All Along The Watchtower

By Peter Henderson

Paulie Machendry, former Green beret, axe man in a country rock band, bailbondsman and practicing seventies hippie. Is hurled back through time, to the American territories while the Civil war blazes. a time made stranger still where there are vampires. He meets, crazy mountain men, seductive witches, a vampire hunting scotch preacher, a toreador that just aint all there, moonshiners, lord byron, rebs and buffalo soldiers. dragged into a fight he does not want, he trails the untamed west to old Mexico Through the blood of the raging civil war and Maximillian rebellion and fights to stop Satans return. and the whole thing drives him to drink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Henderson
• Release date: Feb 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310476594

Peter Henderson

Peter Henderson is a first time author. Proudly Scottish and a resident of Edinburgh, though Highland born and brought up, stayed in Glasgow and London for many years. Dyslexia explains the eccentric spelling and disabled the boredom that lead to a try at writing. A fan of History, Western films and the Flashman books, viewings of True Blood and the Walking Dead at the same time as Ken Burns series on the Civil War brought an idea to my head. Before disabultiy struck, I was a keen Hill Walker, Biker and Film goer.

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All ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

Copyright 2016 Peter Henderson

Published by Peter Henderson at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Dedication

This work is dedicated to Atheists and Humanists everywhere, who don’t throw bombs for their beliefs and are far too sensible to think that anything like the following could really happen. Lang may yer lum reek.

Chapter 1

It was murder that morning that began the strange story. Murder most foul as Shakespeare was want to write. The Eagles of all the dog-shit bands to cover Jackson's Take it easy, smooth singing', gut churning saccharine spewin', makes you ashamed to be an American -Eagles. Knew somehow that things were only going to get worse that day, they did of course. Not worse than the moment, an old friend lay slaughtered and bleeding out in your arms, trying through coughs of blood, to speak a last message to the Gal you had behind his back, leaving you desolate and haunted as he expires in your arms. But they got worse. Hell man! We did Take it easy better than them, an shit happened. I changed the station on the radio, an it was Nixon leaving the Whitehouse, "I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent", said fuck him, it an put Skynard on the Four-track.

So let me introduce my self, Paulie MacHendry, I've been a lot of things, Soldier, Guitar and Vocal second in a band, disappointment to my Catholic mother, drunk an mostly poor. Which brought me to this gig, a Bounty Hunter, Bail Bondsman, trailing a connected Wop, called Furilo, who skipped an extortion rap, back in Vegas. Settin out for the Freeway, past the forest of signs Texaco, Chevron, gas stations, the Motels, the Firkchester, the Desert, the Safari, the retail parks and ranks of road-lights as you head out of Las Vegas and into the desert with it's sand, brush and tumble weed onto Route 66 -an good-by to what passes for civilization in Nevada.

The King playing the Hilton, the Sahara, the Dunes, the Riviera, the Tropicana, with the chip stacked tables and big swanky rooms. The neon lights of the strip at night, with the Gamblers, the Hustlers, the Mobsters, The Mormons, the Teamsters, the Tourists, the Pushers, the Pimps, the Pros, the Grifters, the Dealers, the Showgirls, the Cops, the Cowboys, the One Armed Bandits that were the only real winners. The Sodom of the States, an didn't we Americans love the place, in all it's corrupt notoriety. Actually I didn't, the fucking place was a cesspit of humanity, an I lived out of town, just worked in the joint.

I had to track the dumb Guinea, down from Vegas, see it may only have been an extortion rap, but the guys in the PD, wanted to sweat the dumb little runt over a lot of other things, but he got bail an skipped town much to that particular Clark County Captain’s lack of amusement. So of to Wilts and Spitzzen Bailbondsmen.

The little creep was easier to track than a herd of Elephants, a silk suit an a winged collar like an F4 over the Nam. Just tip the waitresses enough, they'll tell all for twice the fifteen percent an a boyish smile for a gal turnin forty' Ooh, he do that, I thought he looked funny, now you mention it, yep that's him. Who am I to stand in the way of a Citizen doing her best. New Yorker's stick out like the proverbial whore in a church, in the state of Billy the Kid. The police scanner in familiar Albuquerque started up about a red Mustang jacked on Malpaso Street an I was on the Freeway before they were finished their afternoon Hero. An acquaintance in the Cops there had tipped me his car had been seen abandoned, when I had a phone around from a Diner on the outskirts of the town -a whole hundred bills makin it's way for Mark Stinsky, an well earned. A Gas station, fifty miles down the interstate, had a pump attendant, a callow youth still at high school, saying a kienof weird man had tipped him a fifty bill to go and Jagoff in the men's room when he noticed him fiddling suspiciously with the ignition. Was it a red Mustang? Yes mister, what does Jagoff mean? I blame it on the churches an overbearing mothers voting Republican about here. An I knew he was heading up Route 25, which I did emphatically not expect.

I caught up with the Mustang maybe fifty miles down the road, blarin his horn at a Semi-trailer, he was trying to overtake, in the shaking hot air of the afternoon. The trucker honkin back like a Destroyer making port, followed naturally by an exchange of the finger as he cut past. All of which left me figuring he wasn't lookin at the Wagoneer ten or so cars back. He was roaring down that highway, like he was in the Indy Five Hundred. Guess he didn't figure on a Smokie turning on his lights giving chase and pullin him over for a very difficult Q&A. Which left your humble narrator falling far behind again, the red Mustang receding into the distance an figuring a ten thousand bucks bounty was flying out the window like the smoke from his Marlborough.

Luck though had me spotting the tail end of the Mustang leaving a trail of dust up a side road for Jemez national park. Well that did make the afternoon look a mite better, maybe I wouldn't have to hide the Wagoneer from the Repo men after all.

I crawled past that hotel parking lot looking for the car, seen it and seen the dumb little sucker emerging from the Motel reception, stuffing keys into his pocket -talk about a break. I pulled in to the lot the Wagoneer grinding to a halt on the rust colored stones to the collection of wooden rooms with their alike rust colored roofs, not looking his way. Searching about for the reception, La Cuerva Lodge, burned into a wood sign, -very the High Chaparral. But the corner of my eye caught him takin from the Ice-box, as I made a show of stretching and contentedly laid a gasser, an I lit up another cigarette.

See he might stick out like an extra from the Godfather round these parts, but I was a New Mexican. blond, tanned under a Stetson and with the appropriate slow drawl. I would like to have added the adjective, All-American but I am far from that, with a Scotch father and a French Kanuck mother. But I had been schooled in these parts from ten, when the MacHendrys had their moment of Manifest Destiny back in fifty seven. Go West young man to Albuquerque as it happened. The Highland High School on Coal Street, where else for the son of a man from Glasgow, Scotland -the god damned place had it's own tartan. Still I suppose it thwarted my mother’s plans to send me to Catholic school. A priest beating your ass with a strap an playing Football as a curative to perfectly natural desires to Jerk off to Colleen O’Whatever ain't my idea of an education. Dark rumors passed from lip to lip, with an accompanying Man that can't be true, about some of the Priests ideas of a penance. Jesus I wouldn't be Irish, for all the gold in Fort Knox. The Spics on the other hand, just tell them to go fuck themselves, an go to public school. I know, them dusky Senoritas is prettier then Venus, an hotter than a tin roof on Midsummer Day. Like the Nuevo-Mexicans, drinkin in life in the slow lane with a Tequila shot -they is so laid back they is horizontal.

Now you'll be supposing I quietly questioned the receptionist about the errant Mr Furilo got his room number an went huntin him with my trusty Colt Python in hand. But that's a Bullshit way to get yourself killed. Assume the runty little bastard has got a room where he can watch the comings and goings of the place -an gets dibs on the first shot. No, I yacked a bit to the pretty receptionist in Ladino, which impressed her no end, bought a key for one of the rooms and strolled over to the diner for a Burger. My backup piece at my ankle -lest opportunity knock- took a window seat and made a good long show of reading Catch 22 over the Burger. Chillin out an taking in the serene Jemez mountains through the window, with their mantle of Aspen and Fir, soft mist rising in the heat, from rain earlier in the day, Hippie shit or what.

The dark hot night hung about me humid and unpleasant as I turned the pick in the lock, sweating and swearing softly to myself. I had seen him go earlier, a floral shirt set to give you a headache and a leather jacket that bulged with a Piece he was Packin, into that red Mustang an down Highway 4 south. My first notion was, he had skipped me again an was set for another days chase down the freeway. But something told me not to go, something about that dumb shirt and too big jacket, he was going out for something, he would be back.

So meantime I would pick that shiny lock on his door for a little look an see. The room was mine, same down to the wooden bed and tables clearly carved by the loving hand of a local Peon, with some Native Indian blankets to enhance that all important ethnic touch. On the rustic carved table beside the doweled bed, sat a spoon, on the spoon sat a bud of cotton. I pulled open the drawer on the table, there in a cellophane pack, about a K of nice brown, ethnic American-Italian Scag. So the little runt had a Horse habit, and a Wise-Guy who used Horse, dealt Horse. An that was why he was out, with his clothes still in a bag, right there.

God Damned Heroin. I had the long hair and the guitar, said man quite a bit, I even sucked occasionally on a Doobie, but that fucking stuff ruined my life, I fucking hated it. I mean it's not in the way you might think, my trembling voice straight from re-hab, claiming it's an illness.

See The Regulators had potential, I mean we were better than most, a bit Rock, a bit Country, bitter sweet love songs an some inflected social commentary, kind off Credence with the volume turned up. Better than the fucking Eagles, for sure. There had been some play on FM as up'n'comers. Hard-working we toured the West for two years, Piss-ant gigs for beer money an loose chicks from the back of an old VW -till Sy Hardwick found Heroin. Sy had a voice like an Angel plugged to a Marshal amp. He wrote the songs, played the deep Guru front man, with abstracted lyrical intensity -to a tee. He didn't decline he nosedived into the ground. In my days in Nam I seen those head shot, an stay cognizant longer. He thought he was getting messages from god telling him that, the second Christ was coming -an him saying he was a Commie only the previous week. The Regulators were to sing for his coming, paving the way -like John the Baptist or some God dammed thing.

He stopped washing an stank like a mule, walked around in the nude and drank his own piss, which we blamed for his song-writing out-put. He would stop in the middle of a show, produce a Gideon's bible purloined from some hotel, an start reading from Revelations. All sort of shit about the Whore of Babylon an the coming Armageddon. Armageddon was what we got, in a hail of Bud bottles and cat calls. The VW was turned over and burned out one bad night in Dallas. The manger robbed of the entrance money, then tarred and feathered. While we ran for the cop station down the road. I mean that is the end for any Rock and Roll outfit when they are running to get into the Cop Station. The manager brought it all to an end a couple of days later, Sy was taken to the local Laughing Academy by then -at Police insistence. He held the rights to all our own songs an nobody wanted to sing in his place. Rolling Stone was planning an article, fucking Wunderkind Cameron Crowe calling us the band from Area 51, the record company wasn't interested no more. Can still see the poor sucker sittin there, his head shaved by the doctors, stained with black paint, lookin at us like we was the Manson Family. Sold our stack and mixing board to cover some of the debt, the only Album we pressed was deleted by Decca before the year was out. So as you might perhaps surmise, a Scag dealing rat like Furilo, was on my to do list.

So that brought me to the woods behind the rooms, see, I figured that I could get a better chance of viewing events from a distance. I started to do a little thinking on the way back from his room. What was the runty little Wop do'in out here in the New Mex boonies, in deserts, mountains and Ponderosa Pine, were the space and light just got to be zappin his city raised head. Ass-holes from the Big Apple are liable for a bout of Agoraphobia in Central Park. I mean way up here in Jemez Springs? If he wanted to disappear? Up State New York, god damned Buffalo or some other shithole, where a Guinea can send back an unsatisfactory Linguine and Marinara sauce with instructions to ice-the-Chef and go unnoticed. No he was here for something, and I was betting it was the Scag, he was setting up a deal. Now the bond that was good money, but if I turn up with Furilo and a shit load of Scag he was trying to deal? The DA could put him down for twenty, then run for Mayor. The LVMPD, would finally get to put down a Mobster and would never use anybody but, Wilts and Spitzzen. Tony Wilts would marry me to his daughter and Abraham Spitzzen, let me fuck his wife. An I could pay off the Wagoneer and the rent, in the same month -start up the Halleluiah Chorus.

See that K of Scag smelled of earth, there was traces of it on the tape that bound it up, which meant the Dope was his, so catch him Red-Handed on the Leika, cuff the runt and give him and the Horse a long leisurely trip down famous Route 66 back to Nevada. Time enough even, to stop off at a Motel, an strum Fulsom Prison Blues at him from the bed of the other room as he sat manacled on the toilet, with the trusty Gibson.

It was weird sittin there hunkered down, waiting for his move, thoughts, memories floated into my head. I caught my self whistling quietly a tune my father was want to croon, Norland Winds a song from the old country. The Big C took him that last year, I remembered driving him to the Hospital for a test -something our doctor told him was most likely nothing. A month later I was strumming Amazing Grace as they lowered his coffin into the ground along with a lone piper my mother took down from Canada.

I went back later after it was all over, snag to him in the grave. Oh wind hae mercy, haud yer wheesh for ah darna listen mair. I'd say he would be there in the winds of his native land, but he'd slap my ear. Where do you think I got my Atheism from? Those who believe in absurdities, commit atrocities, Religion's rubbish, nathin but trouble son". We were real close, particularly after the divorce, when he came to live with me in Henderson. He'd retired from Delta by then an had enough to live on even after the split, if he was careful, which being a Scotchman came as natural. He became a bit of an elderly Hippie, growing his hair and beard, an loving music. Country and Folk mostly, but the good stuff, Cash, Nelson and Campbell, The Band, Pete Seger, Joan Baez, even liked Bobby Dylan, though he couldn’t figure the lyrics.

Still see him puffing his cheeks at his perplextion to Desolation Row. His real yen though was the Scottish stuff with some Irish, he came across a store on Las Vegas that had some, they in turn put him onto a store in Edinburgh he phoned, an they knew what was good. See they had got the Hippie thing, an that led to their own folk revival. Some of it wasn't half bad too, a bunch called Gaberlunzie (whatever the fuck that meant, even he couldn't tell me) had a great sound, the Chieftains (they were Irish instrumental and my favorite of his sounds) The Corries were another. We would sit of a night listening to that stuff, sippin on a bottle of whiskey. I would pick up the tune and start to play as we both softly sang along. Better aff withoot that daft Frenchie bitch, eh son. The silly coo, wid play nathin but they fuckin Operas, till ma head wis nippin. Even figured he'd try Dope once, sitting there staring at me. Christ son ah canny get ma legs tae wirk. Yea all in all, you got to count yourself a lucky man if your own father's the best dude you ever met. I drew my mind back, before the Blues took hold of me as it had done the year past his death.

I remember my mind wandered again, that long wait sitting there hunkered down with my little M1 Carbine watching his chalet, feeling it's familiar wood. The dwindling light of the New-Mex evening turning the sky red over the snow crowned Jemez mountains, the heat of the day dying to the cool of the early evening. An the light of his window shining brighter and brighter, as I tapped another out of the pack of Marl boroughs. This was very old rope to me, fuck man I was a Green Beret just four years past in the Nam. We all say it us Vets, but it feels like a century has passed since that. An A-team leader with the Yards, the Highlands back in sixty eight, the bullets buzzin and the M16 jammed in the explosions and flying vegetation. Just it wasn't some fuckin Arvin backin me up it was the Degar, an they stayed and fought till we'd beat the Cong off. Why I use the M1, I threw that Mattel Sixteen at Victor Charlie an took an M1 from one of my dead Yard's, the only way they dropped their gun was that they was hit. It fired and fired, never used the Sixteen again even when they said they fixed it. No fuckin calling in artillery or fast-movers for us, we just fought it out, both sides holding tight the other's belt buckle. Two fucking hours we were at it, one of my guys had a bayonet wound an showed me the VC that broke the blade of his bayonet. We chased them away, even gave pursuit for a while, enough to tag, thirteen of their dead and count four of ours -happy nineteenth birthday, I shit you not.

Marched back seven Clicks to the Ba Xoui Strike Base, then I made a report, the Colonel was impressed with the action, an asked when I had been hit, an pointed at my backside. I looked, the back of my pants was stiff with blood -ass-shot in both cheeks an too fuckin scared to feel it. How it got my Purple Heart. Yep Counter Insurgency Warfare with the man in black pyjamas, thee best laxative known to man. The Jackie Kennedy's Own had a whole different war up there in those Highlands. Still an asshole for volunteering though, three times stupid, the Army, Airborne and Special Forces. The training at Fort Brag nearly killed me never mind the Cong, but the days they kicked seventy percent out was gone. It was about a Third in Sixty Seven, when I did it, so I made it through. Next stop the Nam and a B-team slot in the family firm complete with my Tiger button patch, till I considered I'd had enough in late Sixty Nine. See we didn't come back from the Nam like the rest of the Army, tails between the legs, no, we fought a good war there made friends with the Montagnards, even had a grudging respect for Victor Charlie, figured we'd be the same if somebody foreign was walking over our country.

Didn't stop us protesting of course, an me ending up a Hippie Freak, but say to somebody you wore the Green Beret you got a lot more respect than the run of the line Vet -and you was over qualified for a Bail Bondsman job when your artistic and therefore commercial future seem by curious circumstance, on the ebb. Could shoot, track, lay ambush an kill you with my bare hands, bringing in some Doofus with a Thirty Eight and a Black jack didn't amount to much after that -half of them just start blubbering an try to buy you off. Still though, take my Carbine or a Coach-gun whenever practicable, no need to be cocky about these things, Wilts and Spitzzen don't give out Purple Hearts like kindly Uncle Sam does -miserable bastards don't even pay the medical bills in the event of your continued existence. Such or similar, was my rambling contemplations when the light flicked off in Furilo's room, I recollect.

He'd come out the room into the darkening evening that god damned shirt throwing more light out than the rising full moon. He went to the Mustang an got a shovel out the trunk. Then stomped through the woods behind the rooms for about maybe quarter of a mile, making enough noise to wake the dead. Fuck-offing at each branch an thorn that tugged at that goon shirt, an muttering about how he hated this Jagoff Fuckin Two-horse State, it's fucking Fag Cowboys and the fucking Steers they fuck and it's attendant woods. Till he stopped and was suddenly attentive, he looked about staring at the trees, a sudden appreciation for the delights of nature? It must have been, because he went over to one and told it was a beautiful thing. I was maybe a hundred yards behind and had the glasses on him at that point, an froze as he looked furtively about, listening intently. He stayed that way for maybe two, three minutes and deciding it was all clear, disappeared into a thicket of bushes nearby in a cloud of bugs and expletives.

Ever see a Wop dig, it's a sight to behold, man they got that shit down to an art, all those bodies a Wise-Guy has to plant evolved them into part Mole. I can still see him in my minds-eye, standing knee deep in the ground, with just the dumbest expression on his face -lookin down the barrel of my M1.

Aw fucking noh, I was nearly there, just another two days, every fucking Jagoff thing goes wrong, ever since I was a kid the same shit. I just got to get busted when things are going right... What we had here was a Fated man apprehension. They have been dogged by bad luck all their lives, their mother's didn't love them, their father left them for another state, they was picked on at school which is how he got into trouble, his Capo steal all his best ideas, an his weaner was kind of short, which didn't stop the plane Jane gal that bust his cherry forcing him to a loveless alter in an outsize wedding dress. They always claim they are caught making just the right move. Now he'll start to negotiate I thought. Mr, help me out here, if I go back to Vegas they’ll whack me for sure. You can have half this stuff, it's maybe quarter of a Mill's worth once it's sold. Half please I'm just askin for a break, you'd be set-up for years.

Nope! Came my best New Mex low drawl. I looked him over carefully holding the Carbine close but too far for him to have a swipe at. Throw the piece in your jacket over here, then the back up, wherever you have it. He pulled a toothy grimace and threw a revolver at my feet. The back-up piece, I said softly.

Don't have one, he replied.

Don't believe you, what sort of an asshole don't keep a back up. He shrugged his shoulders. Pull up your trouser legs so I can see your ankles, but good an slow. With a look like a Poxed Whore under doctors examination, he reached down and showed his ankles, he was right no piece there. Throw the jacket away and turn your back to me, keepin your hand high, he complied, no gun in his pants belt, but there was a bulge round that chubby midriff that didn't look right. You wearin a vest or something mister.

Aw fuck, he muttered. Which I reckoned indicted something of interest.

Pull up your shirt, good an slow a molasses in winter, he pulled up the shirt. There was a cloth belt of some description, tied round there. "Take it off, the belt, an throw it to my feet.

Jesus, Sweet Jesus, fucking everything, fuck man please leave me something. He pleaded. I pointed the Carbine straight at the runt's face. He tugged and cursed for while undoing the tie. Then with a surprisingly heavy thump the odd looking belt fell at my feet. I drew the Python from the holster to cover him and snagged the belt with the sight on the Carbine. I was taking a chance I knew but he wasn't going nowhere in that hole in the ground. The thing was segmented with maybe thirty pockets. I pulled back one of the flaps, an had a quick look.

Krugerrands, nice, are they all Krugerrands? I asked looking at that round face half hidden in the dark, those eyes on me like a snake.

Yea you fucking Jagoff, there all the same. I warped the belt round my neck, an gave him a nice smile. From behind the sight on the Python.

Reckon I just liberated your Cop bribin money, ain’t that a downer, ya fuckin little Smack Head. I kicked the shovel back into the hole with him. Dig you little runt, till you got all the Scag dug up. I drew in a breath, meaning to speak. See it was then that things got really weird, there was a flash of light, I mean bight, bright light that cast longs shadows in the dark like the sun, an a wave of heat. I turned to the direction of the light as a roaring noise, came from a long way. Looked, at an expanding cloud towering far up into the sky of fire and smoke, flattening out at the top a way off behind the horizon. It's the god dammed Russians, I heard myself say. There was a metallic clang, then all was black.

I awoke with a headache like a Jack-hammer was going off in my scull. I prized my eyes open to bright light dappling through the conifer needles waving on their branches in the cool air. I figured the little runt had smacked me with the shovel, then the memories of the flash of light and the atomic cloud came flooding in, with regard to why he had got the drop on me. Man, I can tell you I was scared, I remembered though the military had always been testing the A-Bomb round these parts. Los Alamos wasn't more than fifty miles away, then figured that had been what had happened, an feelin real dumb about Furilo getting away, him, the Scag, the bounty, every fucking thing. I suppose it was going to be a hard sell to Abraham Spitzzen as to why Furilo had got the drop on me. I could heart the dower old Hebe now, you had a week, to think up an excuse an that's what you come up with..., an A-Bomb went off. An A-Bomb you expect me to believe this. I looked about, it didn't seem to be the same place, the path was there but it was nothing more than a deer track. The Runty Mobster of past acquaintance must’ve dragged me for his own reasons, when I was Hors de Combat. He'd taken the carbine, but the Python was in my holster and the PPK, was down at the ankle, even stranger the Kruggerands were still hanging around my neck. He was a fucking Smack-Head so you got to figure that the rational wasn’t going to be his strong suit, but leaving -I figured maybe thirty gold coins- around an insensible man's neck was something of an oversight to any self-respecting thief.

I drew up my feet and shook my pounding head gently, I remembered the little haversack on my back, where I had stowed a couple of Hershey bars an a bottle of Coke, an swung it off. There was the unmistakable sound of a horse snorting as I did. I turned and there were a couple of Native Americans in full get-up on two horses, one had an old Yellow Boy or something like, the other had a spear with what looked suspiciously like scalps tied near the point. An they were starin at me, I mean they were lookin at me with eyes the size of dinner plates. So I rises up an looks the dudes over, the nearest with the rifle, was an old wrinkly bastard in a blue shirt an a bowler lookin hat with a couple of feathers, the other a younger buck, naked except for a loincloth, a red head scarf and the buckskin boots both wore -an neither looked like you would want to meet on a dark night, but what the hell, I'm for Civil Rights, so understanding has to be shown right.

Hi dudes, I started, I'm a Bailbondsman out of Las Vegas. I was runnin down a Mobster who skipped town. The little Wop bastard, brained me with a shovel, when that Atomic thing happened. Did you see that? Man, I hope there ain't no radiation or nothing, see if I find out it was illegal or something that went wrong, I’ll sue the fucking Government. There should be warnings or something. Nearly shit my pants, thinking it was the Russians. That's cause for damages right there man. The two Native Americans, backed their nervous horses away, still staring those dark eyes at me. The younger of them, lowered the spear in a kind of menacing way, the older buck laid his rifle across his chest, as to stop him. He looked me over, more examined me. Then drew back on the horse threw his arms wide, turned his head to the sky an yelped a couple of loud yelps, suddenly turned his gaze on me an shouted something that sounded like Ysun. He gave another yelp an they turned the ponies an tear assed down the path in a thunder of hooves.

Take the twelve steps man, you boys just got to get off the fuckin Firewater. I rejoindered to their disappearing sound, upon recovering my credulity.

There was a few Navajo at my school, an they could be a mite odd from time to time, but these guys took the whole biscuit barrel. I figured them for Apach, some of them was want to live wild like the old days, fired up by tales of Geronimo and Victorio, rediscovering their root or some shit. I suppose it's better than the Reservation, construction work with the County an a Reco-car.

I decided that it would be best to take my time, before returning to La Cuerva Lodge, no fuckin hurry to face eight hours on 66 an the japes at Wilts and Sptizzen for my failure to bring in Luigi Furilo -who would be way over the horizon by now. The pain in my head was starting to recede a mite and I sat down an rummaged about in the haversack for some Codeine in the first aid box, which I threw back with the Coke.

I checked my watch, it was one of those new digital bastards, but the display was just black, the god damned thing was broke. Forty dollars -the little bastard. I figured it for fore noon though, the sun wasn't high in sky. It was fine that day, not as hot a New Mex usually is that time of year. So with the Bungatine starting to work I decided a rest was what the doctor might order, amid the sunshine broken by the branches of the trees. Figuring I would stay overnight in the Lodge before risking a long journey after a blow to the head. Figuring too that the Kruggerands was going to make the whole thing worthwhile anyhow, thirty eight of them as it turned out, at one fifty or so dollars a pop, five seven hundred bucks or there abouts, I reckoned. Every cloud has it's silver lining I further supposed, as I lay back an pushed the Stetson -knocked around a bit by that fuckin shovel- over my eyes to recuperate with the aid of a Cancer Stick.

I'd been searching for hours by then, the runty Wop bastard must have drug me for miles, I couldn't figure the thing at all. I mean I had followed him the previous, an that was maybe half a mile from the Hotel. I couldn't pick up the track he had followed, couldn't find the La Cuerva Lodge neither. I figured he might have dragged me to his car an dumped me a ways a bit. After a while I got the compass from the pack -a Jackie Kennedy’s Grunt is like an Eagle Scout always prepared, an I'd slung it in there along with Ammo, ID, Cuffs an the other shit you are going to need taking down an absconding Crook, when I got the call from old Abe at home. But nothing was fucking there, no Lodge no Wagoneer, no fucking Parking Lot, no road, nothing. But the place did look familiar, rocks I kinda recognized by their shape, the hills about looked right for there too. An there was Battle Ship rock, stickin into the blue sky with it’s jagged red teeth of cliffs all in it’s russet an browns, an there were hot springs there steaming into the air. It did look like the place, but wasn't there was nothing there.

I started to feel real weird, an figured Furilo had slipped me a mickey, LSD or some fuckin thing when I was out, as a final Fuck you. So I sat down an took things steadily, Methodical Planning, my Training Sergeant at Fort Brag -old Frank Simmerson a WW2 vet, that had dropped into Normandy- he was big on that. Gain the information to assess the situation, use that to formulate a viable plan, then execute the plan an asses it's success. If lost always follow a road or water course, that got to take you to some fucking thing in the end, lest you bump into the enemy. I knew there was a river running down by Battle Ship rock. Given my afternoon wanderings had not found me Jemez Springs, or anything that resembled civilisation, not so much as a tyre track -I headed for that. Still way confused an with a headache from hell.

Two god damned days I followed that river, through the trees, skirting by when the banks got steep. Bivouacking at might under some pine branches I cut with that Ka-Bar. I got that of a Jarhead back in Sixty Eight -swooped it for an infeasibly cute half Frenchie Pro that called herself Marie Claire. Who had tagged on to me during a week’s leave, for a quite reasonable price, when I was on the last day's R'n'R in Saigon- an feasting of Squirrels, at least the bits left when a .357 Magnum is finished with them. Actually ain’t half tasty, a bit like Rabbit I thought. I wasn't worried then, I was armed, I had food and water, I could build shelter, make fire, the Marl boroughs was down to four a day though. My biggest fear was breaking a leg or something, that would place the shit right on the fan, so I watched my step real close which made for slow progress. Truth was I was kind of enjoying my sojourn down the Jemez river, least that was what I think it was, cos I was loster than if'n I was Jimmi Hendrix's bass player. Hell knows what they thought had happened back in Vegas when I hadn’t given my twenty four hourly check in, I kept my eyes open for choppers or light planes, but there was nothing, not even con trails in the sky. But things generally didn't look too bad, so I just kept on truck'n.

On the third day the wood was starting to give way to more brush an I could see the desert, falling yellow an tan dotted with the green of scrub into the distance on the shimmering horizon. I was getting pissed by then, three fuckin days an nobody, I wasn't wasting Ammo on signal shots, but there had been shots, those bitchi'n squirrels, two a day at least an a Diamond Back that scared the hell out of me, an was tough chewin t'boot.

I was struggling up a steep part of the bank slipping on the cloying mud and needing a hand hold on some grasses when bringing my head up I could see some smoke. Well they say that fire was a man’s first invention, an you have to figure one of his descendant’s to be close by. It wasn't big, just some campfire trailing wisps, blue straight up into the hot afternoon air, I figured some campers, hunters or fishermen, from the city, getting away from the wife, the ulcers and the price of Gas.

I pulled myself up over the bank and rubbed of the mud of my Levis, lookin myself over. Hell I was in shit state, hair like an iron scouring pad, an the clothes was fit to walk away by themselves. The trail of smoke was a ways off, maybe a mile. So I set the Shankley's ponies for one last effort, through the now opening wood. I heard movement behind as I made my first step, something anyway and turned to look behind. There was nothing, the air, still and hot, the only sound the gentle burbling of the river, I couldn't put my finger on it for moment, but that was it, there was no noise, no crickets, no birds. Strange when there is trees about, I looked up, an the sun was highest in the sky, so I figured the birds about here was Spanish raised, an havin their noon-day siesta -the crickets must’ve had their own reasons. Don't know why but it gave me the willies that quiet -but I dismissed it as started towards the smoke.

Hey dudes! I shouted at them, there was three sitting round the fire a big o'l tripod over the flames with a coffee pot the size of a Moonshiners still, black with soot. I could see they was doi'n things the traditional way, with four horses an a mule, tied on a line behind them, blankets still on the ground from their night's bivouac. They had guns so I figured them for hunters, maybe they wouldn't take me to civilization, but I felt pretty confident, I could get directions and some food from them for a few dollars. Man they looked like real backwoods men as I grew closer, long beards, two had old battered round topped wide brimers. They stared at me intently as I approached waving and yollerin, kind of hunkering there crossing glances with one another. I could see they was suspicious, but hell man I was just so glad to see anybody at that point. I had two pistols on me so I reckoned a Deliverance situation to be pretty slim. Anyway you got to get to Kantukey before you can find, either, a dude that can play the banjo that well, or get that inbred -New Mex ain't been settled by Anglos for that length of time.

Panting at the edge of their camp, I stopped and drew my breath. Hi, I started still gaining my words, I got lost in those woods.., been wandering about there for the past two days.., no food, eatin squirrels and rattlers. The one nearest, kind of yellowy sun burn skinned, with a hawk's beak of a nose, looked up at me.

S'that so sonny, kina lean pickin's round these parts, right enough. Came out of a thicket of beard. He stirred and moved his rifle, to rest on his leg. It was a Sharps I noticed -some folks still swear by them.

Kina got to like the squirrel, right tasty, I said trying to think how to put the story succinctly.

That theey is. Interrupted the man behind the first, How come yee git lost. These mountains is right bare of folks. Lookin for a strike of somthin? Came out of a set of squint teeth an a long mustache. I made an effort to draw in my breath to explain.

I was at Jemez Springs, I'm a Bailbondsman, this mobster, skipped in Vegas, I caught up with the little Wop bastard. Made him makin a Smack deal, was just about to do the damned re-arrest. I hesitated, thinking I was about to stretch their incredulity. An you know the Los Alamos thing, they blew up an A-bomb. I shrugged my shoulders, An that distracted me, the Guinea bastard socked me with a shovel an dragged me.., somewhere. I don't know, when I came too I was, like man, real lost". A voice came from behind, the two who were sitting stooped down beside the fire, kind of looking at each other. It didn't come from there alone, it came from New Orleans, I knew that accent.

Boy, that didn't make a word of sense.

Are you French? My mother is Quebecer. I replied instinctively. He smiled a bit an shook his head.

"Oui, Creole ma mère court des alligators de marais d'un bordel et de ma chasse à père Yes, Creole my mother runs a bordello and my father hunt's swamp alligators. I smiled at him.

"Ma mère passerait la majeure partie de son temps priant pour elles, puis".My mother would spend most of her time praying for them, then.

Keip it in American, piped up the the first dude with the hawk nose and turned to the N'Orleaner. You too Secesh man. We'r tryin to get the story out of this body, sound like the sun got t' him or he's been, at the Bust-head, real serious. He turned back my way an looked me over. Son, the bit bout y' git'n lost we got that, but the rest, makes as much sense as a preacher, preachin, Sam Hill. I collected myself again.

I'm a Bailbondsman, out of Vegas... He held up his hand.

Start right there..., what's a.., mail.., bondsman.

If somebody skips bail, I get part of the bail amount for re-arresting them. You know, a Bailbondsman, a Bounty Hunter.... The three as one froze stock still, suspicious looks turned to fear. I heard the hammer draw back on one of those guns, there was a long silence. The one with the nose, who by then I figured for their leader, looked a hard look at me.

An we’re deserters, proud v'it. Don't want no more of this rich man's war. The other two muttered in agreement. I braced myself an slowly opened my hand at my sides.

Dudes.., dudes.., I am not here for you man, I was in the war, got out an protested. I ain’t got no paperwork neither, no reward, no catchie. Don't know who you are.

Do now, I guess. Came out of Mr Big Nose, three guns drew up my way, Orleans had a shotgun, the others those fuckin Sharps. The Sharps were one shot an a long reload, I knew that. But the dude with the scatter gun, at that range he might get everybody. Big Nose looked at me again. See I'm thinking your alike a cousin I had back home in Idaho. He got touched by the war, wouldn't talk nothing but gibber.., blows his own brains one rainy afternoon, about six months later, seen too much. We see too much, but we had gumption enough to get out. Too much killing, dying, boys getting the leg fixed screaming as the Sawbones earns i's name. We ain't goin back.. The other two murmured their support.

The war's over man..., I was there seen the same things, I had some trouble in the head. There are Veterans groups, to help you know man. I pleaded with them, The Napalm, the noises in that bastard jungle, the whole unreality of the fuckin Nam thing. They were staring at me and exchanging glances, I suddenly felt very strange. I noticed that N'Orlean had a grey Kepi, the guy beside Big Nose had sergeant stripes on a blue coat, looked like these guys last job was at a Charity shop. Best I could figure of them was they had deserted on R'nR, an hid out in the wilds years ago -an that had driven them plumb crazy.

There you go agi'n, he said in a voice cracking with fear, What in Jehovah’s wrath is Napalm? The jungle? Was you in the Wilderness, see that Elephant there? Cos that was bad Mudsill, the dead burning alive in the flames of the night, ah wis real skeery, nearly cracked then -shit ma inexpressables, like I was aged a kid sucklin on the teat. Now I was really worried, I was figuring that Furilo, really had slipped me something, half his yap, was makin no sense to me,