Bushwhacked

By Bernie Ziegner

Tom Morrison had abruptly left the special unit he had been assigned to in South America. Sent there to protect the interests of US investors in plantations and mines, he instead had found only violence and exploitation of the inhabitants by political operatives and local officials. Disgusted, he returned to the US intent on forgetting the experiences that had been thrust upon him.
It didn't turn out that way. The tranquility he hoped for was interrupted when he saved the life of a beautiful deputy sheriff and fought off bushwhack attacks by unknown foes. To complicate things, he had his heart stolen by a lovely and too-young forest nymph.
The secretive actors he had left behind had a long and deadly reach. Seeking only peace in the small Montana ranch he had inherited, Tom soon realized he would have to defend himself from greed and malice of corrupt officials and as well as local thugs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543981032

Bernie Ziegner

Bernie Ziegner grew up in Philadelphia. His career involved work as an electronic engineer for major defense contractors. He lived in Arizona for over two decades and now resides in Massachusetts. He can often be found in western Montana where he enjoys nature, horses, cattle and the local people.

Book preview

36

Chapter 1

Erica Stewart, sheriff’s deputy from the small town of Bradshaw, kept the accelerator pressed down as she responded to a 911 call made to the main sheriff’s office in Camden, a county seat twelve miles southwest of Bradshaw. The driver of a pickup had requested assistance claiming to have struck a deer on Sawmill Road. The road ran along the bottom of a narrow valley ending at a long-abandoned sawmill. She saw the pickup as she rounded a tight bend. It was stopped facing her on her side of the road. Its bright headlights blinded her momentarily, and she slammed on the brakes.

She had already stopped a few yards in front of the pickup when recognition dawned on her. She stepped out of her vehicle straining to see past the bright halo of the truck’s lights, but didn’t see the driver. Erica took a few steps forward and called, Greg?

She recognized the truck, the off-red faded color of the decade old Ford 150. Where was the deer, she wondered, as she walked toward the passenger side of the truck, where the door was wide open. Just as she passed the flood of light, she saw movement off her left shoulder and a man rushed toward her from the darkness off the side of the road. She was slammed against the fender of the truck.

Greg, she screamed, as she fought to regain her footing.

You bitch!

She felt a pistol under her chin.

Get in the goddamn truck. Gonna teach you about messing with me.

Greg! Get away from me!

His fist slammed into her stomach as she tried to reach for her gun. Then he had her pistol and tossed it to the roadway in front of the light glare. He grabbed the lapel microphone and ripped it from her shirt, tearing it open.

Greg! Stop!

He pulled her toward the door of his pickup, filling the air with invectives.

Erica tried to wrestle free, but he held her with a powerful grip. She kicked and screamed.

He pushed her toward the open door of the pickup and backhanded her across the face. Get in there you goddamn bitch! You’re gonna pay.

With her back against the end of the seat, she kicked out with a hard contact to his groin. He bellowed in rage. But the kick did not stop him; a fist landed on her stomach. He was pushing her onto the seat when a loud horn sounded from beyond the light glare.

Tom Morrison screeched to a stop behind the sheriff’s vehicle and tried to assess the situation in front of him. He suddenly realized a female officer was being assaulted, and he leaned on the horn to distract her attacker. As the horn blew, the assailant swung his arm to point a pistol toward Tom. He instinctively dove back into the truck cab and fumbled for the pistol in the glove box. He heard the window in the open door shatter as the shot rang out. Running on adrenaline, Tom pushed open the passenger door. He waited a couple seconds, but there was no other shot fired.

Tom slid out of the passenger door on his belly into the tall grass and weeds. He took a deep breath and ran around the back of his truck to kneel and keep the open driver’s door as a shield. He could see that the assailant had the deputy on the ground next to the truck while he tied the deputy’s arms with tape.

Tom heard her pleading with the assailant and then saw him hit her viciously. Tom muttered an oath and lay flat on the ground. He could see the man as he tied the woman’s ankles, otherwise seeing only the black emptiness of the dirt road beyond. How could he stop what was happening before the attacker did even more harm to the woman? Then he saw the assailant turn toward him. He glanced his way for a couple seconds before going back to tying the woman. He heard again the pleadings from the deputy as the man tried to pull her upright.

Tom rose to his feet, holding the pistol in front of him in both hands, and aimed at the large man still trying to get the deputy to stand up. Hey! Asshole! Let her go!

The man let go of the deputy, and she dropped sideways onto the road next to the truck.

Tom saw him reach for the pistol jammed in his waist. Get away from her!

The man raised the pistol and Jim heard the woman yell, Greg. No!

His first shot went wild, clipping the doorframe next to Tom. The second shot missed as well.

Tom slowly squeezed the trigger. He saw the man lurch, and the pistol dropped from his hand as he dropped to his knees. He looked down at his chest, and dropped face down onto the dusty road.

Tom began to tremble. His heart pounded in his chest. He went quickly to the fallen man and kicked the pistol away from his reach. Pressing the pistol against the back of the man’s head, he reached down and felt for a pulse at his neck. He couldn’t find one. He looked down at his own hand holding the pistol and tried to still the trembling. He heard a moan from the deputy, lying crumpled up against the rear wheel of the pickup.

Oh, God . . . Greg.

Tom called for help with his cell phone on 911. He then removed the tape from the deputy’s legs and wrists. Realizing that her shirt had been torn open in her struggle with the assailant, he put his jacket on her and closed the zipper, hiding her ivory breasts from view. She moaned and seemed to struggle for consciousness. Tom laid her flat on her back. The bruises on her otherwise lovely face angered him, but he resisted the urge to kick the assailant in the head.

He wondered if he had killed him. He hadn’t intended to, but years of training had taken over his every instinct and move. He felt a wave of nausea and stood still until it passed, and then with his shirtsleeve, he wiped the bead of sweat from his brow. Tom pulled his kerchief from his back pocket, shook it out, and proceeded to wipe the dirt and blood carefully from the deputy’s face. She opened her eyes, and then closed them again as her head fell forward. Alarmed, Tom checked her pulse. It was rapid but steady. Then he saw the flash of blue lights and stood up.

Chapter 2

The sheriff arrived with a deputy and stopped alongside Tom’s pickup. Tom kept his hands open at shoulder level as the two officers approached with weapons drawn. The sheriff removed the pistol from the waistband at Tom’s back and pushed him up against the hood of the red truck. While the deputy called for an ambulance, the sheriff put handcuffs on Tom and made him sit on the road leaning against the patrol car. The sheriff hadn’t said much to Tom, but had handled him roughly.

Tom wondered how much trouble he was in. He watched as the sheriff spoke with the victim, made notes, and then stuffed the notebook in his shirt pocket and stood up. Tom saw flashing red lights approaching. The deputy took photos of the scene, and then picked up the pistol belonging to the woman’s assailant, as well as Tom’s pistol, and placed them in evidence bags in the sheriff’s vehicle.

When the ambulance left with the injured deputy, Tom saw another ambulance arrive, followed by a car which Tom thought probably brought the medical examiner. He watched as the sheriff engaged in conversation with the attendants and the presumed medical examiner inspected the body for several minutes, before the deceased was loaded into a body bag and then into the ambulance. The ambulance drove off, and the medical examiner followed in his car.

The deputy that had arrived with the sheriff stood and watched as the sheriff approached Tom. The sheriff helped Tom to his feet, and removed the cuffs. I’m Sheriff Craig Stockton.

She gonna be all right? asked Tom.

Yeah, they’ll keep her overnight. Sorry for the cuffs, but I had no idea what was happening when I came up.

Tom nodded. Glad she’s okay. You’re keeping my gun?

"For a while. You did shoot someone."

Am I gonna be arrested? asked Tom.

No. Deputy said that you probably saved her life. But I have protocol to follow. You can get your pistol back tomorrow afternoon if it checks out.

Tom nodded. Okay.

Where do you live? asked the sheriff. I haven’t seen you around here before.

I’m about three miles down this road. On the right there’s a narrow track goes up to my place.

The sheriff looked steadily at Tom. Morrison? Yeah. There were some old folks living up that way. Some years back.

My grandparents. They passed away a few years ago, back in 2003. I’m looking after the place.

The sheriff nodded. Come by the office tomorrow afternoon. I want to go over the details again.

I’ll be there.

It was just before 4 o’clock the following afternoon when Tom parked at the sheriff’s station in Camden. The dispatcher pointed to the hallway when Tom asked for Sheriff Stockton. He nodded and went looking for the office. It was at the end of the hall.

Tom tapped lightly on the doorframe.

Sheriff Stockton looked up and gestured for Tom to enter. Have a seat. He pointed to the chairs in front of his desk. Just been looking at these reports.

Okay.

I’m a little puzzled. The sheriff looked up. It’s standard procedure in this office to do a quick check on anyone involved in any way in a serious incident. Sheriff Stockton stared at Tom. When I do a search for Tom Morrison, all I get back is social security info, you’re thirty-one, a Virginia driver’s license, the schools you attended . . . You majored in political science, and you were in the Army Special Forces.

Tom nodded. That’s pretty much it.

The sheriff looked at Tom steadily for a few seconds. Also, Mr. Morrison, I see you were issued a license to concealed carry in D.C. while you were attached to some outfit called Greenleaf. I can’t find any mention of an organization called Greenleaf, governmental or otherwise. And, there is no mention of what you were doing after your army stint. He shook his head. I gotta tell you, I’m a little puzzled by this. When I pull strings in D.C., all I get is that all records are classified.

Yeah, I had to sign nondisclosure agreements.

Well, at least there are no records of arrest.

Never even got a traffic ticket, said Tom grinning.

You have a current passport?

Tom nodded.

Name of Thomas Morrison?

Tom frowned. Yes.

There seems to be at least one other. Some sort of diplomatic passport. I couldn’t get anymore on that.

Musta been when I was in the army, said Tom shifting in his seat.

The sheriff stared at Tom. I’m not real comfortable with your answers.

Tom nodded. I understand. I’m limited by the damn NDAs.

Yeah, sure. He handed Tom some papers. Here, read this and tell me if it is how you see it.

Tom took the papers and read through the sheriff’s report of the shooting the previous night. I’d say it’s right on, said Tom and handed the papers back.

The sheriff handed Tom another paper. If you’re going to have a concealed weapon in this state, you’ll need a permit. Sign it.

Tom did as instructed, and was handed a copy of the form.

You can go, but stay in the area for now.

Tom got out of the chair, smiled at the sheriff, and left.

Chapter 3

Tom sat for a moment before starting his truck. He wondered why the sheriff had been so curious about him. Routine procedure? Maybe. Or did he know more than he let on? Did he know something about Greenleaf? Was he fishing for information?

Tom started the engine and backed out of the parking spot. He wondered if the Internet searches by the sheriff had alerted Greenleaf people — people he just as soon not hear from. He turned east onto Bradshaw Road.

It had become clear to Tom while in Nicaragua, and then in Columbia and Chile, that what they, in Greenleaf, were doing benefited mainly the USA’s moneyed interests in the mines, plantations, and oil companies operating in those countries, and not the general population as their corporate publications would suggest.

Before leaving Army Special Forces, he’d been recruited by the Department of State for an NGO called Greenleaf to be part of a team protecting the lives and property of US-owned facilities in South and Central America.

Tom slammed his fist against the steering wheel and cursed. So goddamn naive. He had joined the NGO with the hopes of seeing South America, not realizing what the task ahead actually entailed. He soon learned that his expert marksmanship and sniper training had brought him to the attention of ex-military and CIA within Greenleaf. Besides protecting the facilities of US corporations, he realized his talents would be used to foment resistance to the election of popular leaders and to disrupt legitimate elections and union meetings, pursuant to the goals of keeping labor costs at a minimum and assets in Greenleaf control.

Tom’s growing friendship with local leaders and his opposition to the efforts of Greenleaf in undermining the legitimate aspirations of the people with violence, rigged elections, and assassinations earned him severe reprimands, beatings, and periods of incarceration. When he made the decision to quit the organization, he realized there would be a penalty for he knew too much of the operation and the people involved.

Tom turned onto Sawmill Road, still several miles from his place. He couldn’t stop thinking about Greenleaf and how he had escaped from his last station in Columbia. He knew there was no healthy way of taking a scheduled flight out of Bogotá. Instead, he had arranged with a local rancher to drive him to the airport where the rancher had friends that flew him to Mexico City. A commercial flight took him to Atlanta the next day. Worried about reprisals, he stayed in Atlanta for several days, and then boarded a bus for the long ride to D.C., fearing unfriendly agents would be waiting for him at the airport.

At the place where the shooting had occurred the previous evening, he slowed. Snapshots of that night flashed in front of his eyes. He shook his head, but the visions lingered. He wondered if he would ever have any peace. The sheriff was stirring the pot, and he could count on some reaction from Greenleaf.

Since resigning from Greenleaf, Tom had kept a low profile in the USA and took work to just stay busy, guest lecturing on South American politics at George Washington University in D.C. Not totally unexpected, his contract had not been renewed at the end of the semester.

His finances were safeguarded offshore and were sizable — made up of his parents’ estate and monies paid him in South America. The NGO insisted he was still on their payroll and thus still subject to confidentiality agreements and security reviews. Tom went further underground after that. He tried to stay anonymous, but he knew it wasn’t possible in this day and age.

A year earlier he had learned of his inheritance of a small ranch property in western Montana, left to him by his grandparents. Since his mother and father had perished several years ago in a highway accident, the property in Montana passed directly to Tom, the only surviving relative. Now, with the pressure for anonymity, Tom chose to work the ranch property as a refuge from the harassment of the Greenleaf agents. But maybe it was not to be, he thought. He stopped at his mailbox and retrieved a few bills and the Bradshaw weekly newspaper.

Tom sank into the one comfortable chair and opened the newspaper. Below the fold he spotted the article: Hero Saves Deputy Sheriff. The article summarized the violent episode involving Tom Morrison and Deputy Sheriff Erica Stewart. The article, although factual, left Tom feeling uncomfortable. He wondered who else would be reading this.

The next day Tom was at the Camden Library. He used their computer to search the Internet for news items of the incident and was dismayed to find mention in many big city newspapers.

He hadn’t changed his name, hadn’t got fake identification papers, hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. Besides, claiming his grandparents’ old property had required his true identification. Had he made a serious mistake? Maybe, but what choice was there?

Chapter 4

Deputy Erica Stewart turned into the narrow track going up the hill to Tom Morrison’s place. The tragic altercation on the road had happened two weeks ago, but this had been her first day back on the job. The captain had placed her on daytime duty so he could more easily assess her readiness.

The shadows were already long under the tall firs and aspen as the transmission shifted gears going into a steep turn. Suddenly she was in a beautiful narrow meadow, and saw the cabin a few hundred feet in front of her. She was relieved to see the pickup by the corral. Tom was probably home. The old cabin had a new green metal roof. It looked nice, she thought. She stopped the departmental SUV by the corral. As she got out of the vehicle, she straightened her uniform, and then walked to the cabin and knocked on the door.

When the door opened and she looked into Tom’s face, she felt a tingle of excitement.

Hello. Are you . . .?

I’m Deputy Sheriff Erica Stewart. Smiling, she offered her hand. I apologize for not coming by sooner and thanking you, but I’ve been somewhat out of sorts from the incident.

Tom shook her hand. Come on in. I’m Tom Morrison. You don’t have to apologize or thank me. I did what I had to do. I’m sorry I had to shoot your ex; wasn’t anything else I could do as he was armed.

She looked into his eyes. You saved my life. I’m certain I would not have survived the encounter with him.

Tom shook his head. I wish there had been another way.

She touched his arm. I understand; you made a personal sacrifice to stop him and I’m grateful. She pulled her hand back. My ex-husband was an evil man.

Tom nodded. I couldn’t stand there and watch him beat you. I’m glad that you’re recovering.

Thank you, she said and wiped at her eye with the back of her hand.

Sounds like you had it tough.

Since the divorce he’s been indicted for transporting drugs and stolen property on two occasions. His lawyer got him off. He blamed me for his troubles with the law, but I had nothing at all to do with it. I just wanted to stay as far away from him and his bad friends as I could.

Tom shuffled his feet, feeling uncomfortable with the conversation and with the attraction he felt for her. He became aware of his heart beating rapidly.

How’d he trap you down on the road?

A fake 911 call. A motorist hit a deer, needed help.

I just made some coffee. Would you like some?

Erica smiled. I really would. It smells delicious.

He was happy at her acceptance. He turned toward the kitchen alcove, glad for the opportunity to quiet his racing heart.

What are you doing to the place? she asked.

Nobody’s been living here for a few years, since my grandparents passed, so there is a lot of maintenance and remodeling work to do.

I saw the new roof. It’s beautiful, said Erica.

He turned toward her, carrying two mugs of coffee. All I have is fake cream. Would you like that? Sugar?

This is good. I drink it black.

Tom sat down and glanced at her. The new roof was the first thing I did. It set me back some, but it’ll last forever.

Erica sat at the small kitchen table. So, the place was rather primitive when your grandparents lived here?

Very primitive. They were old time cattle people. In the latter years they only ran a few hundred pairs each spring and sold them in the fall. My parents owned a feed and tack store in Libby. When they died, I sold the business.

Traffic accident?

Tom nodded. US-2 is the deadliest road in Montana, I’m told.

Erica gazed around the kitchen area. Did your grandparents have electricity?

They had it run in some years ago. But it only powered the water pump in the well. When I came here I yanked out all the coal- and oil-fired kitchen stuff and put in the stuff you see now. It’s all new and electric. Got a phone put in a couple months ago.

How about heat?

I have a propane tank behind the cabin. Only use it for heat.

Erica smiled. It’s really looking nice.

The work never ends.

Erica looked up from her coffee. What do you do for a living? Surely not retired.

Tom grinned. Not retired. I’m thirty-two years old. I was in the army and served on special assignments. I quit over a year ago, and now I do this. But I have an inheritance from my parents and my own investments, so I get by.

You live here year round?

I probably will, but I have lots of work to do before the snow falls.

Won’t you be buried here? I mean the snow could come up to your roof and how could you get down to the road?

Tom smiled. I might have to come into town if it gets bad. However, I have a backhoe and front loader being delivered in a month or so. I found a good used one in Kalispell. That’ll clear the way down to the road and be real useful when I get working on the property.

Erica shook her head. All this by yourself? Sounds impossible.

Tom laughed. Won’t leave much time for me to get in trouble.

Erica stood up. I better get going. Supposed to be patrolling, not visiting.

Tom pushed back his chair. I’m really glad you came by.

Chapter 5

Lisa Connolly rode her horse over the ridge into the narrow valley to the east, a ride she did often. The formerly abandoned property now had someone living there and she was curious to see who it was.

As Lisa rode up to the cabin, a man stepped out of the doorway. She stopped her horse and looked at him, ready to turn and flee. But she relaxed when the man smiled and gave a little wave of the hand. She urged the horse forward to a few yards from the cabin.

The man leaned against the doorframe and smiled broadly. Hi. This is a surprise. Who are you?

Lisa, her anxiety dissipated, smiled and then swung out of the saddle. Hi. I’m Lisa Connolly.

He shook her hand. I’m Tom Morrison. Where’d you come from?

She shrugged. Oh, I ride over here often. Live on the other side of the ridge near the dirt county road. It’s called Quarry Road. Been riding over here for a few years, since the old folks here passed away.

They were my grandparents.

Lisa’s eyes widened. Oh, sorry. I didn’t really know them.

Kinda young to be riding far from home, ain’t ya?

She pursed her lips. Heck, I’m seventeen. I’ve been riding all over for years whenever I can — after I finish my homework and do chores.

So you’ve been up here before, huh?

Many times before you came. She looked at him boldly. I’ve seen strangers up here from time to time. Sometimes in a Jeep, sometimes on foot. I see them and I’m gone.

Good idea. They can’t be up to any good, said Tom.

Probably not. One time I saw a couple guys come outa your barn. I didn’t stick around.

Well, I live here now. I’ll be working to get this place in shape. Nice of you to come by.

Tom watched her get back on the horse, pulling his gaze away when she turned toward him.

I’ll be heading home. She smiled. You think it’d be okay for me to visit once in a while?

Sure. You don’t have many friends over there?

Lisa shook her head. Not really. Mother taught me at home. I started high school in Camden last year. My dad is a truck mechanic in Camden.

Tom shuffled his feet. It’s fine with me for you to visit, but I would want your parents to approve since you’re seventeen. They need to be okay with it and know where you are.

She grinned. Okay. I’ll tell ’em. She nudged her horse into a turn. See ya.

Tom watched as she disappeared into the trees, and shook his head. Cute kid. She shouldn’t be riding alone so far from home.

Chapter 6

Tom purchased a bottle of Chardonnay on the way to Erica’s apartment on the east side of Camden. He had been surprised and excited to receive her phone call and had gladly accepted her invitation for supper on Tuesday evening.

What little he had seen and knew of Erica had piqued his interest. That he was physically attracted to her was something he couldn’t deny. He went there with some trepidation, not wanting to talk about the killing of her ex-husband. Would she pry deeper into whom he was, he wondered.

She welcomed him