Don’t think for a minute it hasn’t already been said in half a hundred houses,
tents, tipis, and wickiups.”
“God, that’s
awful! You’re saying this is a racist thing.”
“What else? Burke
and Avila saw a sap they could trick and bully. He also happened to be an
Indian, and that was good because nobody gives a shit about what happens to
them. Even if he tries to defend himself, nobody’s going to listen. They
probably just wanted him to haul out rifles for them, but when he bucked and
they smelled trouble, he was the perfect patsy. Probably got the surprise of
their lives when he got himself a lawyer, a white lawyer who belongs to the
inside crowd. Things were getting out of hand fast. This redskin wasn’t lying
down and taking his medicine like he ought to. Okay, things can still be
salvaged. Just get rid of the poor sap. Nobody’s going to knock his head
against a wall over an Indian who showed his true colors and ran when the going
got rough.”
“That is the way a
lot of people will see it, isn’t it?” Mark thought for a moment. “Then by God,
let’s make sure they see it the way it really is.”
“You’ll have to be
the one. Jack and I will do everything we can, but you’re the only one who can
show the world what’s going on.”
Mark tipped over
his king, signaling surrender. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll do my best,
Bart.”
****
Accustomed to
rising early, Bart had eaten and was sipping a second cup of coffee before Mark
stirred. He was finishing the morning paper when the lawyer came in for his
first cup. Bart reluctantly agreed to stay at the apartment while Mark went to
the office so he would be near the phone in case it should ring. It did, twice.
Each time Mark was on the other end, first to let him know that the lab
said the blood was human, type O Negative and then to ask if there was any word
from Big Jack Bearclaw. The rest of the time Bart read, tried to watch TV, and
finally ended up pacing the small apartment talking to himself to keep from
going stir crazy. He was not used to being penned up in a room. He was an outdoorsman.
The moment Mark returned around five‑thirty, Bart bolted from the apartment
house and took a two‑mile run to calm his ragged nerves. Mark was waiting
patiently when he got back.
“You shot out of
here like a house‑broke puppy shut up inside all day.”
“My need was about
that urgent,” Bart answered. “Thought I was going to flip out before you got
here. What happened today?”
“Most of it you
know already. The blood was the right kind. Don’t know about the tires yet, but
somehow the rumor got out that they match Avila’s van. Damndest place for
rumors you ever saw.”
Ro laughed. “So
tonight might see some action?”
“Could be. Is the Jeep
gassed up?”
“Yep. Let’s eat
and get ready.”
“What did you
fix?”
“Fix? Me?” Bart
asked in astonishment.
“Hell, you were
home all day. Doesn’t the housewife usually fix dinner?”
“Has anyone ever
told you that you’re an asshole?”
“Does that mean no
dinner?”
“Exactly. Does
that mean hamburgers again tonight?”
“Exactly!”
“Shit! We’re going
to break out in pimples like teenagers.”
****
The call came
around two in the morning. Bart picked up the phone on the first ring. Big Jack
spoke in his ear. Bart listened a minute, then told the man he was on the way.
Mark came into the
room rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Was that it?”
“Yep. You were
right. He ran.”
“Who’s on his
tail?”
“Big Jack and one
of his nephews. I’d better get a move on.” Bart began pulling on his clothes.
“We don’t want them getting out of range of the radio.”
“Which way did he
go?”
“South.”
“Mexico.”
“That’s Avila’s
reservation, I guess. You going to call the law?”
“Yes, but I’m in
no hurry. I want it plain he’s planning to leave the state. He can’t do that,
not even supposed to leave the area, but I want him clearly in violation of his
bond. You keep in touch, so I’ll know what’s happening.”
Ro no sooner
reached the Jeep than the radio crackled. He almost laughed at Big Jack’s
voice. The man was self‑conscious about talking over the foreign instrument.
“Bart? You there?
Goddammit! Uh, let’s see. J‑Bar‑C Two, can you hear me?”
“I read you, Jack.
What’s going on? Over.”
“This guy’s going
like a calf on the prod. You ain’t never going to catch up with us. He don’t
seem to care if a cop catches him or not.”
“Okay. Be back
with you in a minute. Over and out.” Bart ran back into the apartment house and
beat on Mark’s door. Mark opened it instantly. “He’s running fast, Big Jack
says. Breaking the speed limit like he’s got no worries about patrol cars. Jack
says I’ll never catch up with them.”
“Fuck!” Mark beat
a fist against the jamb. “He must really be scared. Any sane man would go at a
nice slow pace. He’s panicked. Wait! A helicopter! You can catch him in a bird.
You head to the airfield. I’ll get Jim Hudson over there pronto. You have a
chance that way.”
****
The helicopter
pilot, who lived near the airport, was already warming up the whirlybird by the
time Bart arrived. He was, however, not in the best of spirits. He seemed to
resent being awakened at two‑thirty in the morning to participate in somebody
else’s goose chase.
Bart thought he
was going to lose his stomach when the machine took off, but he overcame the
nausea. Donning the headset as instructed, he told the pilot what they were up
to. He was disappointed that the helicopter radio did not have CB bands, but he
had already warned Big Jack that he was coming by helicopter. They overtook the
two speeding vehicles easily enough. There was no mistaking them even in the
darkness. The van led Big Jack by about a quarter of a mile. At first, the
pilot was reluctant to set the copter down in unfamiliar terrain, but he took
advantage of the lights of a closed filling station at some wide spot in the road
to drop rapidly to the ground. Bart about lost his meal again, but avoided
disgracing himself. The Avila vehicle had already whizzed through. Big Jack saw
them and had his nephew pull over. Bart unceremoniously dumped the protesting
youngster out of the truck and sprayed him with gravel as he got the pickup
back on the highway. They soon spotted the van’s taillights in the distance.
They gained steadily. Suddenly, the brake lights flashed as the vehicle turned
off the highway.
“Damn!” Bart
swore. “He spotted us.”
“Be a blind son of
a bitch if he didn’t. Probably saw the lights when the helicopter landed too.”
Bart slapped the
wheel. “He’s not headed for El Paso. He’s taking the back country to Mexico.
Shit! The law’s going to be waiting in the wrong place.”
“Can you reach
that lawyer on the radio?”
“Out of range, but
I’m going to try to raise somebody. You get out and start trying to catch a
ride.” Jack looked pained. It was pitch black, and they had not passed a car on
the Road for a considerable stretch. “I’ll work the radio and get somebody to
pick you up. But just in case I don’t raise anybody, you’ve got to get back to
that service station and phone Mark.”
Jack’s mouth fell
open. “That’s ten miles back!”
Ro braked hard.
“Yeah, and I’m hauling you in the wrong direction.”
Big Jack looked
doubtful about the whole venture, but he obediently grunted his way out of the
truck. Bart took off again. As soon as he maneuvered the turn onto the sideroad,
he managed to raise a northbound trucker about six miles south of him who
agreed to pick up Big Jack and get him to a telephone. In the meantime, the man
would try to raise a state cop in the area.
The van was
traveling too fast for the road conditions. Bart was able to anticipate some of
the worst jolts by keeping an eye on the lights of the other vehicle, but even
so he wondered how long the van could take the punishment the rutted dirt Road
was dishing out. Abruptly, the relatively good stretch played out. Avila’s
headlights went crazy, shooting up into the black sky, disappearing into the
ground, and wagging from side to side. Bart was reminded of a mischievous child
playing with a flashlight.
****
So one of the
crooks is on the run, as much from his partner-in-crime as from the law. Bart’s
in pursuit. Will he catch the man?
Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it!
Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series from The Zozobra Incident to The Cutie-Pie Murders. A lot or murder, mayhem... and sex.
My Personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
X: @dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
Don
New Posts every Thursday at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain Time.
