River of Gold, River of Blood

By John R. Pickett

I have done some traveling to the tropics and became infatuated with the climate and the terrain of rain forests. I went to Costa Rica, to the Bahamas and later to Indonesia. These travels inspired this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781466940444

John R. Pickett

My name is John Roy Pickett. I was born in Bristow, Oklahoma. I was raised on a farm, and received a fairly good high school education there. I grew up, traveling during the summer months, doing farm work with my family. Each summer I and my family traveled from western Oklahoma and the panhandle of Texas, to Canada, following the ripening wheat. This gave me somewhat worldly ways for a high school student. I developed a taste for travel and adventure. After several colleges I got a degree and became a Biomedical Electronics Technician. I worked at this until my retirement.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE RETREAT

T he river flowed lazily, making its way down the broad riverbed. Jorge sat in the pilot’s chair, guiding the boat toward the center, and watched for obstacles. He had the engines running at a fast idle to keep the boat flowing forward in the water so that the rudders would control the direction of movement. The boat proceeded down the river so monotonously that Jorge was very near to dozing off completely. He swatted a mosquito that attempted to feast on the back of his neck. This woke him up, and he became more alert. He raised his head to look past the front of the boat, out into the river. It was late in the afternoon, and the shadows were getting long. Jorge knew that soon the sound of animals chirping, croaking, or whistling would soon fill up the dusk. But there was no sound now. The heat of the day was receding.

He heard a loud thump. It came from below, down on the deck. The hull of the boat is a square-bottomed box with a sloping flat panel that, pulled up, served as the bow; when lowered, it served as a ramp onto which forklifts and trucks and wheelbarrows rolled in and out of the boat to load and unload. Across the rear of the boat, Jorge stood on a raised deck that allowed him to see easily over the sides of the boat. He stood at a pilot’s console with a helm, a steering wheel that looked much like one commonly found in a truck or any other large powered vehicle. The engines purred beneath his feet, rotating the propellers under the boat.

He heard another loud thump. He thought he heard also a sharp report from a somewhere, away on the riverbank to his right. The report was so far away that he hardly noticed.

The boat was not cluttered with goods at this time. He was returning to the port city, having sold most of his merchandise, and now the deck was bare with only a small pile of loading pallets and a few wooden crates. Jorge swatted another mosquito and looked over the boat. He looked down to the deck and noticed about two inches of water swishing around under the traction mesh and the corrugations in the metal. It occurred to him that two inches of water is no cause for alarm, but the deck was dry just a while ago, and he wondered why two inches of water was sloshing around on the floor of his boat now.

Another loud thump broke the monotony of the engines. This time, Jorge heard the report sharply to his right. He jerked his heard to the right and scanned the bank quickly. He was fully 150 yards from the bank and all he could see was the silhouette of trees and brush growing at the waterline. He turned further to the right and looked up the bank behind him. He saw a faint puff of smoke in the distance. The air was moving the smoke down the river, so he only had a vague idea where it originated.

Another loud thump cracked the air. This time the bullet hit the side of the boat near the stern, and Jorge heard it sharply and was startled.

Shit! What in the hell? Jorge left the wheel and stood at the side, cursing and staring at the puff of smoke that was drifting over the water near the far bank.

Another loud thump sounded as another bullet pierced the hull of the boat. Jorge heard the report from the far bank and also the sound of a small chunk of metal bouncing around the inside of the boat. Jorge looked down to the deck. The water had risen to about a foot deep toward the rear of the boat, and as he glanced around, he noticed the boat was floating lower in the water, and slower too.

Shit! he shouted, turning to the helm. He pushed the throttle levers forward, and the engines roared and they both accelerated, but they sounded labored, pushing against the slow travel of the boat.

Another bullet crashed against the side of the boat, ricocheting off the top rail. Jorge instinctively ducked, crouching behind the helm. He reached up and pushed the throttles all the way forward, and the engines raced faster.

He spun the helm and headed the boat to the far bank to his left. Jorge raised his head up slightly and turned back, facing the trees and the puff of smoke.

You motherfuckers! Damn you! he screamed over the roar of the engines. He glared at the place in the trees with a hateful scowl.

The boat was traveling faster now. Jorge looked down below and noticed the depth of the water had increased a few inches. The boat was plowing the water now, and the water inside the boat tended to move toward the stern, making it plow deeper in the water. Jorge didn’t bother looking back now. His eyes searched for a place to beach the boat. The current carried him further down the river as he approached the opposite bank. There were no beaches or shallow banks. The place he reached had straight dropping banks in a small inlet, but the water was shallow. The engines became flooded with water and were spraying from the belts and pulleys as the engines died. Quickly, the silence dominated his ears. The boat drifted, nosing down river as it came to a stop. The bottom of the hull made a soft rasping sound and came to rest in the sand.

Jorge stood at the helm. He looked down and noticed the water level was only a few feet below his own feet. He looked at the bank. It was not high. He could get up on dry land easily. He turned and looked across the river. He had traveled downstream for a while since the shooting. He could not recognize the place and he could not find the spot where the smoke had arisen. This pleased him slightly. He grimaced.

Soon Jorge noticed a caving feeling as he realized that he was now reduced to traveling on foot. He was grounded for the first time in a long while. Jorge automatically decided to get moving. He would go downriver and get some help to repair his boat and maybe he would find out who shot his boat. He had to take action. He was stranded otherwise.

He left the boat, descending by the boarding ladder that consisted of U-shaped iron bars welded to the stern. He waded in the water and climbed the bank. He walked up the slope until he came to a sandy one-lane road.

He walked down the road with his shirt draped over his shoulder. He remembered there was a small town near the river and a small dwelling not far from the river. He did not remember the distance, being that he had never had to walk the route ever before. The road was long, but he knew that civilization existed just a few miles further. When it got dark, he slept under a tree where the ground was softer. There was no traffic on this road. He could tell that the road was used but not very often. The day wore on and turned into two days. Jorge got hungry. He carried some jerky and a bottle of water. They didn’t last too long even though he tried to conserve. He could have been a little better prepared when he left the boat, but he was in a slight panic. He expected to be miles downriver by now.

He walked all that day and noticed that the road looked a bit more traveled now. He knew he was approaching the place in the road where it turned up the slope and went to town. He remembered the place because he had stopped there before because there was a landing and a sloping beach but no town. The town was a couple of miles from the river.

Sand. Only sand, no rocks, and chuckholes. The road for the last few miles was sand as far as the toes of his boots happened to penetrate. Jorge actually walked along the side of the road for the last few hundred yards or so because the ground was much softer and it didn’t make his ankles and legs so tired. His feet and legs were tired. He had a few miles to go before he reached La Casa Blanca, as he jokingly referred to the white cinder block house in the jungle. Most houses in the tropics are green, pink, blue; lots of orange, yellow, purple, brown; seldom, plain white. The house that he sought was at a stopping point on the river, where he always felt welcome, and he usually visited the place on his run up the river and sometimes stopped there on his run back down the river. Jorge knew the house sat a few hundred yards from the river, and there was a convenient sandy bank on which to park his boat. At this point in time, he was not concerned about a safe place to park his boat. He was concerned about trouble, and he knew that a couple of miles down the road, there was this familiar house and Maria and who knows who else lived there.

Maria was a ten-year-old girl the last time Jorge saw her. He had stopped there a few times during the last year to buy gas, to use the telephone, to top off his tanks with gas when times were better, and always to get a meal no matter how meager. He knew if he approached the place after dark, he probably wouldn’t be unduly harassed or turned away, and he knew there would be food and civilization.

Hola muchacha! Es Jorge! He was laboring across the road. Music and voices were emanating from the house, and Jorge hoped he wasn’t too late for some food and a place to sleep for the night.

Ya, maje, como esta. Mira! Maria didn’t like to be in the house when company, especially men, was around. They expected her to fetch this and serve them that, mostly liquor, and always there was some argument as to how much was remaining and whose liquor was whose. She liked to sneak out and breathe the night air and allow the guests to serve themselves. She was playing with an iguana and she wanted somebody to see the new trick.

The iguana saw Jorge arriving and it skittered into the brush. Jorge came walking up to Maria, trying not to breathe too loudly.

Que tal, muchacha? Hay comidas todavia? Jorge was hungry and he got to the point quickly.

Si! En la cocina, quedo un poco. Maria was bored and really didn’t want him to go inside. Voy a traerte la comida Esperate aqui.

Jorge wondered who was in the house that Maria didn’t want him to see. He sat on a three-legged stool in the front yard. He couldn’t tell by the conversation inside whether Maria had announced his arrival. She soon arrived with a wooden bowl of rice and veggies and chicken. Not really hot, like freshly cooked, but it only lasted about forty-five seconds anyway. While picking his teeth with a blade of grass, he began to peruse Maria’s vast array of local awareness and casual observations. They talked for few minutes.

Hay una fiesta? Adentro? Jorge waved his head toward the house. He could hear more than three male voices inside. He heard one man speaking a few words quickly, followed by several voices laughing and snorting.

Hombres. Maria took on a very bored look on her face. Mi papa y clientes y amigos.

Jorge had seldom seen her papa during his previous stops. Maria’s mother was also absent, but there was always Maria or some other young member of the house to point to a telephone or sell gas. The sun was starting to go down, and the air became a little cooler. Maria motioned for him to go into the house. She was getting cold and planned to go in the back door to her room. Jorge decided to walk on into the front door of the house. The clientes were sufficiently drunk, and some of the household would recognize him and there would not be any tension or trouble. The front door was open. He strolled in.

Hola señor. Y que? Quien es? He caught one man’s attention. Soy yo, Jorge. Me recuerdas? Jorge showed no hostility, just a dusty traveler with tired feet and an aching back.

Jorge! Tienes licor? The man that Jorge guessed was El Papa spoke softly, and everyone in the room hushed to let him speak. Jorge rounded slowly and reached into his shirt and produced a full half-pint of American scotch.

Por supuesto, muchachos. Jorge planted himself in a nearby couch and soon he was surrounded and listening to the latest jokes and the local gossip of the neighbor woman up the road. He didn’t catch all the jokes and he decided the gossip about a people that he didn’t know is not nearly as interesting as the gossip of a people that he had actually met. The only problem was that he had very few acquaintances in this locale, but everyone recognized him as though he was an old friend in the neighborhood.

Jorge was an American entrepreneur who had come to Central America when he was old enough to know better. After his last American lover threw him out, he sold all his stuff and bought a boat and hauled mining supplies up the Orinoco River or the Amazon or any one of the large rivers or tributaries that were navigable. He made a living. The last relationship really did a job on Jorge. He wanted to leave the whole world and he almost succeeded.

A tall, lanky man who was on the far side of the room came lurching in from the kitchen with a tumbler, nearly full, of a colorless cloudy substance. It is customary to take what you are offered as a guest.

Oh god! Jorge thought. I’m going to have to drink the local guaro just to have a dry place to sleep. It had the long tenacious consistency of mucus and the taste of alcohol and limes. Jorge, tired and desperate as he was, downed the whole mess in one choking, continuous, multisegmented retch. He handed the glass back empty. Jorge had been through this before but he could not remember when. The night became a parade of shadows and voices and a soft place to land.

CHAPTER TWO

MORNING

T he morning sun was not where Jorge had planned it to be. He rolled over and hid his face in a shadow made by his hat. He rolled over twice and hid behind a large couch. He tried to resume sleeping but he was waking. He blinked his eyes open and then he shut them with a vengeance, but he could no longer ignore it. It was daytime.

Queres cafe, muchacho? The old man was sitting in the sun in a large chair at the far side of the room. He had the gnarled looks of a man who had spent his time working under the sun but the time-worn looks also of El Señor. It was a lot to take in, through the bleary, cloudy, leaden sleep from which Jorge was emerging. He arose and found a chair to fall into and looked at El Papa.

Si, Jorge replied.

I am Hector Rodriguez. It is very good to see you again, Jorge. You must have some breakfast. The old man spoke slowly. Jorge could not tell if he really knew English well.

Soy Jorge Smith. Yes. Thank you, Jorge replied. Donde esta tu bote? Papa was speaking in clear, separate syllables so that the gringo could understand him. Jorge did not want to deal with his recent loss at this time. Where is your boat? he asked again in English.

Abajo del rio! Donde esta Maria? Jorge wanted Maria to translate for him because he knew his limitations in Spanish. He didn’t know if El Papa understood English too well or not.

Maria. Ven aqui! Papa shouted.

Maria entered the room. Jorge related his story to her in English, and she began shouting the story to El Papa, how Jorge arrived last night and had only one pint of liquor and needed a place to sleep and she stated that she knew nothing more. Jorge looked frustrated. He sat up in his chair and began talking to him and her.

Tell your papa that my boat is on the bottom of the river, about two days’ walk from here. Jorge looked her in the face. Maria relayed this to Papa, and he snorted.

Borracho! Papa exclaimed with a with a smug smirk.

"No, no, I wasn’t drinking. No cerveza. Nada! Jorge was trying to talk with his hands. Someone shot at the boat and made it sink."

Maria’s eyes widened a little as she listened to him. Papa’s eyes also widened. He looked worried and puzzled. Que pasa, gringo? Papa was very attentive now.

I was coming downriver back to town, like always, and I rounded a big bend, staying in the main channel. I heard a lot of gunfire far away, and then the boat started leaking and it sank. Jorge opened his hands, palm upward. Maria repeated what he had said in Spanish to Papa.

Carajo! Quien! Papa became upset and started shouting at Jorge and Maria. He stood up from his huge wicker chair and began pacing the floor in front of the window. Maria looked at Jorge, worried.

Where did this happen? Did you see anybody? she asked.

I was about thirty miles upriver when they shot the boat. I didn’t see anybody. I have been walking for almost two days. Jorge was now trying to think of what kind of help to ask him for. Do you think I could get a car to come out here and take me back to town?

Maria spoke to Papa, and he asked her something. She turned to Jorge. Jorge, who do you think it could be, shooting your boat?

I don’t have any serious enemies. It could be hijackers or thieves. I don’t really know. He looked thoughtful for a minute. Ask him if he has any ideas. Has there been any trouble around here that he has heard about?

Jorge was hoping to hear about a couple of vandals, of an irate farmer or something manageable. Anything but jungle war. Maria translated, and Papa was mumbling.

Guerrillas? Ladrones? Jorge asked.

Papa shook his head. Nada. Hector stopped pacing and gazed out the window.

Just then, one of the women of the house brought two cups of rich coffee with milk and sugar.

Desayuno, she said as she turned and went back to the kitchen. Several members of the household were serving themselves at the large butcher block table in the entrance to the kitchen. Jorge and Maria went through the line.

Papa remained at the window, studying the road that runs past his house.

Jorge knew that no one wanted a source of trouble under his roof. Jorge also knew that without his boat, he was stranded, and he decided to keep a low profile. He walked out the back door to the so-called garden. He found a hammock near the back of the lot. He ate and began thinking how he would get back to town and civilization.

It was late in the day. Jorge had slept until almost noon. Maria took him by the hand and took him through the house to the bathroom and the shower. She showed him a small bedroom off the bathroom and told him to shower and to change clothes. He had slept in his clothes and he enjoyed the shower.

Maria took his clothes and laid out a T-shirt and a pair of denim jeans. Jorge later donned them, and they were tight and long. He rolled up the cuffs. He wondered whom these clothes formerly belonged to. All the family at this house were smaller than Jorge or fatter than he was, and there was Papa. These were not his hand-me-downs. They actually almost fit his waist, a little tighter than his comfort required.

Jorge spent the rest of the day meeting some of the other members of the household. He helped Ernesto in the garage, working on the truck. He sat in the parlor and visited with the family after dinner and stayed up late, playing rummy with Hector. The bed was comfortable.

Jorge awoke early as usual. He showered and went to eat breakfast with the family. The food was delicious, and he finished his in a short time. He went out to the garden out back. He found his hammock.

Jorge and Maria and the iguana were alone in the garden until Papa arrived, carrying two small cups of black coffee.

He offered Jorge one cup and leaned against the large palm at the head of the hammock. He spoke English slowly with a heavy accent.

Jorge, were you considering that you should get to town soon and do something about your boat? Papa said.

Yes, Jorge said. Jorge straightened up and looked at Hector.

I have a serious favor I must ask of you. Hector paused. My daughter is coming back here to live. Hector paused. She is coming from California, and we believe the bus from the city will be bringing her to town late this afternoon. I want you and Maria to take the truck to La Mata and bring her back here. You can leave early and do your business in town and be back here tonight. Papa hesitated, waiting for a response.

You want me to stay here and spend the night? Jorge asked. Papa gave him a patronizing look.

Certainly. Maybe you plan to stay in a hotel. I do not know of any in La Mata that I would recommend. I’m sure you will suit yourself.

Jorge was a little slow on the uptake this morning. He straightened up. Your invitation is gratefully accepted. I will go and get your daughter and bring her back safe and sound. Jorge had enough money for a few phone calls, a few beers, and maybe a shoe shine.

When Jorge returned downriver after selling all his goods, he always hid his money in a cast-iron chamber in his boat that appeared to be just another marine device, a part of the boat. He also put some money to use for the return trip in a strong metal box chained to the pilot’s platform. If he was ever robbed, this is all that was really at risk. He departed the boat, unprepared, as he had only a few bills and some coins. He left the money in the metal box in his haste.

Tell me about your daughter. I thought all your family lived near here. He lied. Jorge knew very little about this household. He learned almost all that he knew yesterday amid all the jokes and gossip. The familiar faces made a safe, friendly stop along the river. He seldom pried into people’s lives. He had met Hector, El Papa, face-to-face only once before this arrival.

She is an American. She will be as obvious to anyone as you would be. She is looking like an American. She has been gone for almost five years, but I believe Maria will recognize her. Her name is Elizabeth. Papa took a long sip and said, When you are ready, come to the garage. He turned and walked back to the house. Maria was playing in the yard. She walked up to Jorge.

Today, I will go to the city with you. No? Yes? Maria stated.

Jorge nodded and smiled at Maria. Soon he got up and went to the house. He cleaned his face and hands and appeared at the garage. The truck was not so bad. It was twelve years old and in very good shape with worn seats and no hubcaps.

El Papa was in the driver’s seat. Have you ever driven this road before, Jorge? Hector paused. Just stay on the main road. Maria knows the route. There is a food store in town on the main road. That is where the bus stops. It is to arrive at five thirty-five. Papa got out of the car and held the door open for Jorge. The tank is full. Everything has been checked. You will have several hours to be in town. Do not lose Maria, please. Hector’s hands were resting on the window opening of the door. He looked at Jorge.

Certainly. Jorge got into the driver’s seat. I thank you, Hector. I will not lose Maria. Your daughter Elizabeth will be back here tonight. Jorge smiled, and Papa smiled back at him.

The road was a typical tropical country road with trees and brush and lots of hills and winding paths, but none too steep. After about ten miles, La Mata appeared as a clump of small buildings near the main highway. They pulled up across the street from the bus station. Jorge had never been here before in his life. He had only heard of this town in conversation; he didn’t expect much.

Jorge got out of the truck. Maria told Jorge that she was going to go to visit some friends. Maria had attended school Here, and most of her friends lived near here. She started walking away, and Jorge shouted after her.

Veni a la parada de buses! Jorge wanted Maria to be present when the bus arrived.

Si, Maria said.

Jorge went to a drugstore and bought some stationery and stamps and inquired about local legal representatives. He was surprised to hear that a lawman lived and served here. An alcalde, a sort of sheriff. After all, this was only a one-horse town, and usually there was no law to speak of. It was midday, and there was very little activity in the dusty road that composed the main street of La Mata. Jorge walked into a beer bar and allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior of the bar.

There were only a few patrons. Jorge noticed a young man near the back. Hey now, there’s an American. Come on in and join me in a beer! The loud voice that caught Jorge’s attention emanated from a young wiry man, obviously American, sitting at the rear of this tiny beer bar, facing the entrance. There were only three or four men in the place, and it was quiet except for the faint sound of a radio playing softly in the distance. The young man was slender and had a broad toothy smile. He had long foppish hair almost in his eyes and an earring in his left earlobe. He wore sandals, very thin designer khaki shorts, and a T-shirt with no sleeves. A punk preppy in the jungle. Oh boy! Jorge thought. He walked to his table and sat down. A woman came up, and Jorge ordered a beer.

My name is Sam. I’m pleased to meet you. I know I look like one but I’m not a tourist. I live here. How’s it going? Sam spoke loudly, like most Americans. His smile faded slightly.

My name is George. Most people call me Jorge. I don’t live here but I am a businessman in these parts. Jorge was a little surprised at being spoken to without introductions. It is not the custom with most Latins. Jorge would soon ask Sam about his life here. He figured he was an American exchange student hanging out in the tropics on a lark. He did ask how to find the sheriff.

Mario usually hangs out down at a little place on the other end of town. I don’t know the name of the place. It’s an open-air restaurant. It’s back off from the street a few yards. He mostly shows up there in the afternoon, probably to eat and have a few beers. What kind of business are you in, Jorge? Sam was friendly enough and most likely had nothing to do. Jorge didn’t want to give anything away. He still knew nothing about anyone here and he still had no idea who had shot bullets at his boat and made it sink.

I buy and sell things. I make enough to live well. I like the tropical climate, and the people are easy to get along with. You an exchange student? Jorge took a long swallow of beer. It was cold and tasted good.

I used to be. The university is in the city. The friends that I met that are from this country live near here and they invited me to stick around after I left school. Living here is pretty cheap. I have a sort of job and I hang out with a few other American friends. The life here is really great. Have you been out in the rain forest around here? The environment around here is pretty beautiful and untouched. There aren’t a lot of tourists trekking around here very much. They’ve got a river over here about ten miles away. It’s pretty cool, Sam said.

Jorge had been trying to size him up a bit. He figured there must be a group of college-aged people, including some coeds, staying around here. Sam didn’t seem to be the kind of person to be living out in the sticks if there were no women around to socialize with. Jorge knew that most of the local women of Sam’s age were either married and raising children or working in the city.

What kind of nightlife do you have around here? Jorge was trying to get a rise out of him. He didn’t want to hear about the rocks and bushes.

Oh well. Hah! We get really lively around here after dark. There’re two cantinas. One has a pool table, and the other has a loud radio. The locals come out and drink and dance. On Saturday night, there’s usually at least one beer brawl. Sam was holding his hands up and open palmed like a side-show announcer. Maybe enough action to hold a businessman’s interest for a few hours.

Oh. Really? Jorge looked out the front of the bar and saw a wadded paper sack blowing down the street. No other signs of life appeared as far as Jorge could see. Well, then I won’t plan on spending more than a few hours here, since I usually spend my time buying and selling with fistfuls of several currencies, drinking hard liquor, dodging bullets and knives, and, of course, holding at bay wild herds of hungry, voluptuous women. Jorge suppressed a yawn with his left hand and turned and smiled at Sam. Sam pushed his chair back on two legs and laughed a long, loud laugh.

You might find that much action scarce around here. He chuckled. A local store owner might sell you a bottle, but you… Hah! Damn. Sam shook his head and grinned. He took a long swallow of beer and held the bottle up and looked at it. Why are you looking for the law? He smiled and looked keenly at Jorge.

Mmm… I’ve had a little trouble that he might be able to help me with. Jorge believed that in these outback towns, it’s a good idea to be on good terms with the law, just in case you run into problems with outlaws somewhere."

Jorge still didn’t want to bring up his boat problems and he had already said too much.

What kind of trouble? Sam looked more curious than intent on questioning him. He hadn’t heard of anybody having law problems since he had been here. Jorge tried to brush the whole query away.

Oh, nothing, really, businessman’s problems. I buy and sell and sometimes lose things. Jorge let his voice trail off. Sam had begun to wonder just what Jorge was buying and selling, but he really didn’t want to get involved with any heavy dealers. He took another swallow and set it down and stretched his arms and yawned. Jorge finished his beer and got up to leave.

What was your name again? George, ah, Jorge? I’m glad to meet you. After dark, you will hear what the action is around the town. A little music, a little beer, and a little conversation. Maybe I’ll see you around. He held out his hand to Jorge. Jorge shook his hand firmly.

Yeah! If I’m here after dark, maybe I’ll look you up. Jorge turned and paid for his beer and walked out into the street.

CHAPTER THREE

GOOD FELLAS

M aster Sergeant Albert H. Sorens stood in the doorway of his tent and greeted the afternoon sun.

Sweat was running down his temples and his back, but he had just eaten and he was feeling good. He picked his teeth and gazed over his men at the gorge of the river running through the jungle, fifty yards away, as though he were gazing at Rome and making plans to sack and pillage it. He stretched his back subtly, trying not to look like he wanted to take a siesta.

Most of his friends and all the men under him referred to him as either Sarge or Herb. He hated the nickname Al and hated the name Albert even more, so Herb and Blazing Stud Muffin were just about the only names that he would allow. Most people felt that the name Herb fit better. Herb was a military man, as were most of the men and some of the women in his clan. His grandfather had been a major in the army, and his father and two uncles had made their way up through the ranks as officers. He was proud of this well enough, but Albert had an older brother, several years older than he was, and Abel Sorens had made his way up through the ranks in the army as an enlisted man.

Abel was sent to Vietnam and got on quite well with everyone. He was wounded once or twice and carried out some daring exploits, or so it is told. Abel returned alive from Vietnam so decorated and revered by all the family and all the uncles and aunts that it just about made Herb sick to his stomach to think about it.

No one in the family wanted to hear about how brother Herb was a supply sergeant in Germany for a while. Nor did they want to hear how Herb actually drove a bulldozer and a backhoe and got out of the army and got a general contractor’s license, and, failing to make a decent living, joined back into the army and spent the better part of his years building roads and bridges throughout most of the civilized and even some of the uncivilized parts of the world. Of course not. At any gathering of family or friends, all anyone wanted to hear was And how’s your heroic, decorated, splendid brother, Abel? Herb developed ulcers before he was thirty, along with corns, bunions, and a bad back. He was short, almost bald and he had a bad knee, but he carried himself well. He strolled out of the tent wearing his military-issue fatigues, under his military-issue fatigue cap, with sergeant’s sewn-on insignia, kicking dirt clods and small animals with his military-issue combat boots and carrying before him his military-issue beer belly tucked behind his military-issue polished brass web belt buckle.

He had tried much earlier wearing a Western-style hand-carved leather belt with a huge silver Western belt buckle. Down the length of the belt as it spanned across his back side were the bold engraved letters BAD ASS in white, outlined in red. He wore this famously engraved belt for some time, but the buckle was so big that it cut into his navel every time he sat down to eat. It eventually became infected, so he went back to the web belt. So he wore a polished brass buckle on a web belt as he strolled out of his tent and into Central America. He walked up to a couple of his men.

You guys finished eatin’, Horse? Herb knew that if he stayed inside the tent and didn’t get moving, the men would lie around all afternoon and do nothing. Let’s get moving. We gotta take some measurements of this river now for the report.

Horse didn’t move but he pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and looked up at the sergeant.

Yeah. I think everybody’s finished eatin’. You want us to take the survey sticks and the transit down there, or we just gonna need the tape and string?

No. We’re gonna need the whole mess of equipment, everything. We’re going to shoot this river and get it on the report by nightfall. You weren’t wanting to spend the night out here, if you don’t have to, were you?

Horse bent down and picked up his shirt and began putting it on. Herb walked on down toward the river, pausing at another couple of his men who were sitting and talking.

Get the transit and the long metal tapes. You guys’ll need shovels and machetes. Leave your personal gear by the tent. We’ll knock this sucker out in a few hours and be outta here. Herb walked on toward the river.

Hey. What’s your hurry, Sarge? Maurice was a light-skinned black man from Philadelphia. He was lean and midtwenties and largely self-educated. He had gotten the education offered by the public school system and pursued his own interests when he could.

He held his own in the neighborhood where he grew up, especially when he got older, and he managed to stay out of trouble with the law, but during the last few years, he felt more like a prisoner in his own neighborhood.

The army was an easy way to escape his old neighborhood, which was not a real ghetto, but he figured it would become one in a few more years. What he liked about this place was the quiet. He had never experienced this peaceful quiet in his entire life. He joined the army to get away from guns and drugs and losers, and it had worked quite well so far. Maurice got onto his feet and rounded up his gear. The man he was sitting near was doing the same.

"Yeah. Just cool it, Maurice, You just wait and see what happens. This is gonna come out a class 3 bridge an’ we’re gonna have to build this sucker with gin poles and a couple of wheelbarrows, an’ damn little help from anybody. You just watch. We will definitely spend many days