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.
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Don
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