Wounded Arrow

By Tom Frye

In this Mythic Fantasy series, the Havelock Emerald is an Irish pub located in the small suburb of Havelock, Nebraska. The Emerald's iconic stained-glass window, depicting a black dragon carrying a bright green emerald in its talons, was gifted to Billy Connors by a Gypsy Chieftain back in Ireland years a

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Cat
• Release date: Aug 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958557112

Book preview

In memory of David Woodrum,

Sargent in the US Army,

and a thank-you to his daughter,

Syd, for her report on PTSD

In memory of the pit bulls

who have not been saved.

Inspired by the ones

now successfully serving

in Law Enforcement

and the US Military.

CHAPTER ONE

Ben: Tuesday

AS A FAMILY Support Worker, Ben Black Bull’s job that after-noon was to transport his new 11-year-old client to and from Child Guidance. Ben’s caseworker informed him before he picked Lucas up that he came from dysfunction junction. His father and his uncle were bikers who had been asked to leave their small country town when the men had demolished headstones in the town’s cemetery. Ben’s caseworker also informed him that she had received death threats from these same bikers, and her last words to him were, Watch yourself. Lucas comes with a lot of baggage.

He sat there in the waiting room calmly reading a book about the Oglala Lakota war chief, Crazy Horse. Most recently, he had been having visions of the great chief and his uncle, Pete He Dog, had suggested he should determine why. Ben had been reading every book ever written about the Strange Man of the Oglala. He was deep in thought, when suddenly, an extremely colorful barrage of words exploded from inside the session room. Next a chair slammed against the wall, the door burst open, and Lucas went racing through the waiting room filled with startled parents. He ran down the hallway and dove into the opening door of an elevator.

By the time Ben reached ground floor, Lucas was already one block ahead of him. Tossing his book in through the open window of his van, he followed Lucas on what turned out to be a six-block chase to the Rampark parking garage in downtown Lincoln, Nebraska.

As the two ran, Lucas reminded Ben of a scrawny scarecrow, his long blond hair flopping wildly, his skinny arms flapping, his thin legs pumping madly, his faded jeans and tattered sweatshirt threatening to swallow him whole, his ankle-high Keds making a steady staccato on the sidewalk.

Trying, yet failing, to close the distance, Ben sighed, This kid can run like a deer!

When he reached the 6th floor of the open-air garage, Lucas had climbed onto the ledge and was seated facing forward, dangerously close to falling sixth stories to the sidewalk below. He held himself by only the tips of his fingers, his arms extended behind him, his head aimed in the direction of his proposed flight down as he said, Come any closer and I will jump!

Ben stayed where he was.

Lucas focused on the Social Services building two blocks away and said, Do you know what those morons did to me? My dad and my uncle are bikers, and those morons placed me in the foster home of a cop! Do you know what that’s like? Who am I supposed to be loyal to? I just wanna die!

Ben believed that young Lucas was determined to take the hard way down. Just listen to me, he said, badly winded from his run.

Lucas scooted himself to the edge of the ledge. I don’t wanna listen! I just want to jump!

His arms stretched behind him, Lucas gripped the ledge with his fingertips and leaned forward. Tears glistening on his cheeks, he spat, Some kids shoot themselves. Some kids take sleeping pills. Some cut their wrists. I used think to those kids were stupid! Now I know why they do it.

Inching his way to his perch on the ledge, Ben froze when he snap-ped, They say I can’t go back to my real home for a long, long time. I just can’t take this, so just let me jump!

Tempted to lunge and latch onto one of his arms, instead Ben said, So, you’re going to let tunnel-vision push you over the edge, huh? You’re only focusing on one thing, not looking beyond your immediate problem. You might think you’re at the lowest point in your life, but situations have a mysterious way of getting better.

Lucas peered down to the hard, unforgiving sidewalk far below. That’s easy for you to say!

No, Ben said, it’s not. Because I remember being fourteen and contemplating suicide myself.

Lucas’s blue eyes slowly focused on Ben. What made you change your mind? he asked.

He nearly said, Because what doesn’t kill you, just makes you stronger. But it wasn’t the time to quote sappy movie lines that sounded like verses of Scripture ever since Arnold quoted them in Conan. No. He simply said, Being tough.

Because toughness meant something to Bikers. Ben knew that. So did Lucas.

So he said, Guess you ain’t a biker then, right?

What? Lucas snapped. What do you know about me? What do you know about any of this?

‘Oh, kid,’ Ben wanted to say, ‘because I grew up wanting to be a biker all of my younger days! I dreamed of becoming a biker up until the day I got a reality check and got locked up in the detention home! Oh yes, I knew all about bikers, kid, long before you were ever born!’

But he didn’t. Instead he said, Well, one thing Bikers are that you’re not, and that is: Bikers are tough. If you were really that tough, you wouldn’t even think that suicide was an option. No, if you were really that tough, you wouldn’t let them win this one over on you.

Lucas followed Ben’s gaze to the Social Services building, then refocused on the street far below.

Ben said, Show them how tough you are, Lucas.

Lucas

I looked at the big Indian dude who had escorted me to my weekly anger management class. He had super long black hair and looked like he could handle himself in a fight. Maybe he was a biker like Dad and my Uncle Nate, for he had that rugged look about him, like he took no guff off of anyone. He reminded me a lot of Wind in His Hair AKA Rodney Grant from my favorite movie, Dances with Wolves. Only instead of being cantankerous like Wind in His Hair was, this guy was nearly talking my ear off there on top of that garage.

Know why I want to jump? I said, checking to make sure he wasn’t sneaking up behind me. "My dad is Stone Holland, president of the Elder’s Den. He and Mom had been fighting. Dad hit her and threatened to drown her in a lake. Gypsy, a member of Dad’s club, pulled him off of Mom. Someone reported the fight to the cops, and they decided to remove me from my home, placing me with a stupid cop and his stupid wife! Three months of living with them drove me completely bonkers. They wake me up every day by shooting me with ice cold water from a spray bottle. They measure out my cereal, making sure I only get three ounces, not a bowl full. And it isn’t Trix or Lucky Charms. It’s Bran Flakes or dry Wheat Chex. Sugared cereal is out for me, since some idiot counselor diagnosed me with ADHD.

"They walk me out to the school bus in the mornings, make sure I get on, and then stupidly stand there in their driveway, waving good-bye. If I get into any kind of trouble at school, I’m grounded when I get home, no playing outside, no TV, no Nintendo, and no computer. The Man Cop said ‘Laws and rules are what keep us all in line. We must all abide by these laws and rules in order to survive in society. If you break a law, you are punished. If you break a rule, you suffer a consequence. You, young man, have had no discipline, no proper instructions on how to behave all of your young life, so you need to be retrained, re-programmed in order for you to succeed in life.’

The Woman Cop said, ‘You were wired wrong. You have several disorders that we need to manage. These disorders, left unchecked will result in you going to detention one day. Eventually, these chaotic disorders will land you in the State Pen, as well. We are your Guardians of Guidance. We are your Saviors, the only ones who can save you from your mad little self!’

Twenty long minutes passed as Ben tried to convince me that suicide had nothing to do with toughness.

I remained fidgety as I clung to the ledge, leaning forward every few seconds to let Ben know I was still serious about taking the hard way down.

CHAPTER TWO

Goblin

THERE CAME A sharp crash that startled me out of a sound sleep. I actually whimpered and let out a shrill bark as I leaped up out of my bedding in my crate. I bumped my nose and scuffed both front paws on the wires at the front of my crate.

*Shh! Goblin!* warned Grunge, the big, Brindle pit bull chained to the tire rim in front of my crate. *Keep yourself quiet! Bad trouble has come calling, little dude!*

I hated it when Grunge called me that. I was little, I would admit, having only been born into this world two months ago. I just didn’t like to be called dude, because it reminded me too much of how our master talked, using ghetto street slang to make himself sound cool around his like-minded friends. *Grunge?* I said. *Don’t call me that. Told you before I am a dog, not a dude.*

But by then, Grunge and I were both silenced by a loud crash coming from the front of the junk yard, our home of homes. The metal door at the front of the garage swung open and banged against the wall. Duce Hammer, his dragon tattoo gleaming on his bald head, stumbled into the garage. He was pushed by the Boar, a large black man. Behind the two, Koops reminded me of a lizard, with his slick greasy hair and his pointed nose.

Where’s the pup? Koops snapped. Stealing him was a bad idea. Let me check him with this GPS device, and if it turns out the little flea bag has been chipped, you’re getting rid of him!

Grunge growled as the Boar moved too close to him. The big black man quickly shuffled away from the pit. Quiet, Grunge! snapped Hammer as he slapped at the dog.

Grunge wheeled away just before Hammer’s hand could connect with his scarred head. He was quick that way, moving like lightning when he wanted to. Grunge was a rather large pit who had seen his fair share of the fighting ring, and because of his fierceness and his lightning speed, he had survived, his head and bulky shoulders criss-crossed by the scars those fights had left him with.

Koops instructed Hammer to open my crate and pull me out. The moment Hammer held me up between them, Koops ran the GPS device over the back of my neck. Beep! Beep! Beep! rang out inside the garage. Beep! echoed in my ears as Koops ran the device over my neck once more.

Koops growled, You managed to break into the rescue barn, steal you a pup, drag him here to turn into a bait dog! Some special investigator planted a chip on this pup for the sole purpose of tracking him down in order to bust our operation! Get rid of him, Hammer!

Hammer held me up, turning me this way and that, as if trying to see the GPS chip I had implanted in the back of my neck. The Boar said, He needs to get rid of the big mangy one, too, right, boss?

Koops said, Both dogs need to go! The quicker they are in the wind, the less chance we have of getting caught in the city-wide sting taking place all over Lincoln. Local cops and Animal Control are cracking down on the fighting rings in the county! And that chip will lead them right here to you!

Hammer leaned down and dumped me next to Grunge. Okay, okay, he said, glancing back at Koops, a flash of anger in his eyes. I’ll get rid of Goblin, but why should I dump Grunge? That beast has won the last twelve matches! He’s made me a rich man in the circuit! Why get rid of him, too? Ain’t getting rid of the pup good enough? What about the upcoming fight?

Koops made a gesture with one hand, and the Boar hauled off and hit my master on the chin. I scampered out of the way as Hammer fell on his rear on top of Grunge’s bedding. I was terrified of the giant black man and I wanted nothing to do with the beating he was going to give my master. Grrrrr! came from deep within Grunge’s thick chest, as he automatically slipped into protection mode. As a fighter, he had no love for Hammer, but still he was obligated to defend him when such aggression was being shown. Grrrr! he warned the Boar. I watched in terror as the Boar reached beneath his jacket and pulled out a pistol. I could not just sit there if he intended to harm my big buddy Grunge. I had to do something, so I barked.

Rowwr! Roof! Rooowwrrr! All three sounds came pouring out of my small mouth, and rather than sound all scary and threatening, they sounded rather pitiful and pathetic.

Laughter burst from Koop’s lips. Well, ain’t he the spunky one? Too bad you can’t keep him, Hammer. With a gutsy pup like this, you could turn him into a real champeen one day!

He waved a hand at the Boar, indicating he should holster his pistol. Do as I say, Hammer. Get rid of both hounds before the bleeding heart investigator comes calling. He might be on his way here even now, seeing as how that chip is active. Because if the cops connects the dots, and those dots lead to me, you will not have long to live. Mark my words.

The next thing we knew, me and Grunge were loaded into Duce Hammer’s old black Pontiac. As he drove us out of the junkyard he owned, he kept nervously checking in his rearview mirror as if he thought he was being followed. You would think he might be sad having to get rid of Grunge like this. But he appeared more angry than sad. He did not like being told what to do, especially by Koops who considered himself the King of the Ring, when it came to dog fighting in Nebraska. Hammer was also angry that someone had the good sense to plant a GPS implant inside of me. He was furious to know that this implant might eventually lead cops directly to his junkyard.

Hammer dumped me out of his car first. One minute I was seated in the backseat next to big Grunge, and the next, Hammer squealed to a stop in the middle of a downtown city street. He stepped out of his Pontiac, opened the back door, latched onto the scruff of my neck, and none too gently planted me on the sidewalk. Good riddance, Snitch dog, Hammer muttered as he slammed the back door closed. I found myself engulfed in the black smoke from his peeling tires as he hastily drove away.

Ben

Ben was just reaching out to the troubled little kid still seated on the ledge of the parking garage, when suddenly, Lucas looked down to the street six stories below where a beat-up black Pontiac had come screeching to a stop. The driver’s door of the car swung open and a white guy with a shiny bald dome reached into the back-seat and dumped something small and dark out on the sidewalk.

A puppy? Lucas gasped, his eyes wide with concern for the tiny gray pit bull puppy sitting there on the sidewalk. Ben’s eyes strayed from the pup to the bald guy, and just before he slammed his door shut, he noted the tattoo of a rampant dragon on the right side of the man’s face. The car then went squealing away down the street.

Oh, no! Lucas whispered. He’s gonna run out into the street! He’s gonna try and catch that car that left him behind!

A second later, Lucas whizzed past Ben on his way to the elevator, determined now to do something about the puppy lost and alone on the sidewalk far below. Ben followed him into the elevator and several minutes later, the doors opened and Lucas flitted past him, racing outside the car park to rescue that pup before he got himself run over out in the street.

Ben followed behind the little biker kid, who was no longer thinking about suicide. No, he was now in rescue mode and he actually took off as if he had wings on his tennies, his sights fixed on the pup hunkering down in terror out in the middle of the street. Lucas darted out in front of a very startled woman driver who had braked just in time to avoid running the pup over. The poor lady actually let out a shriek as Lucas pounded on her hood with both of his balled fists. Don’t move, lady! he commanded, nailing her with a fierce gaze. He then centered on the gray pit bull pup cowering at his feet, and it’s as if his whole world had spun to a stop.

Ben saw the warm look in his blue eyes, the tears that came unbidden to slowly trickle down his cheeks.

Lucas scooped the pup up into his arms. This little biker kid who had only a short time ago blown so fiercely out of anger management, led Ben on a wild chase down six city blocks, and swore so that he wanted to die, was transformed in those next several seconds as he cradled the pup in his grasp.

Offering the frightened lady a dismissive glance, Lucas snuggled the pup against his chest and carried him to the safety of the sidewalk.

Goblin

Thinking only of being separated from my good buddy, I watched with worry as Hammer sped away down the street, Grunge peer-ing through the back window of the Pontiac, offering me a last, sad, forlorn look. *Bye-bye, Grunger,* I said, feeling a pain in my small heart. I then looked up at the small, skinny golden-haired kid who held me. And then, emotions washed over me. Fear. Rage. Sadness. Confusion. Helplessness. Hopelessness. And a feeling I had never ex-perienced before, Defiance. They all seemed to be swirling around this kid as he carried me. I did not know the word for it then, being only two-months into this world, but I was feeling what he felt in a big-time way. And it sent me into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions that made me whimper and squirm in his grasp.

Struggling to keep me held snugly against his thin chest, the boy with the messy blond hair peered down and locked gazes with me, and I detected something more at the center of the storm.

There beneath the surface of his raw emotions, was a calmness that made me think everything was going to be all right.

The troubled boy said, It’s okay, now, Tiger, I have you. You are safe, and nothing bad is coming your way.

CHAPTER THREE

Lucas

I GAVE BEN credit for keeping me from leaping off that car park: Thanks, for saving my life.

But Ben simply said, It was the pup who got you off that ledge, not me.

I insisted on carrying the little fur-ball the six blocks back to Ben’s van and as we walked I said, Yes, it was lame of me to want to jump off that garage, but try having two cops as foster parents. The lectures drove me over the edge. Try that on for a daily dose each day.

The Indian dude said, Try living on the rez, see how that would suit you. I was born on Pine Ridge. It is a rez up north, a shared space between Nebraska and South Dakota. Growing up there, I lived with my uncle, Pete He Dog. He watched all those Dog Whisperer shows, and fancied himself a dog trainer. Uncle Pete raised pits. He said pits were the most loyal of all dogs, and since they got such a bad rap because of thugs in the world, most pits know they have a lot to compensate for by showing themselves to be most noble, loyal, and eager to please their masters. It’s like each pit knows the bad reputation they’ve had over the years, and so they know they have something to prove. Animal Control officers used to just put pits to sleep, but now, more pit bulls are being sent to no-kill shelters. And cops and the military are actually adopting them as service dogs.

This Ben Black Bull could talk. This Native had a lot of wind.

Did you know, Ben asked me, being extra careful not to make eye contact with me, as if he knew how uncomfortable that made me, that Pit bulls have been famous throughout history? Most people claim Pits are bred to kill. Most people have the notion that American Staffordshire Terriers are natural born killers.

I had to ask, Staffordshire?

Pits, Ben said, are known as Staffordshire Terriers, part bull dog, part terrier, descendants of the English bull-baiting dogs that were bred to go into a pit and fight against bulls and bears. When bull-baiting was outlawed in the 1800s, people turned instead to fighting their dogs against each other. Larger, slower bull-baiting dogs were crossed with smaller, quicker terriers to be fighting dogs. Pits may be labeled as vicious dogs, but all dogs have a wolf-like attack mode they are born with. Rarely do they act on it. It’s only after some cruel thug ramps their aggression meter past the point of no return do they turn a loving pit into a monster.

He paused as we approached his black van parked before the Child Guidance building, then he went on blabbing. Killer pits are man-made. Weak men who can’t dominate in any other way, turn to breeding hot-tempered dogs to entertain themselves like gladiators. And yet Pit bulls have been famous throughout history. Pete from the Little Rascals. Billie Holiday’s pit, Mister. Helen Keller’s pit, Sir Thomas. President Roosevelt’s pit, Pete. Sergeant Stubby, who served during World War I. Weela, who helped save 32 people. D-Boy, who took three bullets to save his family from an intruder.

He paused again, surprised to find me actually listening to him. Talking about pits was not boring me at all. In that past year, I had drowned out what most adults said to me like Charlie Brown listening to his teacher, Blah! Blah! Blah! I had not listened to most things that most adults said to