Drifter’s Honor “The Catamount Conflict”

By Ned M. Huckins

A Stranger wanders into the small town of Catamount—a drifter, passing through. But before he has time to become acquainted with the area, he is compelled to save two lives, using his gun. This violation of the law gets him sentenced to do community service, which temporarily ends his drifting, but allows him to get to know the people of Catamount—and their strange problem.

A pack of enormous feral hogs has been terrorizing the community, destroying property and threatening the residents. Governmental agencies have declared themselves unwilling or unable to help, and the people are becoming desperate. With the help of Police Chief Townsend and a few strings pulled, the Stranger becomes Powder County’s Feral Hog Eradication Officer.

Facing down every challenge and enlisting the aid of the populace, the Hog Killer sets out to eradicate the feral hog problem and to exterminate the leader of the hogs—the huge, mountain-Devil boar known as Negro Diablo.

The massive undertaking eventually becomes a duel of honor between the Hog Killer and the King Hog. Can man conquer nature? Can an animal outsmart a fearless, determined, experienced hunter? This gripping tale, through its unique cast of characters and singular setting, answers those questions—and more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Oct 22, 2012

Ned M. Huckins

Ned M. Huckins. is a proud American of about forty five winters, whose done more, tried more, and survived more than most men his age. A self-described mix mutt white, leaning right, marginally bright, technology hating American Neanderthal and damn proud of it who can strip a firearm, an engine block, or a willing woman, with equal ease. He has a history of aiding others in need, then moving on with the wind without thought of compensation, be it getting a child home safely or helping a stranger in trouble.His writing style is refreshingly old school and often blue collar proud, a reflection of the life he’s lead. Like him, his prose is openly honest and free flowing without politically approved restraints, yet is scripted in a manner that allows any age group or gender to enjoy his work.Where society as a whole, seems to consider concepts like honor, pride, and freedom of choice obsolete and arcane, for him, they are guiding tenets. And this shows in his writing.For he firmly believes that without these most basic rights, a man, or a woman,... is not a person at all, but an empty shell traveling in a straight, safe and sterile, line from the cradle to the grave.He has a wealth of experiences to draw from, swept up in passing as he stormed through life, which he calls upon to weave and craft the living worlds within the cradles of his books. He doesn’t just write about life. He’s lived it. Embraced it. Survived it. Spit out his teeth and went back for more.Ned is a cancer survivor, a lifetime Fibromyalgia fighter, and stroke deny ‘er. Has worked with and as a law enforcement officer and wildfire suppression specialist as well as being branded an outlaw by modern society’s paper laws. His travels include a lifetime of low altitude mountaineering, far off trail deep woods wanderings, barren ridge running and shoreline scrambling.He clearly prefers dense brush to pavement. Glacier clad mountains to skyscrapers. Night to streetlights.He’s shared fishing holes with otters, berry patches with bears, ridges with cougars, and campfires with hippies. And legend has it, was actually seen wearing a suit ... once.His writing spans more than twenty winters, with over forty works finished including a fifteen book series based on colonizing a Cretaceous type environment, but only recently, has he decided to share his carefully crafted creations with the world. The stars whisper that there will be more stories released in the near future.It is rumored that Ned still roams free somewhere on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State, U.S.A. For now.

Book preview

Drifter’s Honor

The Catamount Conflict

by

Ned M. Huckins

Brighton Publishing LLC

501 W. Ray Road

Suite 4

Chandler, AZ 85225

www.BrightonPublishing.com

Copyright © 2012

ISBN: 978-1-621830-47-4

e-Book

SMASHWORDS EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Chapter One

AUGUST

The dusty, sunbaked town shimmering in the dry desert heat before him was an eerie juxtaposition between the past and the present.

With an erratic separation, a cultural eddy line that swirled between rust and tenacity, money and arrogance, which separated the founding families from the newcomers. Poor divided from rich; the local hardscrabble dirt-farmers from fairly well-off pavement-pounding Johnny-come-latelies swarming in from the big city.

Along the ridge top, above and behind the original site of the town, outnumbering the fading buildings below two to one, ran a swath of identical ranch-style homes, each embedded in its own five-acre kingdom. Aimed at the upper-middle class, each home was almost identical to its neighbor, from the fake Spanish tile roof and stucco walls to the gnome-infested lawns that were maintained twice weekly. The area was a pustulence of prefab commercialism sprouting from the tortured, and flattened, high-desert mountain soil.

The only way to really tell them apart was by the house numbers or the personalized plates on whatever sports car or tricked-out SUV was residing in the custom carriage house. Below this still-growing display of wealth, privilege, and power was the original—desert-dusty, and mountain proud, slowly fading—town of Catamount.

At one end of town was a small park straddling a tiny year-round stream whose centerpiece was a massive rusting monument to its founding father—yellow gold. At the other end of town was a second little patch of vibrant green bracketing the same stream, which contained a tall, spindly reminder of the founding father’s son—black gold—which had revived the dying town years after yellow gold had played out. There were other reminders of past resurrections as well.

In the center of town was the business district, its old bars being outnumbered by new trinket shops and antique stores. One street over, toward the setting sun, the new ultra-modern, assisted-living facility crowded in on the VFW hall, an ancient and recaliant building made of native stone. The bronze plates there honored local boys who had fallen in battle, from the Civil War—both sides; to Vietnam—too damn many; to the current conflicts—and still counting. The distance from park to park was one arrow-straight mile.

This was Main Street. One- and two-story brick buildings lined its patched-over, many times barely marked pavement; as anything built of wood usually burned down within a few years of going up. Dust covered everything, including the shirtless, sun-seared Stranger slowly strolling into town that hot August afternoon.

A man on foot is a curiosity; a man on foot with a pack on his back is usually regarded with suspicion and fear.

The local punk on patrol had already idled by twice, giving the Stranger the evil eye. He watched the patrol car cruise past yet again with burning eyes of blue-black fire, knowing it would circle around once more. Deciding to go with a pre-emptive strike, he crossed the street and waited with his back to the road, studying the display in a store window and noting in particular the sign that read No backpacks or large bags allowed inside. The window also acted as a mirror. When the patrol car came around again, he was now on the driver’s side.

As he expected, it stopped behind him. Instantly he turned, marched straight to the vehicle, and placed both hands on the frame of the open window of the driver’s door. Startled, the young cop tried to lunge away from him only to be brought up short by his seatbelt. The Stranger allowed the tension to build for several seconds before quietly and politely asking the nervous young Officer if he knew where the police station was.

Of course I know where it’s at, snapped the young deputy.

I don’t.

Oh. Uh, it’s two blocks that way, one block over.

Thank you. Have a nice day.

And with that, he released the frame from his iron grip, spun on his heels, and started off down the street.

Hey! Wait a minute! I said… the young officer shouted. But what the punk on patrol said didn’t matter; the Stranger just kept on walking. Behind him, he heard the patrol car rev up and start moving, so he turned left into a narrow slot between buildings, left again on the next street over, then right at the intersection, stopping behind a parked van where he waited for the police cruiser to come flying around the corner in front of him. As it passed he moved forward, keeping the parked vehicle between him and the pissed off donut-dunker who was searching for him.

The patrol car slid to a stop and sat there for several seconds as the frustrated officer scanned the immediate area for his prey before roaring off again, still seeking the Stranger, who watched it speed away through the dirty windshields of the dusty old van. Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, he turned and continued to the police station.

The old courthouse was also the county seat, and the only four-story building in Catamount if you counted the basement—five-and-a-half if you included the ornate clock tower looming above. It sat like a sedate old fortress, surrounded by sprawling lawns and guarded by massive trees—an oasis of green shade in which to hide from the noonday sun in. Shabby but proud, it was a standing testament to the glory days of how buildings used to be built; to last.

He frowned slightly as he read the fairly new, very prominent, and absolutely official warning about what was prohibited in the building. Sometimes he wondered why they didn’t just print one generic version that simply read Get Lost! Just then the doors flew open and an old farmer came storming out, muttering something about damn taxes.

Excuse me, sir…

Beat it, hippie! snarled the bitter old man before he could finish.

Beat it…hippie? He looked down at his scuffed up work boots and faded blue jeans, locked in place with a Confederate-flag belt buckle, while idly running one hand through his short cropped hair. Hippie? He didn’t know how to answer that one, other than to belt the half-blind bastard in the mouth.

Can I help you, sir?

He turned to see who had addressed him.

The gentleman in question was barely five foot even and looked to be as old and as weathered as the town itself. He wore a security-guard uniform but no gun, which was probably a good thing as, judging by the thickness of the dusty lens in his glasses, he was also almost blind.

Well sir, respectfully, I was looking for the police station, but I’m starting to think I should just get the hell out of town.

Ah, just relax son. We ain’t all assholes around here. Fact is, as long as you don’t cause any trouble, you’ll find there’re a lot of good people in this town. Real good people. You just gotta give them a chance to get to know you. Police department’s right through there.

What about my pack? asked he Stranger, pointing at the official no, no sign.

God I hate those signs, muttered the ancient guard. O.K., you got any drugs, bombs or illegal substances in there?"

No sir.

Good. I’d hate to have to take you down, he said as he chuckled and pointed down the hall. Just follow the signs, young fella.

The receptionist erupted from her chair as if fired from a catapult the instant he entered her domain. Welcome-to-Catamount-stranger-how-may-I-help-you? she warbled, obviously either bored out of her gourd or jacked up on way too much coffee. She was still a damn good-looking elderly woman, probably a retiree who vibrated with barely suppressed energy; a gray-haired lightning bolt built to capacity.

Behind her, an inner door opened and two officers entered the room. The first man was a walking mountain wearing a Stetson, well over six feet and obviously never missed a meal. Hooking both thumbs into his gun belt, he strutted up to the battered counter that separated the lobby from the rest of the station. He stood behind the graying secretary, glaring down at the unimpressed and not-one-bit-intimidated Stranger.

The other man was vastly different, barely six feet tall and built like a marine on a recruiting poster. Quiet and unassuming, he stayed in the background, studying the Stranger. Then, as if what was happening at the counter held no interest for him, he picked up a file from the desk and idly started to read it.

It is never the dog making the most noise that is the biggest threat in any pack, but the quiet one minding his own damn business that will kill you. The same applied to people. The Stranger kept both hands in the open and palms down on the time scarred counter top. Before he could say anything the police radio erupted in a spastic flurry of radio code numbers and official short hand. In the back of the room the quiet one dropped the file back onto the desk, raised his head, and walked up to the counter, where he picked up the mike and answered in kind. The radio went silent, and he replaced it.

Well, he said softly, you sure upset my deputy. What did you do to him anyway?

Just asked him for directions on how to get here, that’s all. Thank you for telling him there’s no problem, replied the Stranger, keeping his voice neutral.

There was a long pause as the two officers re-evaluated the dusty traveler who had wandered into their bear den. There was something about this man that, well…they weren’t sure what it was, but he didn’t seem like a standard-issue drifter.

How do you know police radio codes, if you don’t mind me asking?

I’ve worked off–and-on as a rent-a-cop and for a short while with an armored car company in the past.

You maybe just bumming around, or did you have business here in our little town?

Just traveling, sir. I ain’t here to cause any trouble.

That’s good son. That’s real good. So, how can we help you today?

Advice and directions.

Advice on what and directions to where?

I was wondering if I could leave my pack here for safekeeping while I did some shopping. As for directions, a place to clean up would be nice. And a bank and an unemployment office if you got one. The Stranger knew all too well that there was a ninety percent chance or greater, that all he would get was a boot in the ass as they showed him the door. Whether it was the front door, the side door, or a cell door, only time would tell.

Got any ID?

Of course, sir, right here. Passport, driver’s license, social security card, birth certificate, level-two security card—uh, expired though—and weapons permit, current.

He swiftly laid out the documents on the counter noting that, as he did so, Man Mountain’s off hand had started sliding toward his holstered sidearm the instant he said weapons permit.

I see you like to keep your bases covered, remarked the quiet one, picking up the Stranger’s drivers license and passing it to Man Mountain. Run this for me, will you, Baker? Thanks. He studied the Stranger a moment longer, then leaned in closer and spoke quietly. I started out as a street cop in Los Angeles; I was a patrol officer there for three years, then Portland narcotics for two. Then I came here about nine years back and became chief seven years ago. I have one simple rule: no bullshit. Period. Not among my officers, and not among my people, that also applies to the snobs on the hill. And it sure as hell applies to any strangers who just happen to wander in. You’re welcome to stay in Catamount as long as you like, as long as you understand that. Deputy Weevil can be a pain in the ass at times, but he’s young and he shows promise. I’ll talk to him and there won’t be any more trouble unless you start it. And believe me, son—don’t.

Man Mountain returned and handed him back his license. He’s clean. No currents, no felonies, he reported in a voice like distant thunder moving in.

Good. That’s a good start. OK, son, you can leave your gear in the storeroom there, and the bathrooms are down the hall next door down. Feel free to wash up a bit. Maggie has town maps and brochures for the tourists. They show where everything is located. Just remember, we lock up at six. So, welcome to Catamount. I’m, Chief Townsend; this is Officer Baker. The over-efficient lady there is Maggie.

The Stranger washed up and changed clothes in an old but surprisingly clean bathroom, making sure to wipe down the sink and tidy up after himself. He was still a bit in shock at finding a town where they didn’t try to run you out on a rail the minute you showed up. Of course, there was Deputy Weevil, but in all fairness, he’d kind of pushed his button. Opening the top of his pack he removed his War Rig, as he called it.

That had been another surprise. Nobody had asked him about weapons, or even if he had any. Apparently, here at least, a current concealed-carry permit was good enough, even if it was from out of state.

He slipped his arms into the scarred leather loops, the familiar harness molding itself to his bare body like a devoted lover. Under his left arm, butt forward, was his pistol. Under his right was a spare magazine, a five-inch fixed-blade, and a slim pouch containing his papers, money, and a few other essentials. Over this went a black t-shirt, tucked in, then a light-green speckled vest, hanging loose. Into a vest pocket went some spending cash, and he was ready for town.

As he exited the building, he held the door open for Deputy Weevil, who stormed past without a word, failing to recognize him without his pack.

He’d seen a lot of small towns in the last few years, traveling around the country as he had been just kind of drifting along on the tide of life, trying to interpret and understand the twisted, wandering currents within his soul. Directionless, yes, but not really lost. Just…uncertain.

This one, somehow, seemed different. Even without a pack on his back, he knew he still stood out. Out of place, an anomaly, a stranger. Yet people looked him in the eye as he passed—neither scared nor hostile, but simply curious. Several said, Hi, to which he replied to in kind, even though he wasn’t a people person. Children played as children used to, and nobody hysterically screamed, Get in here now! as he approached a kid.

Old cars sat parked along dusty, tree-lined streets, or idled by with rusty Detroit rumbles that proudly declared themselves American made.

In a back yard, two horses were tied up to a revolving clothesline while their giggling, young, and healthy, bikini-clad riders hosed them down. A massive, scarred-up old dog resting in the shade of a low wall raised his battered head and growled softly, a clear warning to stay away from his young charges playing nearby, nothing more.

Once back on Main Street, however, he could see the changes that were overtaking old Catamount like a raging high-mountain winter storm, threatening to murder and bury its small-town culture and identity under a smothering blanket of so called progress and civility forever.

For here, the fancy people strutted. Expensive cars and tricked-out trucks with radios blasting and pipes rumbling dueled for the right-of-way and desired parking spots. There were almost as many espresso stands as there were bars, even counting the ones that had folded—which were most. People no longer said Hi or looked him in the eye here; progress had skinned the civility from Catamount.

As he approached the ancient supermarket, a young Indian girl darted past him, clearly target-locked on her mother waving from the phone booths a half a block away. In disbelief, the Stranger saw three pit-bull/mastiff-mix mutt dogs erupt from the back of a beat-up, flat-black, one-ton truck as she flew down the sidewalk.

In the span of a single racing heartbeat, she vanished beneath the falling apocalyptic storm of attacking dogs, her screams ripping through him like a chainsaw.

Most people do not have it in them to get involved; he did not have it in him not to.

He reached the withering pile of growling fur and screaming flesh at the same time that a man built like a battle-tank grabbed a dog by its hind legs and tossed it over the truck and into the street on the other side. Grabbing a spiked collar in one hand and the tail in another, the Stranger slammed his victim head-first into a nearby fireplug with everything he had.

On the bottom of the pile, the third dog had his jaws locked deep into the little girl’s shoulder, his eyes rolled back into his head. Grabbing a hind leg in his left hand, the Stranger jerked the would-be killer taut and parallel to the ground while his right hand streaked up under his vest and shirt for his pistol.

Aiming straight down, he fired three times as fast as he could pull the trigger, unleashing both salvation and damnation.

As the thunderous roar of his shots echoed up and down Main Street, he found himself several yards away, now fighting for his own life as one of the other dogs took him down as easily as they had the little girl. Except he was no helpless little girl.

Being on his back with over a hundred pounds of living killing machine locked onto his left arm, he had no choice. Jamming the barrel of his pistol up under the dog’s throat, he fired twice more, sending what brains it had into orbit. Prying and ripping his shredded arm from the dog’s death-locked jaws, he scrambled to his feet, staring around wildly for his next attacker.

Over against the building, the other man was brutally beating the last dog with a splintered chunk of timber, trying to make it let go of his leg. Running over, the Stranger pinned the snarling animal to the ground with his foot and fired two more shots, parallel to his straining leg and into its heaving chest cavity. It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

Out of a nearby bar charged five of the local Aryan Nation inbreds, screaming, Who shot our dogs? Who shot our dogs?

With grave deliberation, the Stranger replaced the magazine in his pistol with a full one.

I did, he stated quietly but firmly.

And I helped! declared the other man, limping over to him while still clenching the bloody section of landscaping timber snatched out of a nearby flowerbed during the fight. Several others now moved up beside them, shamed into action.

A police car arrived before a second fight could break out. Officer Baker stormed into the crowd, using his considerable girth to punch through with ease. Just as he reached the battlefield, however, one of the Aryan Skinheads threw a beer bottle. It missed a startled Officer Baker’s face by inches; missed the Stranger by a foot; and exploded upon violent contact against with the head of an elderly Indian woman behind him.

All hell broke loose in Catamount as the Devil danced on Main Street.

The Stranger stood at the back of the roiling, brawling mass of gone-absolutely-feral humanity swirling around in front of him, his back firmly against the wall, his pistol barrel-down, pressed against his thigh. He knew he would never forget that which his eyes now witnessed.

The mother, holding and trying to shield her shredded and unconscious daughter in the gutter, both of them covered in blood. Officer Baker, with one suspect pinned between his more-than-adequate ass and a car, and a second suspect turning blue in a headlock, who didn’t seem to need or want any help. The man with the chewed-up leg repeatedly slamming some punk’s face into a slowly collapsing car hood. The old Indian women lying motionless nearby, her face a bloody mask. A half-dozen or so Red Warriors—not all male—playing pass-the-redneck around. Three dead dogs and several loose-and-lively ones going ballistic. And probably a half-a-hundred or so video cameras capturing the whole damn thing for posterity. Several patrol cars from different agencies arrived en masse, and those officers piled into the fray.

And it had seemed like such a nice quiet little town when he first arrived too. He turned and oozed into a narrow slot between the buildings, the sounds of battle fury fading behind him as he vanished into the shadows. Something he’d had a lot of practice with.

He used the side entrance of the old courthouse which granted him direct access to the police station. Then slipped past Maggie without her noticing him, preoccupied at the switch board as she was, and went straight to the bathroom. Only after