Steve Carr

Volvo Ocean Race - Leg 3

2012-02-24T15:24:00.036-08:00

13 Days of Non-Stop Mayhem

Team Sanya at the start of the second stage of Leg 3.

IAN ROMAN/VOR

When we last checked on The Volvo Ocean Race, the 15-ton, 70-foot-long boats were safely in Abu Dhabi — after hopping a stealth freighter to avoid pirates in the Indian Ocean. Leg 3 begins with the usual in-port race in Abu Dhabi, home of the boat in second-to-last place, and continues to Sanya, China, home of the boat in last place.

An Arabian fairy tale came true as British Olympian Ian Walker skippered hometown favorite Team Abu Dhabi to victory in the Etihad In-Port Race. Walker’s risk paid off in the shifty winds of the Persian Gulf, earning his boat its second in-port victory in three races so far. The next day, the Shamal Winds came rolling in from the desert.

Abu Dhabi Sails to Stage 1 Victory
Paul Todd/VOR

Race leader Telefonica looked to continue its winning ways, dominating the 106-mile race along the coast of the Arab Emirates. Then, with only two miles to go, the crew of old hands of Abu Dhabi pulled another rabbit out of the hat. Abu Dhabi’s black, falcon-crested boat known as Azzam (Determination) — a radically designed racer by Bruce Farr of Annapolis — sailed to a one-minute victory over the hard-luck boys on Puma, taking the first stage of Leg 3 to Sanya, China.

A Fisheye View aboard Sanya
Andres Soriano.Team Sanya/VOR

Then it was back into the box.

The fully rigged boats were reloaded at Sharjah onto the yellow security freighter and transported to a mystery isle deep in the Indian Ocean (the Maldivian port of Male). Unloaded, they sailed away without fear of capture by pirates.
Snake-bit Team Sanya rejoined the fleet for the second stage. While the fleet was resting, racing and retooling in Abu Dhabi, the Chinese boat had been re-rigging in Madagascar since early in Leg 2. Bad luck throughout the fleet had been such that all six Volvos were now reunited for the first time since the race began in Alicante, Spain.

Let’s Put Leg 3 in Perspective

Each leg of the Volvo Ocean Race is a long-running drama of complex acts. Leg 3 was no exception.

Act 1 was a 1,000-mile straight line, sweltering burn-run on port tack, sailing south of Sri Lanka and across the Bay of Bengal toward the waypoint at Pulau We, off the coast of Indonesia. The first night out, Telefonica’s Code Zero headsail ripped and the boat fell to the back of the fleet. Having nothing to lose, Telefonica went north while all the others sailed east. Puma and Camper traded leads daily — only to see Telefonica scream in from the north a few days later and steal the show.

After damage in the first two legs forced Team Sanya to withdraw, the crew of the Chinese boat hoped to make a good showing in Leg 3, which ends in its home port. But it’s clear their boat, Telefonica Blue from the last Volvo Ocean Race, simply cannot compete with the latest generation of Volvo boats. That doesn’t mean Team Sanya can’t get lucky and have a gamble pay off. But over the long haul the Chinese boat is way over-matched.

Act 2 restarted near the entrance to the Malacca Strait at the northern tip of Sumatra. Lead boats hit light winds while the boats at the back rode a stronger breeze to catch up. No lead is ever safe. That’s one of the maddening aspects of long-distance sailboat raciing.

Patching the sail on Abu Dhabi
Nick Dana/VOR

Malacca Strait is a narrow, 500-mile-long channel filled with freighters, fishing boats, drift nets, uncharted reefs, unpredictable winds and a surreal assortment of floating debris. Puma hit a big tree that busted a dagger board. After clawing back into the lead, the boat snagged a fishing net and dropped to third. It was like sailing through a video game where everything is out to get you.

Puma’s navigator Tom Addis set the stage. “There’s plenty to hit, sandbanks and wrecks, the weather is really unstable — and through all of that you still have to rest so you can remain sane and make good decisions.”

In three days of dueling lead changes, Team Abu Dhabi tore a sail and Camper got parked under a windless cloud. Thus ended both of their chances to win Leg 3. Act Two ended as it began, with Telefonica pin-balling out the Singapore side of the Malacca Strait in first, followed 20 minutes later by Groupama, sailing with the rest of the fleet this leg. Puma followed, seven miles back.

Gales and Jackhammer Waves

Act Three began with a bang as the fleet battled the 35-knot, gale-force winds and the 12-foot jackhammer waves of the South China Sea. Leaving Malaysia to starboard, the fleet began the dangerous 1,000-mile upwind odyssey, dodging rocky reefs and floating landfills.

The original plot line, based on the winning strategy of the last Volvo Ocean Race, was to hug the coast of Vietnam and use it as a shield from wind and current. This final stage of Leg 3 was all about survival and sailing as fast as possible without breaking the boat.

But after a few days of playing catch-up in third, Puma tested the fates by sailing east into an area known as the Dangerous Ground, daring the rest of the fleet to come out and play. No one took the bait, and the wind gods hit Puma with a granddaddy header that pushed the boat back to Vietnam and into a disappointing fourth position.
After 13 days of non-stop mayhem, Leg 3 ended with a bone-crushing tacking duel across Sanya Bay that pushed the exhausted crews to their limits.

Telefonica took line honors for the third consecutive Leg. The only other boat to win the first three legs of the Volvo Ocean Race is Sir Peter Blakes’ Steinlager 2 in 1989-’90.

Telefonica Powers to Leg 3 Victory
Paul Todd/ VOR

Next Stop: Auckland, New Zealand.

Between my reports, follow the race at volvooceanrace.com/en/home.html.

Volvo Ocean Race - Leg 2

2012-02-14T20:50:00.000-08:00

Leg 2 of the Volvo Ocean Race

Battling rough seas and evading pirates

Ian Roman/Volvo Ocean Race

On a perfect day for racing in Capetown, South Africa, Telefonica tightened its stranglehold on first place by winning the in-port race. But the real winners were the three boats that had made it to the starting line after withdrawing from the first leg because of equipment failures.

The following day, all six of the boats began Leg 2, a 5,000-mile slog to Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates. Hundreds of spectator boats came out to watch that country’s boat, Abu Dhabi, lead the way out of Capetown.

Ian Roman/Volvo Ocean Race

The usual strategy of heading south to catch the strong northerlies was blown out the window when a giant high-pressure system parked to the south. Instead, navigators charted a course along the coast of South Africa.

The strong breeze vanished with nightfall. Drifting along at about two knots within sight of one another, the sailors wondered what they had done to anger the wind gods. Telefonica was forced to drop anchor to keep from going backwards.

Yan Riou/Groupama Sailing Team, Volvo Ocean Race

For the next two days, the boats took turns leading the way along the African coast. Battling a 10-knot headwind, the crews tacked and stacked toward the Indian Ocean without sleep.

Africa had one more trick up its sleeve. The Agulhas Bank, a stretch of shallow water where the warm southerly Agulhas current meets the cold Beneguela current just east of the Cape of Good Hope, stirred up a maze of boat-busting waves.

Groupama helmsman Charles Caudrelier explained the scene: “We had waves from every direction, and the boat didn’t stop slamming.”

Yan Riou/Groupama Sailing Team, Volvo Ocean Race

Once free of the African pile driver, the race essentially restarted. Sailing east, the fleet split along a north-south axis to find the quickest route through a low-pressure trough of light air. Telefonica took the northern route, while the French on Groupama sailed 200 miles to the south. The other boats split the difference.

Abu Dhabi media crew member Nick Dana described near madness: “Try this on your brain: three to four knots of wind, sails brutally slapping the rig. Within seconds it shifts 60 degrees, gusts 15 to 18 knots and tips the boat over. The strong pressure lasts two minutes maximum and requires moving tons of sails. Then the breeze dies again in a matter of seconds and sends the boat upright and the sails against the rig, sending chills down everyone’s spines. Put that on repeat for 15 straight hours and see how you come out the other side.”

Torture and Misery
The teams endured four days and nights of this physical and mental torture. Finally, Sanya couldn’t take it anymore and banged a hard left due north into the jaws of a fearsome storm. The Chinese boat quickly went from last to first. Then disaster struck for a second time. The masthead rigging came apart at the spreaders, forcing the crew to suspend racing and head to the Madagascar Port of Ehoala.

Andres Soriano/Team Sanya/Volvo Ocean Race

Groupama’s gambit to head south paid off. On day five, as the rest of the Volvos finally punched through into fresh wind, the whole fleet turned in tandem to the northeast. Meanwhile, the French power-surfed into the lead.

Christmas Eve, the 11th day of the maddening leg, found the tight pack just north of Madagascar, with Groupama leading toward yet another sweltering windless wall. At The Inter-Tropical Convergence Zone, the boats compressed together for the third restart. Now Camper and Telefonica guessed right on the shortest wind line through the doldrums. The pair spent the next two days within sight of one another match-racing.

Into the Stealth Zone
Then the fleet mysteriously vanished into the Stealth Zone.

Piracy is a major industry in the Indian Ocean. Capturing a Volvo boat would bring a pretty penny. The race hired Dryad Maritime Intelligence Service to keep the teams out of harm’s way. Their solution — a first in the race’s 38-year history — was to electronically cloak the fleet as it secretly sailed to a secure, prearranged port. There the 15-ton Volvos were loaded onto a razor-wire garlanded freighter.

Paul Todd/ Volvo Ocean Race

After 15 days of insane racing, Telefonica reached the still top-secret safe haven first. Finishing a mere 1:57 seconds ahead of Camper, Telefonica took 80 percent of the points for the leg.

The fleet was then shipped to an undisclosed spot off the coast of the United Arab Emirates where the boats were unloaded for stage two and the mad dash to Abu Dhabi.

Groupama snagged the remaining six points by rolling Telefonica at the last mark of the wind-whipped, 98-mile sprint through the Persian Gulf, winning stage two of Leg 2 by 52 seconds.

Paul Todd/ Volvo Ocean Race

Next Stop: Sanya, China.

© COPYRIGHT 2010 by New Bay Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved.

Good Winter Reads Including My Latest Book About Grand Canyon

2011-12-16T13:49:00.001-08:00

http://bayweekly.com/articles/books/article/winter-reads

Sailing 101

2011-12-11T06:50:00.000-08:00

Know Your Racing

The Volvo Ocean Race isn’t the only high-profile sailing event

The oldest yacht race in the world, The America’s Cup pits multi-million-dollar catamarans against one another.

The Volvo Ocean Race is an around-the-world marathon showcasing 70-foot high-tech sailing machines. Precise rules govern boat and sail design, making each boat similar. It takes the racers nine months to sail the globe, with extended stops in eight ports. The boats are sponsored by syndicates that hire the world’s finest sailors to ride these carbon-fiber, sail-powered rockets. It costs about $100 million to play that game. The winner gets a silver chalice that can easily hold a couple bottles of champagne.

The America’s Cup is arguably the best-known sailing race in the world. It started in 1851 as a throw-down between Britain and the United States, both sailing knife-like, 12-meter yachts. In the current incarnation, 72-foot catamarans from countries far and wide will be crewed by hired-gun sailors making six-figure salaries, competing in a round-robin series of matches, with the winner earning the right to take on Team Oracle, the current America’s Cup champion, in a best-of-seven series.
The race has recently been embroiled in legal challenges and petty billionaire backbiting, but in 2013, the America’s Cup will be hosted by the Golden Gate Yacht Club in shark-infested San Francisco Bay. The winner gets the oldest active trophy in international sport, a rather hideous-looking metal thing the size of a small child.

The America’s Cup World Series is a tune-up for the America’s Cup, with crews from the U.S., New Zealand, France, Sweden, Italy, Spain, China and Korea. They race specially designed 45-foot, carbon fiber, wing-sailed cats that can triple wind speed and hit 30-plus knots. In 2012, they will battle it out in Naples and Venice, Italy, and then Newport, Rhode Island, from June 23 to July 1. The winner at each venue gets a large silver plate.

The Velux 5 Oceans Race calls itself the Ultimate Solo Challenge. It covers 30,000 nautical miles, making it the longest single-handed sailing event in the world and the longest race for individuals in any sport. Every four years, a small handful of crazed challengers skipper standardized Eco 60s around the globe, starting in France with stopovers in South Africa, New Zealand, Uruguay and South Carolina. The last race was in 2010-’11. The winner received a glass trophy that looks like a little blue pancake boat.

The Clipper Round the World Yacht Race was conceived in 1995 by well-known yachtsman Sir Robin Knox-Johnston and, for pay, gives amateur crew members the chance to sail around the world. The organizers put together a fleet of identical 68-foot yachts, each named for a specific place — usually a city — and provide qualified skippers to lead each 17-person team. The crews are comprised of people from all walks of life, who can either sign up for the whole race, at a cost of $68,335, or one or more legs, at $16,520 a pop.
The Clipper race follows the prevailing currents and winds. The 40,000-mile jaunt takes 11 months, has 15 stages and stops in eight ports. The race is currently underway. The boats just left Australia, heading for New Zealand. Maybe the Volvos will catch them.

The World Match Racing Tour is the only professional monohull series now that the America’s Cup has decided to go with the big cats. Nine World Championship events are held each year across the globe in on-the-water stadiums, following a match-race format, using one-design racing yachts that change for each event. The top point-getter receives a cool $500,000 and a silver chalice crowned with blue glass sails.

photo by Stan Schreyer

The feather-light Extreme 40s reach such high speeds they can go air-bound.

The Extreme Sailing Series started in 2007 as part of the in-port events surrounding the Volvo Ocean Race and is now in its fifth season.
This is the Formula 1 version of sailing, featuring Extreme 40s, feather-light, carbon multi-hulls that literally take to the air as they scream along at powerboat speeds. This is stadium sailing, taking place in harbors or along coastlines, where thousands of people can watch the flying hulls in action.
Some of the world’s top match racers battle it out on short triangle courses that guarantee spectacular crashes, barrel-roll flips and exploding boats. Each race takes 15 to 20 minutes, and about eight are run, with VIP hot seats where you can join the four-man crew and get launched like a pro. There’s big prize money for the winners. And this is probably the future of sailing.

Volvo Ocean Race 2011/2012 - Leg #1 - 6,500 Grueling Miles From Alicante, Spain to Capetown, South Africa

2011-12-09T01:03:00.000-08:00

40,000 Miles of Heartbreak and Thrills

The Volvo Ocean Race is back on the water

The Volvo fleet leaves Alicante, Spain, at the start of Leg One.

The machines are scary sharp, the crews wear bright and sexy clothing and the thrills and spills will keep you coming back for your fear-factor fix.

That’s sailing we’re talking about, not Grand Prix auto racing.

While we await Christmas and winter, one of the biggest shows in the world is playing out. So take a break from holiday madness for a turn on the water.

Follow the racers round the world at www.volvooceanrace.com and in Bay Weekly.

The Curse of Leg One

Presided over by a prince and princess — Felipe and Letizia of Asturias — the 11th Volvo Ocean Race began with fanfare and fireworks. It ended with a curse.

In Alicante, Spain, as in every port along the 39,270-nautical-mile course, the racers compete in an in-port race before taking to open waters.

According to Volvo lore, the boat that wins the first in-port race is doomed to a mechanical breakdown in Leg One.

The curse delivered.

Strike One

Englishman Ian Walker skippered Abu Dhabi from the United Arab Emirates — the first-ever entry from an Arab country — to a 12-minute victory in the in-port race.

photo by Paul Todd; Volvo Ocean Race

After winning the first in-port race, Abu Dhabi was knocked out when its mast splintered in rough waters.

The next day, the fleet barreled west out of the Mediterranean toward the tricky bottleneck at Gibraltar, battling a fierce gale and a nasty current. Just six hours and 84 miles into the 6,500-nautical-mile leg to Cape Town, they were crashing along in total darkness when their mast shattered into three pieces.

Crewman Wade Morgan bravely jumped into the sea to cut the rigging loose so they could retrieve the million-dollar mast. They motored back to Alicante, where they spent the next few days installing a new mast before jumping back into the race. After a day of getting thrashed in heavy weather, they withdrew. If they had broken their only remaining mast, they were out of the Volvo for good, and testing a new mast under stormy conditions was not the way to go. So scratch the Arabs in Leg One.

Strike Two

That same evening, Team Sanya — the first Chinese entry in Volvo history — was smashing along the southern coast of Spain when the boat started to take on water. The wind was blowing 43 knots with 35-foot waves when a long gash opened up along the starboard bow.

photo by Marc Bow; Volvo Ocean Race

On Leg One Sanya was knocked out of commission with a gash in the hull.

“We suddenly felt a very odd lurch, like dragging the keel through soft mud. We could hear the noise of water coming into the bow,” wrote the skipper, two-time Volvo winner Mike Sanderson. “For sure if the watertight doors had not been shut, we would have been sunk. We got the pumps going … our situation stabilized, and we suspended racing and headed to the nearest port.”

After much debate, the team decided to ship the boat to South Africa. Scratch the Chinese.

Strike Three

Volvo wisdom says that once you enter the Atlantic, you head west — away from your destination — catch the Trade Winds and tack south toward the mark off Brazil that all the boats must pass to port.

But Frank Cammas, skippering Groupama, France’s first Volvo entry in many a moon, decided to test fate and head due south, hugging the African Coast where a steady easterly was making for fast sailing. But the winds off Africa are fickle. When they spit you out at the point where it’s a straight shot southwest to Brazil, you are facing a vast windless zone known as the Diablo Triangle. Scratch the French.

Riding the Wind

Meanwhile, back west, the three remaining boats had finally hit the Trade Winds, had tacked south and were running at a 20-knot clip with Puma in a knock-down drag-out with Telefonica, while Camper clung to third about 100 miles back pinballing through the Doldrums.

With half the race over and 3,000 miles to go, Puma was first through the non-scoring gate at the island of Fernando de Noranha. As they crossed the equator, King Neptune handed out silly pills and the virgins on each boat were ceremoniously humiliated.

The big question when you’re racing to Cape Town is when to stop sailing south and start heading east. Standing between you and a frosty Castle Lager is another windless expanse of ocean the size of Texas called the St. Helena High, where hot air meets cold and mixes unpredictably in the South Atlantic Convergence Zone. That always spells trouble.

Telefonica pulled the trigger first and made a break to the east before Puma knew what hit her, taking the lead as the boats prepared to scoot around St. Helena’s bottom and hit the stormy cold-weather wall of wind that had produced the 24-hour world distance record for monohulls in the last Volvo Race (596.6 nautical miles for Ericsson 4 under Captain Torben Grael in 2009).

Media crewman Hamish Cooper, aboard Camper, wrote, “It’s like being on a low-flying aeroplane.’’

Strike Four

On day 17, 2,150 miles from Cape Town, Puma’s skipper, Ken Read, radioed in to Ocean Race headquarters. “We were beam reaching in 22 to 23 knots of breeze with eight to 10 foot waves … in the middle of freakin’ nowhere … when the mast failed.” Scratch the Americans.

photo by Armory Ross; Volvo Ocean Race

After a broken mast knocked Puma out of Leg One, it was loaded aboard the freighter Team Brenen and shipped to Cape Town.

To join the fleet for Leg Two, Puma faced a logistical nightmare.

Cooper described the first step: “We were dehydrated of diesel, sucking fumes. With each new jug pulled aboard, roped in hand-over-hand from the deck of the super-freighter Zim Monaco, came another pile of miles toward our mid-Atlantic salvation island of Tristan.”

Tristan Da Cunha, a speck of lava in the South Atlantic, is the world’s most remote settlement. A former British outpost known as the Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, Tristan is only seven miles wide with a population of 262, mostly lobstermen. After a few days of playing cow-pasture golf, hiking the volcanic peaks and scarfing down fresh lobster with cold lager, the crew motored over to the lee side of the island to meet its rescuers.

Their boat, Volvo-veteran Mar Mostro, was hoisted by crane onto the pitching deck of a cargo ship specially outfitted with a cradle so the Puma shore team could make repairs as they motored the 1,200 miles to Cape Town, where a new mast would be installed.

Telefonica Victorious

photo by Ian Roman; Volvo Ocean Race

After 21 days at sea, Telefonica sailed into Cape Town, more than 200 miles ahead of the next boat.

Meanwhile, Telefonica avoided breakdown and rode the Cape Doctor, the steady southeast breeze around Cape Town, to victory, finishing in a little over 21 days and beating Camper by 210 miles and Groupama by 830 miles.

After so much drama, the finish was almost anti-climactic. Leg One was more about survival than strategy, and the sailing wounded, Puma, Sanya and Abu Dhabi, still have much work ahead if they are going to make the in-port race on December 10.

Next stop: Abu Dhabi.

Leader Board After Leg One

The Volvo Ocean Race uses a high scoring system, with the overall winner the team with the most points at the end of the race. All legs count with no discards allowed.

For leg points, the winner is awarded the total of the number of entries (six) multiplied by five; i.e. 6 x 5 = 30 points for the winner. For in-port races, the ratio is six boats multiplied by one, accounting for approximately 20 percent of the total points on offer.

Meet the Volvo Teams

Abu Dhabi Ocean Racing (United Arab Emirates): Englishman Ian Walker, a double Olympic Medalist and 2008-’09 Volvo skipper, has recruited a mongrel crew of old hands to sail the black, falcon-crested boat called Azzam (Determination), a radically designed boat by Bruce Farr of Annapolis and built by Italy’s Persico Apa in Bergamo.

Camper (Spain and New Zealand): Spanish shoemaker Camper is teaming up with a seasoned crew of Kiwis led by three-time Volvo veteran Chris Nicholson aboard a Marcelino Botin-designed boat built by Cookson Boats in Auckland, New Zealand.

Groupama (France): French offshore-legend Franck Cammas competes in the first two legs of the race with a veteran French and Swedish crew. Cammas has only signed on for the first two legs. Then he will leave and a new, and at this point undisclosed, skipper will be hired to run the boat, designed by Argentinean Juan Kouyoumdjian, who already has two Volvo winners under his belt.

Puma Ocean Racing powered by Berg (United States): American Ken Read returns at the helm after a strong showing in 2008-’09 aboard Mar Mostro, the Sea Monster, another Juan Kouyoumdjian-designed boat built at New England Boatworks in Newport, Rhode Island.

Team Sanya (China): China’s first Volvo entry flies the Phoenix bird and has a mostly veteran New Zealand crew led by two-time, Volvo-winning Kiwi skipper Mike Sanderson aboard the refitted
Telefonica Blue, a podium finisher in the 2008-’09 race.

Team Telefonica (Spain): Dual Olympic medalist Iker Martinez leads Team Telefonica on its third successive Volvo Ocean Race with a veteran Spanish and Brazilian crew sailing a third-generation Volvo 70 boat designed by Juan Kouyoumdjian and built at the King Marine shipyard in Valencia, Spain.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 37 - Part II

2011-12-04T16:37:00.001-08:00

It had taken Barry Smoot almost three hours to secure the warrant and drive down to Kanab from Cedar City. He had arrived with little time to spare.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Judge Keating, would you?” Barry asked the distinguished-looking, white-haired man standing in the hatchway of the plane.

The mustachioed gentleman glared down at the Sheriff. “I most certainly am. How may I assist you, Officer?”

Barry stopped beneath the older man and took off his hat to wipe his sweaty brow. “I’d like to ask you some questions, Judge. If you don’t mind.”

The Judge scowled. “Concerning?”

“Well, it’s about a murder case we’re working on. We have reason to believe that the helicopter you were flying in this morning might have been used by a fella named B.T. Saunders to commit several felonies. You wouldn’t happen to know Saunders, would you?”

The Judge took a sip of his beer before answering. “I believe he is a helicopter pilot for Arizona Strip Nuclear. I am a stockholder in that company and I have heard his name mentioned in the context of our mining operations.”

“Have you ever met him before?”

“It is entirely possible. What did you say your name was?”

“Sheriff Barry Smoot.”

“I may have met this Mr. Saunders before, Sheriff Smoot. I meet many people in my line of work. However, at my age, one tends to forget a large number of the names and faces.”

Barry smiled absent-mindedly; there was something about this man that he did not like. “You just getting back from the ASN mine?”

The Judge ran his right index finger along the rim of the beer bottle as he spoke. “That is correct. I try and stop in at the ASN mine every month or so, to see how the business is progressing. I met the head engineer at a new hole that is being drilled about thirty miles from the ASN office. I inspected the site with Mr. Todd Krieter for several hours, and then I flew back here to Kanab.”

“That’s a real nice plane you got there, Judge,” said Barry as he tucked in his shirttail.

“It is my pride and joy, Sheriff,” replied the Judge as he caressed the side of the plane.

“Mind if I come aboard and have a look around?”

The Judge frowned. “For what reason?”

“Well now, I noticed that you’ve got a lot of boxes inside there, and I was sort of wondering what you might be carrying?”

“Frankly, Sheriff, that is none of your business,” growled the Judge.

Barry’s eyes raised with interest. “People around here are usually more than happy to help the police do their job – except, of course, when they got something to hide.”

“You can save that kind of insulting talk for the locals, Sheriff. In America, a man has the right to his privacy. I am well within my rights to refuse your request to inspect my airplane.”

“Suit yourself,” replied Barry as he pulled a letter from his back pocket. “Would you mind telling me what’s in the boxes?”

The Judge blushed with anger as he began yelling at the policemen. “I most definitely mind, Officer Coot!” thundered the Judge, purposely mispronouncing the Sheriff’s name. “Do you have trouble understanding the English language, or are you just dim-witted?”

Barry’s jaw muscles tightened as he struggled to control his temper. It had been a long time since anyone, other than maybe a drunk, had addressed him in that tone. “I just asked you a simple question. If you don’t want to be neighborly, that’s fine, but you don’t have to get rude about it.”

“I pump a great deal of money into the local economy through my very substantial investments in the ASN mine. It is my way of being neighborly. As a retired federal judge, I not only have an excellent understanding of how the law works, but I also have a profound respect for individual freedom. I take great exception to any law enforcement officer who uses his position of authority and trust to intimidate his fellow citizens. And if you persist with your present line of questioning, I will be forced to take up this matter with your superiors.”

“That’s your right, Judge,” said Barry with a tight-lipped smile. “But I’m still awful darn curious why a fellow like you – a retired federal judge, and all – would refuse to help a police officer with a murder investigation?”

The Judge dismissed the sheriff with a wave of his left hand. “I have said all I care to say to you, Sheriff. Now if you would be so kind as to move your vehicle, I have important business elsewhere and would like to depart from this little paradise.”

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 37 - Part I

2011-11-19T12:12:00.001-08:00

The day-glow orange windsock at the Kanab Airport flapped violently in the breeze as the Judge set the Bell Ranger down on the paved section of the runway near the back of the maintenance shed. He had parked his Lear jet a few feet away to transfer the contents of the helicopter into the plane’s storage bay. The maintenance building shielded the aircraft from the main terminal, making it impossible for the air traffic controller to see what the Judge was doing. The mechanic on duty in the shop that morning had told the Judge that he was going rabbit hunting and would be gone all afternoon. The Judge figured it would take him about an hour to load the jet. He glanced down at his Rolex; it was 12:30.

The Judge shut down the engines and left the key in the ignition. He couldn’t afford to waste any time, but it was also very important that he not leave anything that might tie the helicopter to the raid on the Paria Plateau. As he climbed out of the cramped pilot’s seat, he looked around to make sure he was still alone. There were no incoming or outgoing planes, and no employees in sight. He opened the back hatch on the chopper and untied the straps holding down the boxes that filled the entire rear storage area. He removed his jacket, stowed it in the aft compartment, and got down to business.

An hour later, the Judge sat exhausted in the cargo door of his plane. The back of his shirt was soaked with perspiration and sweat dripped down his face. At his age, it was getting harder and harder to rebound from heavy physical exertion. The Judge sighed and wished he was still a smoker, so he could light up a cigarette after a job well done. He settled for a cold Heineken from the refrigerator on his jet. A quick peak at his watch told him what he already knew, that he should be working to get airborne, rather than just sitting there drinking beer. But his body told him he better rest a little while longer if he didn’t want to have a heart attack. As he leaned against the cargo bay, he mentally double-checked that he hadn’t forgotten anything incriminating on board the Ranger. He had wiped the entire interior with a rag so there weren’t any telltale fingerprints. After that, he had swept and vacuumed the floor. The cargo of illegal artifacts was safely aboard the jet, and nobody could prove they ever saw the boxes inside the chopper. He had cleaned up the broken windshield glass. And he had called Todd Krieter at the ASN mine and told him that if anyone asked, he was to confirm that the Judge had flown into the mine in the company chopper earlier that morning for a brief inspection tour of one of the new exploratory mines near the Kanab wilderness Area. Krieter was too scared to argue and agreed to do as he was instructed. The Judge’s alibi was now ironclad. The police really didn’t stand a chance.

The sudden sound of squealing tires came from the entrance road. The Judge turned to listen. The maintenance shed blocked his view, but he could tell the vehicle was getting closer. Either someone was out racing on the airport road, or the police were making their grand entrance. There were no sirens wailing, so the Judge guessed it was some local Mormon kids out for a joy ride.

He guessed wrong.

A black and white Utah police car swerved around the corner of the building and screeched to a halt in front of the Lear jet, insuring that the plane stayed right where it was.

Sheriff Barry Smoot lumbered out of his police car and wiped his florid face with a red bandanna. It had been a wild and wooly morning. Ever since he had gotten the call from Sheriff Pratt’s office, warning him of the imminent arrival of B.T. Saunders’ accomplice at the Kanab Airport, Barry had been a very busy man. The only information he had was that a Judge Keating had flown into Kanab at nine that morning in his private jet and had taken the ASN helicopter for an inspection trip of the mine. Sheriff Jason Pratt’s dispatcher, Velma Jensen, said the Judge was suspected of being involved with Saunders and pothunting. The remaining details were sketchy. There were still three missing persons on the Paria, but one had radioed in to say she was fine. The Judge had been seen leaving in the direction of the Paria Plateau.

Velma ended with, “Sheriff Pratt suspects the Judge was flying to the Paria to meet Saunders, who was probably raiding Anasazi ruins up on the plateau.”

Barry pondered this riddle. If Jason was right, then when the Judge returned to Kanab later in the day, he would be carrying incriminating evidence, which might be anything from Indian artifacts to kidnap victims.

Velma’s disjointed alert made for an interesting story, but it was not exactly the stuff from which search warrants were made. But this was not the usual case by any stretch of the imagination. It involved multiple murders, drugs, weapons, and pothunting. Judge Cram had granted Jason’s original request for a warrant to search the Saunder’s home in Hurricane, and the hunt had proved right on target. Sheriff Pratt knew what he was doing. There was good reason to believe that the ASN helicopter had been previously used in the commission of multiple capital crimes. At present, the connection to Judge Keating was of a rather tenuous nature, but given Jason’s excellent track record with the investigation, Judge Cram was inclined to grant the warrant to search the Keating jet.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 36 - Part IV

2011-09-24T09:51:00.001-07:00

The bullet entered through B.T.’s right nipple right and exited cleanly, just below his right shoulder blade. The jolt of the impact sent him flying sideways like a rag doll. As he hit the ground, he heard the echoing reverberation of a high-powered rifle. The only thing that registered was utter amazement. Blood flowed freely from the wound and a numbness began to spread across his upper body like an icy chill.

B.T. summoned all of his remaining strength and rolled over onto his back. He could hear the sound of a truck coming down the road, but he could not lift his head to look. He put his right hand over the seeping hole in his chest, and a sense of deja vu engulfed him like a wave. He saw himself back inside the dark Laotian cave, holding his guts in with his bare hands and listening to the old magician telling him about spirit-catching. Death had been so close that time he could taste it, and by all rights he should have died. But he hadn’t. And not only had B.T. miraculously survived, but he had gone on to become a master soul-provider for the gods. Was this how they rewarded his many sacrifices?

The truck stopped nearby and the engine went silent. B.T. listened as a door opened and closed. Someone began walking down the road toward him, but he still couldn’t see who it was. B.T. swallowed a bitter trickle of blood and blinked his green eyes furiously as he tried desperately to hang onto life.

A face came into view as a rifle barrel prodded his chest. It was the weather-beaten face of an old man, sporting several days growth of grey stubble. A non-filtered Camel cigarette hung from his chapped lips. B.T. had never seen the man before.

“If you were a goddamn deer, you’d be dead, Red,” chuckled the old man. “That’s a clean shoulder shot. Bet you didn’t even feel a thing, did ya?”

B.T. struggled to focus, his mind spinning in confusion. “Who the hell are you?”

“Billy Mangum’s the name. I run a couple hunnerd head of cattle out this way. And I promised a friend of mine that I was gonna blast the piss out of the next person I caught messing with my fences. Looks like you picked the wrong goddamn time to go shooting off locks, don’t it?”

“I was locked in,” said B.T. as he licked his lips, leaving a sheen of blood like lipstick. I was just trying to get out. I’m a – ”

Billy cut him off. “You’re a lying sack of shit is what you are. You’re the pothunting sonofabitch that killed those two Paiutes last week. I’ve heard a lot about you already, Mister, and I been praying I’d get a chance to meet up with you like this. And even though I aint what you might call a church-going man, I guess God don’t forget who his best shots are. When I saw you fly over my camp in that fancy helicopter of yours a little while back, I said to myself, ‘Billy-boy, there goes that red-haired asshole that Dwayne Johnson’s been trailing.’ So I high-tailed it down the road after you just as fast as I could, but hell’s bells, when the chopper took off and left, the last thing I thought I’d see was your sorry ass coming up the road toward me on that chopper.”

“Dwayne? The Forest Service cop?” asked B.T. as he coughed roughly and struggled for breath.

“Yep. The same. You know him?”

B.T. started to laugh-cough uncontrollably. “I sure feel like it, old timer. I tell you what. That boy sure as hell gets around.”

Billy scratched his chin and chuckled along with the dying man. “He does at that – even if he does work for the goddamn gov’ment.”

As B.T. lay helplessly in the dirt, feeling his life drain into the earth, the sound of heavenly laughter filled his ears. The gods had finally come to pay their last respects. But this time they were laughing at him, not with him; as if he were the butt of some elaborate practical joke. B.T. felt foolish and pitifully alone.

“You got any kin, or anybody you want me to get in touch with?” asked Billy as he stared intently at B.T.’s sucking chest wound.

B.T. shook his head. “No.” His heart began to flutter like a sputtering motor. “But you tell Dwayne that I would have made him immortal.”

Billy Mangum spit in the dirt. “Folks ‘round these parts call that murder.”

B.T. felt himself slipping away into cold darkness, and there was no one to catch him this time around. “I never killed a soul. They all lived forever.”

“That a fact?” chuckled Billy as he spit in the dirt. “Sounds like a good trick, if you can get away with it. Too bad you didn’t, eh?”

“Yeah. Too bad,” agreed B.T. as his eyes rolled back in his head.

The last thing B.T. Saunders saw was the lone golden eagle silhouetted against a sky so blue it seemed unreal.

The eagle had been watching the scene unfold a thousand feet below; even from such a great distance he could smell death on the wind. He dropped lower toward the ground and confirmed with his eyes what his beak had already told him. He soared back and forth over the body and watched as the living man returned to his truck. The eagle scanned the earth below for any signs of a hidden trap as the pickup turned around and headed slowly away from the dead man in the road.

The eagle waited until the truck was out of sight before he made his move. He descended from the sky in lazy circles, like he was dangling from an unseen rope, and landed squarely on B.T.’s bloody chest. He stared into the green eyes of the dead man and cried out triumphantly. Dinner was served.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 36 - Part III

2011-09-17T13:03:00.001-07:00

The Judge beamed. “The situation is not as bad as I had first envisioned. We are still in an excellent position to accomplish all of the objectives of the mission, including several we had not intended. We no longer have any partners to worry about. The authorities have no one to question – with Linda Joyce out of the way, any evidence is circumstantial, at best.”

“As soon as I waste Joyce, I’m heading straight to Vegas, cutting the hair and beard, buying a nice silk suit, and catching a plane to Belize. I’ve got some friends down there in pirate country where I can hide out. And I’d recommend that you do the same. Leave the country and lay low until the goddamn dust settles. I don’t want to be seen anywhere near the Arizona Strip for the next couple of months – maybe longer. Fuck, I may never come back to the ol’ U.S. of A. It’s a big world out there, my friend.”

The Judge mulled over plans. “That sounds like a very good idea, Mr. Saunders. And extended trip to the Bahamas would allow me to deposit the money from Saturday’s auction in untraceable offshore bank accounts, while also avoiding the probing questions of the law. Yes indeed, I believe such a vacation is just what the doctor ordered.”

B.T. opened the passenger door and climbed out of the helicopter. “You better get going now. I’ll handle Joyce. You fence the artifacts. And we’ll meet in two weeks down at the Hilton, in Nassau, and get the money situation straightened-out.”

The Judge saluted his comrade. “I will have my secretary make the arrangements, Mr. Saunders. There will be a suite reserved in your name two weeks hence.”

“The first round’s on me, Judge,” replied B.T. as he returned his commander’s salute. “Hey, it’s not like we’re dealing with the Viet Cong here. These people are fucking Mormons.”

The Judge laughed as he started up the engines on the Ranger. “Good point, Mr. Saunders.”

“Wait until I make sure my bike is still there and starts, before you take off, Judge.”

The Judge raised his right thumb as B.T. jogged over to a thick clump of gambel oak and retrieved his Harley. A thin sheen of brown dust and yellowish oak pollen coated the chopper but the bike seemed untouched. B.T. climbed aboard the motorcycle and tried to kick-start the engine. The shotgun wound in his leg rebelled and brought tears of pain to his eyes. B.T. gritted his teeth and pumped the foot pedal again. On the fifth try, the roadster’s engine came alive in a blast of hot noise, so loud that it drowned out the sound of the helicopter. B.T. goosed the hand-throttle as black smoke poured out of the Harley’s chrome-plated exhaust pipe, and he waved to the Judge.

The chopper rose effortlessly from the ground and flew off toward Kanab.

One of B.T.’s favorite pastimes was riding his Roadster on deserted forest roads. Sometimes the dirt tracks got a little dusty, especially in the early fall, but it was still a great way to unwind. The roads seemed to go on forever. He had once heard that there were more miles of dirt road on the North Kaibab Forest than there were in the entire nationwide interstate highway system. That seemed a little hard to believe, but there was no denying that a man could ride for days and never see another human being, which was exactly what B.T. was hoping for today – smooth sailing and a trouble-free ride. His extensive knowledge of the forest’s transportation network was going to come in handy. He intended to stick to back roads all the way to Fredonia.

He cruised slowly up the bumpy road and did his best to avoid hitting the rocks and potholes. His wounded leg throbbed in agony every time he hit a rough spot. He could see the smoke rising from the lumber mill on the outskirts of Fredonia, perhaps fifty miles away. On a crystal clear day like this, it was easy to imagine that the Arizona Strip was the very center of the universe. B.T. chuckled at the thought. Only the Indians and local Mormons could really be at home with such a silly-ass notion.

Several hundred feet ahead was a cattle gate blocking the road. B.T. was surprised to see it closed; on his past trips, the gate had always been hanging open. Cattle gates were rarely, if ever locked on the forest.

B.T. gingerly climbed off the Harley, flipped down the kick-stand with the toe of his boot, and approached the rickety gate comprised of four strands of barbed wire strung across a rectangular frame of one-by-fours. A large brass padlock attached the flimsy fence to a metal post that had been driven deeply into the ground. The brown lock had a Forest Service insignia on its side. Why would the Forest Service close off Buckhorn Point? And how the hell was he going to get around the locked gate?

B.T. scanned right and left down the fence line, looking for a breach in the wire trap. Some sections looked like they had recently been re-strung. Lately, bad luck seemed to follow him wherever he went; it was hard for him to escape the thought that, for some inexplicable reason, the gods had turned against him.

The Mac-10 would make short work of the government padlock. B.T. fired a quick burst at the lock and watched it blow apart into small pieces of twisted metal. The gate slowly swung open. So much for government interference on the open range.

B.T. holstered his gun and glanced up at the turquoise sky. Above him soared a solitary golden eagle, gliding on the high-noon thermals that rose off the Grand Canyon. B.T. gazed admiringly at the great bird of prey and longed to soar above his worldly problems, to be rid of locked gates and nosey cops. Soon – by tomorrow at the latest – he would be flying high in a jumbo jet on his way to the islands. No one would be able to touch him there.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 36 - Part II

2011-09-13T14:18:00.001-07:00

The Judge brushed a piece of the front windshield away from the console. “I have always prided myself on being an equitable man. And in light of the fact that we have lost all of our former partners, it may, in fact, be appropriate to re-evaluate our previous arrangements. What did you have in mind, Mr. Saunders?”

B.T. lightly fingered the trigger of his machine pistol. “I like the ring of fifty-fifty – at least with this mission. Shit, I’ve left bodies scattered all over the Arizona Strip for you – six of ‘em as of today. Seems to me like I’ve done all the dirty work; I’ve taken all the risks; and I’m getting all the goddamn blame. I mean, neither one of us ever thought this operation would get so out of hand – and Christ kill me – the killing still aint over yet. I still have to settle the score with our old friend Linda Joyce.”

The Judge’s bushy eyebrows raised with interest. “You have made several valid points.”

“You bet your ass I have, Judge. Six of ‘em.”

A smile formed around the edges of the Judge’s mouth. “Ah yes, but it is the seventh point which I find the most intriguing, Mr. Saunders. Assuming that you can eliminate the troublesome Miss Joyce, I see no reason why we can not have an equal split of the profits. The question in my mind is: can you fulfill your end of the bargain?”

“No sweat, Judge. The cops gotta think that we’re in the next state by now. It’ll be hours before they get back to Fredonia. Shit, it’ll be hours before anybody gets organized enough to really start looking for us; and when they do, they’ll be looking for two guys in a helicopter. They’ll contact the Kanab Airport and find out that a chopper that fits the general description left from there this morning and was returned in the early afternoon. By then, you’ll be on your merry way with the shipment to Denver in your private plane. So, who gives a shit? All they got is a whole lot of nothing.”

B.T. began fishing around on the metal floor of the helicopter while the Judge weighed the evidence. “The broken windshield ties this helicopter to the Paria Plateau and the rest.”

“Not without this, it doesn’t,” countered B.T. as he held the crumpled piece of lead from Dwayne’s 44-magnum between his thumb and forefinger. “Without this slug, they have a broken windshield – a curious coincidence, for sure – but nothing more. In the meantime, you’ve already cleaned out the chopper, loaded everything onto your jet, and have split for parts unknown. And on the way to Denver, you give that little jerk-off engineer Krieter at the mine a call and get him to say that you visited the ASN mine today, like you were supposed to. That way you have an airtight alibi.”

The Judge straightened his jacket and smiled. “I have already put the fear of God into Mr. Krieter, so he should present no problems. He will do as he is told.”

B.T. pocketed the slug and grinned confidently. “So the pigs give you a call sometime soon, and they ask you to explain what happened, because by that time they have heard from the folks at the airport that the windshield of the ASN chopper you were using was broken. You tell them you smacked into a bird. What can they say? That you didn’t? Any way you slice it, they’re gonna be way behind us, and that means they won’t have any hard evidence. As long as you get out of Kanab ahead of the local cops, you’re home free.

The Judge’s face began to glow with good humor. “Which leaves only you, Mr. Saunders.”

“That’s right, Judge.” B.T. licked at his lips. “And the last thing those cowboy cops are going to be looking for is a guy on a motorcycle. I’ll just tuck my hair up under my hat, stay off the main highway and drive into town on one of the Forest Service dirt roads, ditch the bike somewhere convenient in Fredonia, and then hang low until the Joyce woman shows up. The pigs will be expecting us to cut and run, not come looking for their star witness right where they live. I’m telling you, Judge, this is going to be the easiest hit of the bunch, ‘cause it’s you they’re going to be searching for, not me.”

“And what if they arrive at the Kanab Airport before I have loaded the jet and departed?”

B.T. shrugged. “Then just play your best role: Judge Keating, decorated war hero, retired federal judge, jet-set businessman, and all-around pillar of Arizona society. I don’t need to tell you how to browbeat people; you’ve been doing that for over thirty years. None of these shitkicker yokels will have the balls to stand up to you, Judge. Shit, I’ve seen generals call you sir. Remember that sorry-ass Major General – what was his mane? Masterson, or Kesterson, or some such horseshit – the one who ran the hospital at Can Tho? We had just come off a real hairy ops down in the Delta, and ol’ Hanibal Jones was shot up real bad; but the base hospital staff left him waiting out in the hall. You told the General to operate on Jonesy, or you were going to start shooting his surgeons. You walked right into the operating room and aimed your piece at the fucking doctors performing surgery. Christ, I thought that General was going to go cardiac red. Not only did he end up pulling his two best doctors away to work on Jonesy, but he fixed you up with one of his nurses later on that night. I remember because she had red hair.”

B.T. winked at the Judge, who nodded his head and squirmed in his seat. “She was a sweet thing. Her name was Claire.”

“Yeah. They all knew her as Cherry Eclaire.”

The Judge laughed in spite of himself. “Those were the days, Mr. Saunders.”

B.T pointed his index finger at the Judge. “You’re still the most intimidating sonofabitch in the whole world when you get going, Judge. So, if the cops show up in Kanab, you just read ‘em the riot act and warn ‘em to back off. You already have the papers to document that all these artifacts came off your ranches in Arizona and Utah, right?”

“Of course. I prepared the certificates myself, and I have listed my ranch in Tropic, Utah as the origin of each piece. Only a firsthand observer could prove otherwise.”

B.T. clapped his hands together. “Well, that’s what you tell them if they ask. And once you take off from Kanab, you take their whole fucking case with you. By tomorrow, the loot will have been sold to people from all over the goddamn planet. The pigs won’t even know what the hell they’re looking for.”

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 36 - Part I

2011-09-03T08:05:00.001-07:00

The helicopter sailed over Saddle mountain and banked north toward Buckhorn Point. The deep gorges of the Grand Canyon fanned out below like bright knife wounds in the earth’s crust. The colors swirled together to create a divine painting of seemingly infinite proportions. To stare into its shimmering depths was to look into the face of God Almighty.

B.T. Saunders and Judge Keating were not interested in spectacular views. The Judge had spent the last twenty minutes haranguing B.T. about the horrendous state of their affairs.

B.T. sat back and weathered the verbal storm without saying a word. He could not change what had already happened. Eventually, the Judge grew tired of beating the dead horse, and flew the chopper in icy silence.

B.T. was left to ponder his precarious future, and one thing kept haunting his thoughts. He hadn’t been able to get the hair from John and Billy Ray. The Ritual could not be performed. The spirits of the slain had been carelessly lost by the wayside. And the gods would be displeased. How could he satisfy them? How could he make things right again?

“We are at Buckhorn Point, Mr. Saunders. Where do you want me to put down?”

B.T. stared vacantly at the baked-brown landscape dotted with green pinyon and junipers, and struggled to focus. “Over there,” he pointed at a weathered old corral. “I stashed the motorcycle in the brush behind the corral.”

“Are you sure it’s still there?” the Judge asked skeptically.

“Well, it was there a couple of weeks ago when I was out here scouting for Indian ruins. And it’s too damn big to do much with, unless you’ve got the key. I had a helluva time getting it in and out of my damn truck by myself. I’m sure it’s where I left it, Judge.”

“It better be,” concluded the Judge as he landed the helicopter on the sagebrush flat.

“The only sign of life I’ve ever seen out here before was a couple of cows. It’s the fucking middle of nowhere, Judge. Nobody in their right mind would come out here.”

“We did, Mr. Saunders.” replied the Judge.

“Well, there you go,” laughed B.T., trying to add a little levity to an unpleasantly tense situation.

The Judge smiled disdainfully as he turned off the Ranger’s engines. “I can assure you that I am firmly in control of all my faculties, Mr. Saunders, although I must admit that I am forced to question my own judgement in this unfortunate matter. It has become painfully obvious to me that I delegated far too much authority to you.”

B.T. blew up. “Why don’t you climb down off that high horse of yours, Judge. You put up some of your easy money and you get to fly around in your helicopter, while the grunts down on the ground bust their balls for you, and then you piss and moan when things turn sour. I think you’ve forgotten what it’s like to put your ass on the line. Remember how it went in “Nam? Sometimes a mission would click like clockwork, and other times it would blow up in your goddamn face. And not necessarily because you didn’t plan it right, either. Remember that time we went into Laos to blow those VC command bunkers. The Land Sat photos said the place was guarded by a company of light infantry. But remember what we found waiting for us? Tanks. A whole shitload of Russian tanks, and we lost half the unit. Whose fault was that, colonel? Yours? It was your mission. You were in charge.”

The Judge’s face turned crimson. “ I had no way of knowing those tanks would be there.”

“No. And I had no way of knowing that everybody and their goddamn grandmother would suddenly show up on the Paria Plateau this week. It just happened. So you try your best to deal with it, and then you cut your losses. Three good men are dead, and we’re sitting on the considerable fruits of their labor. So, stop your goddamn bellyaching; you’ve got blood on your hands, just like me.”

The Judge toyed with his mustache. “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Saunders. Perhaps I have been a bit too harsh in my judgement.”

“Yeah, and I’m not forgetting that you tried to leave me back there on the Paria, either. That was pretty cold-blooded, even for you, Judge.”

The Judge flashed an embarrassed smile. “I was just cutting my losses, Mr. Saunders.”

B.T. laughed loudly and aimed the muzzle of his Mac-10 at the middle of the Judge’s chest. Well now, if I can’t trust you, Judge, who can I trust? After all we’ve been through, it seems a damn shame to have to call it quits like this. But maybe it’s for the best.”

The Judge didn’t bat an eye at the deadly threat. “If you kill me, you will never be able to sell any of the priceless artifacts in this shipment. I am the only person with the necessary contacts to accomplish such a, shall we say, delicate transaction. I am the only person who can supply the proper authentication papers – McCracken would never deal with you. Surely, you must realize that.”

“All I know is that you were ready to shitcan me back there. That being the case, I think we should re-examine our partnership. What do you say to that?”

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 35 - Part III

2011-08-20T09:53:00.001-07:00

It took several seconds for Dwayne to realize the fighting was over. Saunders and his partner were fleeing the scene. Dwayne had won the battle, but as he watched the chopper grow smaller on the western horizon, he wondered whether he had lost the war.

“Dwayne? Are you there? Did they all leave?” cried Linda from behind the cover of the bullet-scarred pinnacle of red rock.

“Yeah, you can come on out, Linda. Saunders and the guy in the bush jacket got away. But the rest of them are dead.”

Linda dropped her shotgun in the sand and ran to greet her friend. “Thank God you’re safe!”

Dwayne threw his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “We made it.”

Linda hugged Dwayne tightly. “I couldn’t ever really see what you were doing. But when you started shooting, everything seemed to happen all at once. I was covering the two men by the chopper, but then I looked over and saw that Saunders was getting ready to fire in your direction. I was so surprised, I almost didn’t do anything. At the last second I got off a shot in his direction. But I didn’t really have time to aim, so I missed him. Once I fired at Saunders, they all knew where I was and they kept letting me have it. I got off a few shots and tried to stay flat against the rock – God, I was too afraid to even move a muscle. I knew I should do something, but I just couldn’t get up enough courage to fight back. They had me pinned down. And those machine-gun bullets blasting off the rock where I was hiding were the loudest things I ever heard in my life – I couldn’t think straight. I just kept praying that you’d get them off my back. And you DID, Dwayne!”

Dwayne suddenly had a chilling thought. “Oh shit! I forgot all about Jenny.” He pulled himself away from Linda.

“They didn’t kill her?”

“No. They shot her full of drugs, but they didn’t kill her – yet. I left her behind the far wall of the pueblo, so she wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.”

“You’re sure the other three men are dead?” asked Linda warily.

Dwayne nodded his head, almost as if he were ashamed of the truth. “When you hit somebody with a 44-magnum – with only a couple of feet between you and them – it makes a pretty damn big hole. They all looked dead to me, but I didn’t have any time to check.”

Dwayne decided to just leave it at that. There was no reason to go into the attempted rape, or the grisly details of each murder. Those were all images that Dwayne would rather not remember, much less relate. And surely Linda had already witnessed enough brutality for a lifetime.

“Well, let’s go make sure,” said Linda as she picked up the shotgun.

The smaller biker John lay spread-eagled on the ground, his mouth agape in a death mask of pain. Dwayne crouched down and felt for a pulse. “Yeah, this one’s dead.”

“Good riddance,” said Linda coldly. “Let’s see how Jenny’s doing.”

As they came around the corner of the ruin, they were greeted by a smiling Jenny Hatch. She had propped her back against the wall of the stone building and was softly humming an unintelligible song. Her head swayed from side to side. Her shirt and pants were ripped open and she was covered with red dirt. She looked like she had been to hell and back, and enjoyed the ride.

“Jenny!” cried Linda as she broke away from Dwayne and ran over to the archaeologist.

Jenny did not seem to take any notice of her new company, and continued to sing her song in a high, sweet, whispery voice.

Linda crouched down in front of the dazed woman and then she realized just how wrong things were. Dried spittle hung from the corner of Jenny’s chapped mouth and her eyes had the glazed glint of madness.

“What have they done to her?” screamed Linda to Dwayne.

He kneeled beside Jenny and took her left hand in his own. He checked her pulse and gazed down at his watch. “Her pulse is racing out of control. I don’t know what they shot her up with, she may be dying for all I know.”

Jenny stopped singing and stared directly at Dwayne. “Wrong hand, Cowboy.”

“Say what?” asked Dwayne.

“It’s in the other hand,” said Jenny with a wink as she opened her right hand. Resting in the palm of Jenny’s hand was the handle from a large Anasazi pot. It was several inches long and tan in color. Jenny smiled triumphantly as she gave Dwayne the handle.

“Here. The Magician says that you should have this. It will stop the pothunters.”

Dwayne did not have the heart to tell Jenny that Saunders had escaped. He stared at the ancient handle and tried to think of an appropriate response. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned a fellow named the Magician. Who is he, Jenny?”

Jenny smiled as she closed her eyes and began to tell her story. “There’s an incredible kiva inside this pueblo. We found the Burial of the Magician under its floor. It was like...like...buried treasure. And the more we dug the grave, the more the Magician came to life. God’s honest truth.”

Jenny’s eyes blinked open. “Look at me, Dwayne. You’ve gotta believe me!”

“I do, Jenny,”replied Dwayne. “But it looks to me like you’ve been through a helluva lot and I think we better try and get you to a doctor now.”

Jenny grabbed Dwayne by the shirt. “I tried to do what was right with the burial, and maybe I did. Who knows? But now it’s your turn. You gotta use that pot handle to nail those fuckers. And then we have to return all the stuff they stole; put it back in the kiva where it belongs. Otherwise, the Magician will not survive in his world.”

Jenny strained to take in air as she desperately squeezed Dwayne’s blue denim shirt. Jenny let go and slumped against the wall. Her breath came in ragged gasps and her whole body began to shake uncontrollably. “Promise me, Dwayne!”

“I promise, Jenny,” said Dwayne as he fought back tears. “You know you can count on me.”

Jenny began to smile and cry at the same time. “You’re a top hand, Dwayne Johnson.”

Linda picked up one of the syringes from the ground. “Do you know what kind of dosage was in here, Jenny? Was Saunders trying to kill you with this?”

Jenny licked her lips. “I don’t know. We had been doing coke for the past couple of days – I lost track – so we could stay awake. But we had always inhaled it before. This last time, Saunders had us all inject it.

“Did he do any?” asked Linda.

Jenny shook her head. “I can’t remember. I’ve been pretty out of it lately.”

“Here, let me see that needle.” Dwayne squirted a drop of the milky liquid onto his finger and tasted it, then spit in the dirt. “That’s cocaine, alright.”

Dwayne stood up and walked toward the front of the pueblo, out of Jenny’s earshot. “I think we better try and find the keys to one of these boys’ trucks and get her back down to a doctor real quick.”

Linda wrapped the syringe in a red bandana and placed it in her jacket pocket. “Oh, god, Dwayne, if Saunders gave her an O.D., there’s no telling how long we’ve got until her heart and liver shuts down.”

Dwayne pocketed the old pot handle and dashed off toward the pothunters’ trucks. He prayed that he could find the looters’ keys.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 35 - Part II

2011-08-14T10:53:00.001-07:00

It had all seemed so easy when Dwayne and Linda had first crept up on the crime scene. No one had seen them, in fact, nobody had paid attention to anything other than loading the chopper with boxes as quickly as possible. Dwayne had no trouble picking Saunders out of the group of five; his long red hair was an immediate giveaway. Linda eyed the man with a burning hatred that spoke volumes.

Their original plan had been to sneak up on the chopper and capture the whole damned lot of them before they had a chance to react. Saunders and a scraggly, blond-haired man in a baseball cap were the only ones wearing weapons at the ready, and the five men presented an apparently easy target. Unfortunately, by the time Dwayne and Linda got close enough to spring their trap, Saunders and two other men had separated from the group and took Jenny with them.

At that point, it became necessary to implement Plan B, which pretty much consisted of winging it. Dwayne said he would follow Saunders. Linda stayed where she was to cover Mr. Baseball cap and a big guy in a tan bush-jacket who never showed his face as he secured the load aboard the chopper. Linda had been instructed to wait for Dwayne’s signal, which might be anything from a shout, to the sound of gunfire – there was no telling. Dwayne would circle back behind the pueblo and corner Saunders and his crew, and then rescue Jenny. Linda’s job would be to get the drop on the two men at the chopper. She wasn’t supposed to come out of hiding until the last possible second, after everyone else had shown their hands.

Things had not worked out as planned, however. By the time Dwayne came around the back side of the pueblo, one of the bikers, a giant pig of a man, was attempting to rape Jenny while a much smaller man, pants to his knees, clawed at the behemoth’s back. Saunders was nowhere to be seen. Dwayne had to stop both of these men immediately, and saw only one way to do that.

As Dwayne raised his gun to fire, he tried to tell himself that these sub-humans deserved to die. In fact, a certain righteous indignation surfaced as he squeezed the trigger. It felt good to play God.

The only trouble was, that once the shooting began, it unleashed a whole series of unknown forces. Dwayne was discovering what any battlefield commander knows to his core: that the best laid plans turn to shit as soon as the first shot goes off. The best Dwayne could do now was guess.

He zeroed in on the rock pile closest to the pueblo; there were perhaps a hundred feet separating him from his target. He knew he probably had the advantage of surprise on his side; but then he suddenly realized he had forgotten to re-load, which meant he only had two bullets left to disable whoever was on the other side of those rocks. He could not afford to miss.

As Dwayne came running around the corner of the rock pile he stumbled in a loose pocket of sand and pitched headlong into the dirt. He rolled sideways, coming to rest facing the bright, shiny barrel of a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson held by a lunatic in a blue baseball cap.

“Smile. You’re on Candid Camera, Cop!”said Otis with a deranged smile.

At that precise instant, the helicopter lifted off the ground in a hail of stinging dust, and panic took over for a brief instant. The psycho with the pistol looked back over his shoulder to see what was going on and Dwayne let him have it. The first shot went wide, but the next one made mincemeat of Otis Stile’s mid-section. The man crumpled backward as he tried desperately to hold in his guts, the same deranged smile plastered across his face. Dwayne continued to pull the trigger of his magnum, even though he realized his gun was empty. It wasn’t until the man’s bleeding body hit the ground that Dwayne’s head fell onto the soft sand and he shook with terrified relief.

Dwayne struggled unsteadily to his knees. The chopper hovered fifty feet off the ground while Saunders stood underneath it with his machine-gun trained on the underside of the craft. The message was clear. Either the pilot returned for Saunders, or he was going to blast the helicopter right out of the sky. The double-cross stalemate lasted for only a few brief seconds before the chopper dropped back to earth.

Dwayne fumbled in his jacket pocket for some shells to load his empty gun. His hands were shaking with fear and excitement, and several of the stubby bullets fell in the sand as he frantically re-loaded; another few seconds and Saunders would climb aboard the chopper and be gone in a noisy cloud of dust. Dwayne moaned in desperation as the chopper touched down and Saunders stepped on to the skids and grabbed the door. The chopper quickly lifted off, Saunders signaling to the pilot to head directly toward Dwayne.

Dwayne suddenly went from worrying how he was going to stop Saunders from escaping, to trying to figure out he was going to avoid being gunned down from the sky like a helpless coyote. The rock piles and pinnacles would not provide cover from an aerial attack. There was nowhere left for Dwayne Johnson to hide.

Dwayne fingered the last bullet into the chamber and stood up to face the approaching chopper, taking careful aim at the bubble-nosed front of the Bell Ranger. He didn’t figure he was going to get many shots, so he knew he better make the first one count.

Dwayne squeezed off a round and watched in fascination as the entire windshield disintegrated in a cobwebbed shower of broken plexiglass. Saunders almost lost his grip as the chopper lurched up and down, and then veered to the left in an evasive maneuver. Saunders fired a machine-gun burst which fell harmlessly short of Dwayne’s position, and Dwayne returned two shots in rapid succession at the fast-moving helicopter.

As the chopper retreated rapidly to the west, Saunders waved back at Dwayne and saluted before crawling inside the chopper.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 35 - Part 1

2011-08-09T17:10:00.001-07:00

Dwayne Johnson had never taken another man’s life, even in war, and much less at point-blank range. He found himself watching in captivated horror as the 44-shell turned the would-be rapist’s head to – what would you cal it? Brain mush?

Several seconds went by before Dwayne regained his senses enough to deal with the second rapist, the man with his pants down around his ankles. From his position behind the dilapidated remains of the pueblo’s far wall, Dwayne had no fear of being shot – to hit him, someone would first have to flank him from the rear; there was little chance of that happening.

The little man struggled to pull up his pants. He reminded Dwayne of a cockroach caught in the light. The man zipped up his jeans and then pulled a switchblade from his back pocket. He wailed like a maniac as he looked back and forth from Billy Ray’s still-quivering body to the stranger with the gun. His head bobbed from side to side like it was on a spring.

Dwayne leaned out from the cover of the crumbling wall and aimed the 44-magnum at the knife-wielding junkie. “Try fucking this, you little prick!” he yelled and then fired.

John’s mouth formed a circle of terrified surprise and he stopped dead in his tracks. He dropped the knife and clutched his chest with both hands. “Help me!” He collapsed on the ground next to Jenny and writhed in agony, convulsing for air like a fish on dry land.

Dwayne showed no pity for the hapless rapist. Instead, he ran over to Jenny and tried to pull her back toward the protection of the rock wall as questions filled his mind. What was Linda doing? She was supposed to be covering Dwayne from a sandstone pinnacle near the helicopter. Why wasn’t Saunders shooting. What the hell was going on?

“Dwayne!” gushed Jenny with a big smile as Dwayne grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her along the ground. “You found me!”

“Shhhh,” whispered Dwayne. We gotta get you back behind the pueblo so you’re out of the line of fire, Jenny. Are you hurt? Can you walk?”

Jenny put her palms on the ground and tried to get her balance. “I’m not sure, Dwayne. Saunders gave me a whole bunch of cocaine a few minutes ago, and now I’m all messed up. Sorry, Cowboy.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dwayne as he lifted Jenny and looked over his shoulder to see what was happening.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose around him. A shower of machine-gun bullets raked his position, followed by the distinct blast of a shotgun. Dwayne strained to drag Jenny behind the rocky cover before they both were ripped apart. The clatter of a small-caliber pistol rang out across Pinnacle Ridge, quickly followed by the baritone growl of Linda’s shotgun, then another burst of automatic weapons fire, none of which were aimed in Dwayne’s direction.

Dwayne hauled Jenny to the pueblo, then quickly stepped out into the open, fired twice, and jumped back behind the pueblo’s crumbling wall. Linda had bought him some time by drawing the fire down upon herself, but from the sounds of it, she was in desperate need of some diversionary help.

Jenny lay on the ground, trying with great effort to get hand him something. It was the first time Dwayne had a chance to give Jenny a close inspection, and the strange reflection of the woman he had once known was almost beyond belief. Jenny had aged decades in a matter of a few days. It did not seem possible. What could have happened up here on the Paria Plateau to do such a thing to a person?

“Jenny, now listen carefully. I’ve gotta go help Linda. I think she’s in big trouble.”

“Oh. Is she here with you too?” asked Jenny as she held out her hand, revealing the jar handle and exhaled with relief.

“Yeah, that’s who Saunders is shooting at right now.”

Dwayne’s words were punctuated by a fresh barrage of weapons fire, and then the noise of something even more troubling: the high-pitched whine of the Bell Ranger’s engines starting up.

Dwayne grabbed Jenny by the shoulders and stared straight into her cloudy eyes. “Jenny, you stay right here now. Don’t move until I come back and get you. Understand?”

Jenny stared down at the pot handle like a child with a toy. “I’m not going anywhere, Dwayne. Ol’ Jenny’s played out. But I’ve got something here for you here that you’re going to need. The Magician said it’s going to stop these bastards cold.”

Dwayne didn’t have time for cocaine gibberish. “Okay. That’s great. You just stay put, Jenny. I gotta go now. Alright?”

Jenny smiled and drooled on herself.

Dwayne peered around the corner of the ruin to appraise the situation. The smaller rapist lay motionless in the sand. Linda was completely hidden from view, but bullets were riddling the rock column where she had originally taken up position, so it was a pretty good bet she was still there. From the looks of it, everyone now had his own individual rock pile to hind behind, but nobody was prepared to lead a charge. Undoubtedly, Saunders and his people were as spooked and perplexed as Dwayne and Linda – even more so. They probably wondered how many folks they were dealing with. At least Dwayne knew that much. There had been five bad guys at the beginning of the ambush. Dwayne had killed one of them, for sure, and the other appeared either dead or critical – certainly out of action. One man was piloting the chopper. And the two remaining gunmen were still going strong, evidenced by the relentless attack on Linda from two different positions. There was no telling where Saunders was. Dwayne could not see who was warming up the helicopter, so he could either be there, or behind rock number one, or number two. Take your pick.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 34 - Part II

2011-08-02T16:46:00.001-07:00

B.T. finished filling the second syringe and passed it on to a gaping Billy Ray, who had already taken off his faded jean jacket and rolled up his right sleeve. "I'll tell you what, Red, without your help, we'd have been in a world of hurt. And I'm gonna return the favor as best as I can."

John moaned as he finished plunging the uncut cocaine into his vein."God-fucking-damn, that coke feels good, old buddy!" John let the needle fall into the sand and his face sagged into a satisfied smile.

B.T. began filling the final hypo with the deadly cocaine solution. "I'll never forget what the three of you brought to this operation, and I know damn well you deserve better than I can give. But we had us some fun digging in that sandbox, didn't we? You bet your ass we did! We were one helluva team."

John swayed in place and licked dreamily at his lips while Billy Ray untied the bandana tourniquet from his forearm and farted loudly.

"Be brave, my child," whispered the Magician. "Stand strong and true, and the rest will take care of itself. You must believe."

"I never doubted that you'd come back for me," said Jenny.

B.T. placed his palm under Jenny’s elbow and raised her left arm firmly against his side.

"And I promise to honor our agreement, no matter what happens," said Jenny, ignoring B.T. entirely.

" The gods will love you, Red. I promise," said B.T. as he reached over and cut away some of her shiny red hair with his knife. Then he stuck the needle into the Jenny’s arm and emptied its contents into her bloodstream.

Jenny looked down with bemused interest at the syringe sticking into her arm. "Hey, no more snorting this stuff up the nose, huh? We’re doing it for real this time."

B.T. pulled the needle free and let go of Jenny’s arm. "We are indeed, Red. As real as real can get."

"You think you won, don’t you?" asked Jenny as a shiver of pleasure ran up her spine.

"Sure looks that way, Red."

"You still have to get by the Magician," said Jenny as her eyes twitched madly and her head bobbed back and forth. "And you can’t even see him." Jenny convulsed with laughter.

B.T. didn’t have time to listen to such foolishness. "Yeah, well, you give him my best regards, Red."

B.T. turned around to face the two stoned-out bikers. "She’s all yours, boys. Enjoy her while you still can. I’ll be back for some hair in a few minutes."

As he approached the chopper, he was met by Otis and the Judge. He signaled them with a thumbs up sign. "All taken care of. They’ll be dead real soon."

Otis wiped his forehead with the back of his dirty hand. "What the fuck’s going on over there?" He pointed in the direction of the pueblo. "Looks like John-boy is getting ready to cut himself a slice."

B.T. turned. John had pulled down his jeans and was trying to drag Jenny to the ground where he could better attempt to rape her. It was almost a comical sight; the two drugged bikers looked like a pair of drunken dancers. Billy Ray clumsily elbowed his smaller friend out of the way. John was not interested in sloppy seconds and took a swing at the hulking beast. While B.T. stared in amusement at the demented scene, Billy Ray’s head suddenly exploded in a red haze. The trailing sound of a gunshot quickly followed.

B.T. dove behind a large sandstone boulder and felt a stabbing pain in his wounded leg. Who was attacking them? How could anyone have gotten this close without being heard? And as B.T. listened to a second and then a third gunshot go off near the old pueblo, he wondered if it was indeed the deadly work of the Magician.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 34 - Part 1

2011-07-27T14:50:00.001-07:00

B.T. led the procession, with John following closely, and Jenny and Billy Ray bringing up the rear. Jenny felt like her legs were made of rubber and she stumbled several times, only to be caught by Billy Ray.

"You don't walk so good, Jenny," he said. "You need to do some more drugs."

B.T. turned around, grinning like a cartoon fox. "Don't worry, boys, we're gonna get you all fixed up real soon. I got some shit here that'll really knock your dicks in the dirt."

Billy Ray and John hooted with excitement and Jenny tried to clear the cobwebs from her head. She was so tired, she felt like someone had stuck a giant hypodermic needle into her body and drained her of all willpower; just thinking took every ounce of her energy. She took several quick breaths and looked up at the crumbling walls of the massive Anasazi pueblo. The regal Magician was standing just outside the narrow doorway, wearing the colorful funery robes of his forgotten time; his hair braided in a tight, black bun that sprouted the blue and orange tailfeathers of a jungle macaw; around his neck hung a necklace of shiny white cougar claws. He stood as straight as an arrow and smiled with a radiance that warmed Jenny's soul and lifted her spirits. She instantly felt like she was on top of the world.

"So you came back, huh?" laughed Jenny as she waved her hand in greeting. "I thought maybe I had imagined you."

B.T. instinctively pulled his Mac-10 machine pistol from his shoulder holster and spun around to fire on whomever Jenny was talking to.

John recoiled in fear, thinking that B.T. had flipped-out and was going to gun him down.

Billy Ray's eyes widened with alarm and he raised his arms above his head in surrender. "Hey, what gives?"

Jenny ignored the rest of the group and walked past B.T. as if he weren't there. "I got them all together for you, Mr. Magician. Now show 'em your stuff." Jenny giggled with giddy anticipation.

B.T. grabbed her by the forearm and yanked her around. "Who the fuck are you talking to?!"

It took Jenny a few seconds to straighten up; she finally put her fingers over her mouth to keep from laughing.

B.T. let go of Jenny's arm when he realized there was no imminent threat. He rubbed his hand over the front of his face nervously. "You trying to get yourself killed, Red, or what?" B.T. put his gun back in its holster and glanced over at John and Billy Ray who were trying to figure out why the talk of getting high had inexplicably turned so violent. "It's okay, boys. I thought we had some company." B.T. flashed his men a sour look and returned his attention to Jenny, who kept eyeing the door of the pueblo as if it held some wondrous treasure. "What are you looking at, Red?"

Jenny playfully poked B.T. in the chest. "You can't see him, can you?"

B.T. frowned. "See who?"

"The Magician, silly."

The bikers started laughing and slapping five. "The girl's fucked up, B.T.," explained John. "Now she's seeing the stiff she was talking to all the while we were digging out that goddamn grave. Just pump her up with some coke, and then me and Billy Ray'll pump her up where it really counts." John gripped his crotch and thrust his hips.

B.T. laughed, knowing full well that they were going to be dead in another half hour.

Jenny walked over to the pueblo and began carrying on a spirited conversation with the stone wall.

"You're hallucinating, Red,” said B.T. “That's what happens after you don't sleep for a couple days. When you come down from the coke buzz, you start seeing things that aren't there. But don't worry, we'll get you all fixed up right now."

The bikers suspected nothing was amiss; as far as they were concerned, the job was over and it was time to get down and party. B.T. had promised them a special surprise.

The chopper was loaded up and almost ready to go. Otis and the Judge were strapping down the last few boxes while B.T. handled the problem. Jenny had been told that she was going to get a dose of coke to get her back on her feet and it didn't look like she was going to offer much resistance to the needle, or anything else. Things were working out quite well, better than B.T. had ever imagined.

Meanwhile, Jenny and the Magician were concocting their own game plan. The Magician pointed a bony finger at Jenny. "It is time, Redhair. The battle is near. You must ready yourself for the final struggle. When the fighting begins, you hold the pot handle I gave you tightly in your right hand. Remember: Everything depends on you. Whatever happens, don't let go! The Magician seemed to hover just off the ground, his feet hidden by the folds of his full-length leather skirt, and he spoke in a musical cadence. "When I lived in your world, I was a man to be feared. I sent many men to their graves, and I watched even more die. As a Warrior I was always prepared to die. And as the strong man of my clan, I could summon the hunting spirit of the mountain lion. To swallow my wands, was to dance inside the body of a great cat. Can you imagine?"

B.T. handed a loaded syringe to nearly-slobbering John, and began prepping a second. “I’ve put together my special brew for the two hardest working men in show business.”

The Magician's face hardened with anger. "When you have been dug from the earth, like a plant whose roots have been torn from their bed, you are caught between worlds. When all of your most valued possessions have been stolen from you by strangers from beyond your time, you are left with nothing but the hope that someone can understand the depths of your loss. Was I wrong to trust you, Redhair?"

Jenny looked embarrassed and her eyes went teary. "I promised to help, and I will."

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 33

2011-07-21T15:34:00.001-07:00

Jason's Ramcharger careened around a blind turn on the narrow dirt road and almost went into a ditch.

Tom held on to the strap above his door and closed his eyes in fear as they fishtailed. "You're lucky there aren't any trees in this stretch, Sheriff."

Jason gunned out of the loose sand and veered back onto the washboard road. "Yeah, and it's a good thing we're police officers, otherwise we'd get ticketed for reckless driving."

"We're pretty near Bighorn Buttes, aren't we, Sheriff?"

Jason concentrated intently on the road. "Those are the Buttes dead ahead. We'll be there in a few minutes. Try to raise Dwayne on the radio again."

Tom keyed the mike. "Dwayne Johnson, this is Mutz. Do you read me? Over." He repeated the transmission twice more before giving up. "Doesn't sound like there's anybody home, Sheriff. You want me to keep trying?"

Jason swerved to avoid a large rock on the right edge of the road. "No, if Dwayne doesn't answer his radio, it's because he can't. You better get the shotgun ready. If Saunders is there, it'll be your job to keep him pinned down."

The Ramcharger bounced its way up a small hill, two giant rock columns loomed a quarter of a mile away. "We're almost there. I'm going to really – "

Jason slammed his foot on the brakes to avoid hitting a green Forest Service truck that was sitting in the middle of the road a hundred feet ahead.

"LOOK OUT!" screamed Tom as he braced his whole body for the impending collision.

Jason could feel the Ramcharger starting to power-slide out of control. He savagely jerked the wheel left, then right, as he pumped the brakes. The truck spun 180 degrees and came to a stop in a cloud of dust, inches from the other vehicle. Jason held the steering wheel in a death grip and let his head fall back against the vinyl head-rest as he thanked God they had managed to stop in time.

Tom opened his door and jumped out, his shotgun held at the ready. Whatever danger was afoot could not possibly compete with the scare he had just had inside the truck.

Jason drew his pistol and followed. "That looks like Dwayne's truck to me." His eyes settled on the message scribbled across the back window of the Ford. "Pinnacle Ridge? Now what do you suppose that's supposed to mean?"

Tom opened the driver's side door of the Ford and scanned the interior. He noticed a lunch cooler sitting on the floor of the cab, and picked it up. Scrawled atop the plastic handle in black Magic Marker was the name DWAYNE JOHNSON.

"You're right, Sheriff. Here's his gut bucket."

Jason nervously eyed the surrounding hills. "See anything else?"

"Well, somebody shot his radio transmitter. But I don't see any blood or anything like that."

"Let's split up and search the area, Tom. You go up the road and I'll circle around to the left. Go slow, and be careful. I don't want any heroics."

Tom smiled. "I still haven't paid off the house yet, Sheriff. So, don't worry about me. I'm here for the duration."

Jason grinned and headed off for the left side of the Camel Rocks. He tried to remember where Pinnacle Ridge was located. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he just couldn't place it. Ten minutes later, he and Tom met at Linda's abandoned truck without having seen anything out of the ordinary.

Jason surveyed the battered Datsun. "It looks to me like Linda left here in a real big hurry. There are clothes scattered all over the inside of the cab, along with food, and a bunch of other junk; but there's nothing that indicates a struggle of any kind. Except, of course, that all the tires have been slashed."

Tom pressed the metal latch and raised the hood. "Yep, and the distributor cap is also missing, Sheriff. "

Jason walked around the side of the truck and stared in at the engine. "That's the same thing that happened to her truck when she left it out at Jumpup the day Willie Meeks was murdered. This has got Saunders' name written all over it. The question is: did he kill Dwayne and Linda, or did they somehow escape? Pinnacle Ridge! I remember now. It's on the eastern edge of the Paria Plateau." He pointed beyond Bighorn Buttes. "Dwayne wrote that inscription on his window to let us know that's where he was going."

Tom looked confused. "But why, Sheriff?"

"Beats me. But it's the only thing that makes any sense. Linda's sleeping bag is all balled-up over there by the fire, and her gear is still here. She was probably camped for the night when Saunders showed up. The point is: Dwayne's gone to Pinnacle Ridge."

"Don't you think we oughta make sure they still aren't here, Sheriff? Maybe we should honk the horn or something. You know, see if they answer. Tom started beeping the Datsun's tinny horn. "And what about Jenny Hatch?"

"I don't see her truck, or any of her camping gear. Maybe she's at Pinnacle Ridge." He started walking back to his truck and waved at his deputy to join him. "Come on, Tom. That's enough of the horn. Nobody's going to answer you."

Tom struggled to keep up with the Sheriff. "Do you think they're still alive?"

"That's a good question, Tom. Dwayne obviously left here alive, because he told us where to look. And we know that Jenny was alive at eight this morning, because she called in on the radio. Beyond that, I’m not sure. What I want to do right now is bring in some of our deputies from town and some more from Page, and get both ends of the House Rock Valley Road closed off. Saunders had to have driven in here, because the chopper has been in the shop until this morning. The next thing I want to do is alert Sheriff Smoot to what's happening. He can get a team together to cover the Kanab airport. The judge who picked up the chopper has his Lear Jet sitting back on the runway in Kanab, so we know he's got to return there sooner or later. And I want Barry Smoot to be waiting there with a warrant to search his helicopter and jet when he does."

Tom removed his hat and scratched his head. "How far is it to Pinnacle Ridge, Sheriff?"

"Thirty minutes if we drive like we did coming in. As I remember, the road gets pretty bad up on top of the Paria Plateau. And once you turn onto Pinnacle Ridge, the whole place turns to sand."

Tom clapped Jason on the back and smiled confidently. "Well then cheer up, Sheriff. If we made it out here in one piece, we can do it again."

Jason increased his step and looked back with anxiety at his young deputy. "Yeah, but don't forget, this is the second time today we've been late for a date with Saunders. First, at his house, and now out here at Bighorn Buttes. And I've got a bad feeling that from here on out, we're going to start finding bodies."

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 32 - Part II

2011-07-09T15:52:00.000-07:00

The Judge brushed at the edges of his mustache with the tips of his fingers. "I think you have been without sleep for too long yourself, Mr. Saunders. Consider the full implications of such an unprecedented action. The killing of a Forest Service archaeologist will be headline news, and the manhunt that ensues will be formidable indeed. Now imagine if you will, what it would be like if they thought she had been kidnaped and was still alive. Every law enforcement agency imaginable would be brought in to help with the investigation. To keep this woman would be tantamount to signing our own death warrants. Is that what you honestly propose?"

B.T. looked momentarily flustered. "Look, Judge, all I'm telling you is that this woman knows her shit. She made us a fucking potful of money. And if she did it once, she could do it again. Just look at all this loot, Judge."

B.T. walked over to the large collection of carefully boxed artifacts.

The Judge noticed for the first time that Saunders was limping slightly. "What did you do to your leg, Mr. Saunders?"

"That's the other thing we need to talk about, Judge. That girl Linda Joyce – you know, the one who was down in Jumpup Canyon the day I killed Willie? – well, believe it or not, she popped up again, this time out here. By late last night, I knew we were going to make our deadline, so I thought I'd better pay her a little visit while I had the chance to get her alone and silence her for good."

"I trust you ended her following days."

B.T. smiled nervously as he prepared to dance around the truth. "Well, yes and no. I went down to her camp. And she was there all right. But she had some company. A Forest Service cop, I think."

The Judge frowned. "So you had to kill him, too. Is that what you're saying?"

"Not exactly. See, it was dark, and I wasn't familiar with the area, and I didn't really expect him to show up out of the blue like he did."

The Judge stiffened with apprehension. "I hope you aren't going to tell me you let them both get away, Mr. Saunders. In light of your past oversights in this matter, that would not sit well with me at all."

B.T. knew there was no longer any way to avoid the whole truth. “Things just happened too fast."

The Judge interrupted brusquely. "I assume that is how you hurt your leg?"

B.T. looked down at the ground in embarrassment. "Yeah, the guy had a shotgun and nailed me with some buckshot. But I’m okay."

"How bad is it?"

"It was just a lucky shot, Judge. It didn't do much damage, just slowed me down a little."

The Judge looked like he was going to explode with rage; his face reddened and his jaw tightened. "And where do you suppose we might presently find Ms. Joyce and her friend?"

"I crippled both of their trucks, so they'd be walking if they tried to get out. I'd guess they're either heading for the highway, or laying low until somebody from the Forest Service comes looking for them."

The Judge's anger turned to nervous agitation. "And when do you anticipate such help might arrive?"

"I had Jenny call in to her office this morning – you know, like she does every day. She told the head ranger that everything was going okay. The ranger asked to speak to some guy named Dwayne – he must be the asshole who shot me – and he also wanted to talk to Linda Joyce. Jenny dodged the request by telling him that they had already left for work and she didn't know where they were."

"And he believed that?"

"It's hard to say, Judge. He seemed to. I mean, they're all fucking shitkickers, so who the fuck knows?” But I broke the radio in this fella Dwayne's truck, so they aren't going to get any answers that way. It'll take 'em a couple hours to get organized and drive out to House Rock Valley; see, that's where they think everybody is. They're not going to come up here on the Paria – at least, not right away. And by the time they figure out what's going on, we'll be history."

"You have left us with many imponderables to deal with, Mr. Saunders."

"Perhaps. But the situation is basically the same as it was three days ago – except for the fact that we're a helluva lot richer than we ever expected. I didn't plan to kill the Joyce woman until after this dig was over, anyway. But the opportunity presented itself, and I tried my best to terminate her while she was close. Things didn't work out the way we wanted, but it ain't the end of the fucking world."

The Judge looked unswayed by B.T.'s analysis of the overall situation. "And how do you and your men intend to get out of the area, Mr. Saunders?"

"The same way we got in. Drive."

"And if the police have blocked the road? How will you and your men manage to avoid the police roadblocks?"

"They won't be there yet."

The Judge brought his index finger to his left temple. "Obviously, your brains are so badly scrambled from prolonged drug abuse that you are incapable of thinking clearly any longer."

B.T. stiffened with indignation. "Hey, wait a minute now. You try and dig one of these goddamn pueblos for three straight days and nights and see how together you feel. And then take a load of buckshot in the leg. It ain't my fault that Linda Joyce keeps following us around like a fucking shadow!"

The Judge wagged his finger back and forth in the air. "That is no longer the point, Mr. Saunders. The question is how to cut our losses and remove ourselves from this plateau without being caught by the authorities."

B.T. rubbed his wounded leg and tried to focus on the problem. "Hell, I don't know, Judge. You’re the fucking brains. So, you tell me."

The Judge shook his head in disappointment. "In my opinion, departing by truck no longer seems a viable option. I, of course, will be flying out as planned; which leaves us with several interesting courses of action. We can simply leave the shipment here, and all fly out together. Or second, we can load the shipment on board and then allow space considerations to dictate who goes and who stays. How much would you estimate the entire load weighs?"

B.T. had already made such a mental calculation. "Oh, I'd say close to eight hundred pounds."

The Judge nodded thoughtfully. "That means I have room for you and one other person. But whoever remains must be permanently silenced as well. So, which of your friends will you kill, Mr. Saunders?"

"The Canyon Chronicles" Book Review

2011-06-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

The Canyon Chronicles

read by Margaret Tearman

Soaring red cliffs. Boiling whitewater. Secret slot canyons. Poisonous snakes. Native American rituals. Killer heat. Raging blizzards … writes Bay Weekly contributing editor Margaret Tearman, herself a frequenter of such places.

This is the setting for The Canyon Chronicles (2011), Bay Weekly columnist Steve Carr’s memoir of living on the edge in some of America’s wildest acres during the era when Ronald Reagan’s administration was commercializing our national parks.

The edge comes from copious amounts of hallucinogenic drugs, unabashed amorous couplings and a devil-may-care, shrug-of-the shoulders attitude.

Reading Carr’s book is akin to eavesdropping on men reliving their glory days. On occasion, the tales got tall enough that I was tempted to say enough. But instead I leaned in even closer, not wanting to miss any colorful detail of Carr’s testosterone-fueled remember when’s.

Like the afternoon he and his hiking companions found themselves clawing their way up a cliff of a Colorado River side canyon, desperately trying to escape a deadly flash flood raging just inches below them. Or a dream date gone bad when Carr carelessly underestimated the frigid air and water temperatures deep in a slot canyon, and he and his trusting date were lucky to avoid death by hypothermia. Or the solitary hike in the desert backcountry when Carr was bitten by a rattlesnake — yet managed to trot 13 miles back to his pickup truck, where he quenched his thirst with a few cold beers, then drove through the night to the Buckskin Bar … instead of visiting the local ER.

The book is not all Indiana Jones swagger. It is also the story of irresponsible federal forestry management and corporate greed run amok.

While working as a timber surveyor in the Kaibab National Forest from 1983 to ’86, Carr stumbled upon illegal timber harvesting on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. He handed over evidence of Kaibab Industry’s illegal cutting to a sympathetic game and fish warden, hoping heads would roll when the news got out. His actions helped fuel a lawsuit that eventually shut down illegal logging in the Kaibab.

A regular columnist for the Bay Weekly, Carr is a rollicking storyteller who takes the armchair adventurer along for his crazy ride against a backdrop of the stunningly beautiful American Southwest. He entertains with his misadventures and makes no apologies for his recklessness, writing with his characteristic what the hell, I did it attitude. Carr is no naturalist and doesn’t make that promise. This is a book about human foibles against the backdrop of a harsh and often unforgiving environment. But you will pick up some geography, history and geology.
The Canyon Chronicles is an off-the-wall trip of a book, a ticket to a land — and state of mind — far, far away from Bay Country.

You can pick up a copy of “The Canyon Chronicles” at www.amazon.com

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 32 - Part 1

2011-06-21T09:32:00.001-07:00

B.T. heard the chopper approach long before he could see it. He didn't need to look at his watch to know that it was ten o'clock; the Judge was always on time. When the chopper became visible, B.T. signaled to his men to clear the area.

"Have a seat, Red." B.T. pointed to a lawn chair situated well away from the landing area; Jenny obediently followed his instruction. "The rest of you get back inside the pueblo and start policing the area. We don't want to leave anything behind. Otis, you make sure the kiva is all cleaned up. You hear? Nothing gets left behind. I mean, not a goddamn thing, comprende?"

Otis glanced out of the corner of his right eye at Jenny before replying. "Do you want us to fill in the burial?"

B.T. immediately caught the drift: that was where Jenny would be buried. "No. Leave it for now. My main concern is that we don’t leave anything the pigs could trace."

Otis tipped his ratty-looking baseball cap in salute and headed for the entrance to the pueblo with the other two men.

B.T. was startled by Jenny's ragged appearance. Three days of digging the Magician's Burial had turned her old and somehow smaller. She looked like one of those crazy bag women who pushed shopping carts around the streets of Phoenix. Her hair was matted with red dirt and her eyes had lost all their fire. She slouched in the aluminum chair and stared indifferently at the ground.

"You look tired, Red. The coke is wearing off, huh?"

Jenny slowly raised her head as if she was lifting a great weight. "I feel like – " She closed her eyes and swallowed with apparent difficulty. "I just want to go to sleep."

B.T. rarely felt pity for another human being, but there was something about Jenny Hatch that demanded sympathy. "Look, we'll shoot up some coke in a little bit. That'll get you back on your feet again. But right now I have to deal with the Judge. He'll be here any minute now. I'll try to convince the ornery sonofabitch that we should keep you, Red. I know you could teach us a lot – hell, you made us an easy couple of million on this one dig alone – so that should be worth something. But I'm not promising you anything; he can be pretty damn hard-headed at times."

B.T. looked over in time to see Jenny's head slump forward on to her chest. She was sound asleep and hadn't heard a word he said.

The Bell Ranger hovered overhead like a giant cicada and B.T. pointed at the neatly stacked row of boxes to his left. Ignoring the shooting pain in his leg, he jogged over to the clearing where the chopper would put down. Dust clouds billowed around the whining aircraft as it set down with a final lurch. The engines went silent as the rotor blades continued to spin lazy circles in the air.

The Judge climbed out, beaming widely as he walked up to B.T. and vigorously shook his hand. "Everything certainly looks in order here, Mr. Saunders. Congratulations on a job well done."

B.T. met the gaze of his partner and smiled proudly. "It went pretty smoothly, Judge. We had a few glitches, but I think you're going to be real impressed with this shipment. It's the best one we ever put together, by far."

B.T. pulled the three smallest sword-swallowing wands from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Take a look at these babies and tell me what you think."

The Judge's eyebrows raised in interest as he inspected the strange prehistoric treasures. "What are they?"

"Red says they were used by the tribal magician during some sort of sword-swallowing ceremony."

The Judge looked curiously at B.T. "Who?"

"The Magician. See – "

The Judge cut him short. "No. Who is Red?"

B.T. felt his stomach flutter as he pointed over at the sleeping woman. "Her name is Jenny Hatch. She's the Forest Service archaeologist from Fredonia."

The Judge shook his head as if he couldn't believe his ears. "I beg your pardon. Did you say Forest Service archaeologist?"

"It's a long story, Judge. See, she was doing some sort of project out here and stumbled on to us by accident. We were going to kill her straight off, but then she told us she was an archaeologist."

The Judge was not at all happy with what he was hearing. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

"That's what I thought at first, too, Judge. But we were digging this burial, see, and we were breaking a lot of stuff in the process ‘cause we didn’t have a clue how to do it right. Anyway, she showed us that we had uncovered a burial of real big importance. Jenny's an expert on Indian burials, and she claims this is the best one she's ever seen in the whole goddamn Southwest."

"And you believed her?" said the Judge condescendingly.

"You bet your ass I believed her," countered B.T., his voice rising in anger. "This whole fucking shipment came out of one, single grave; and I'll tell you something else, if we hadn't had the help of Red here, we would have busted up half the shit without even knowing what we were doing. That lady is worth her weight in gold, Judge."

The Judge turned the wands over in his hands. "Sword-swallowing wands, you say?"

"That's what she says."

"Very interesting, Mr. Saunders. I am, indeed, impressed. And what do you intend to do with this rare find of yours?"

"You mean Jenny?"

"Precisely," said the Judge as he pocketed the wands.

"That's up to you, Judge. Personally, I think Jenny could easily double our profits. She knows this Indian stuff inside and out."

The Judge cast an appraising glance in Jenny's direction. "You'll pardon me if I'm a bit skeptical, Mr. Saunders. What have you done to her?"

"She hasn't slept since Tuesday. I've been filling her full of coke so she could keep up the digging, but she hasn't had any yet this morning because I wasn't sure what we were going to do with her. I figured I'd just let her sleep while we worked that out. She's earned a break, that's for sure."

"What makes you think this woman would continue to help us?"

"Drugs," replied B.T.

"Say again?"

"If we get her hooked on drugs, then we won't have to worry about her running away. And if she turns out to be more trouble than she's worth, then we can always dump her."

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 31

2011-06-14T11:35:00.000-07:00

Dwayne and Linda were exhausted by the time they reached the top of the Paria Plateau. The 2,000-foot climb had turned their legs and lungs to jelly.

Dwayne doubled-over. "I need a break, Linda. My feet are killing me."

Linda brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and exhaled with relief. Boy, am I glad to hear you say that. I've been ready to stop for a while now, but I didn't want to slow you down."

Dwayne laughed as he mopped his brown with a bandanna. "I was thinking the very same thing." Dwayne took off his cowboy hat and wiped his brow with a blue bandana. "Let's sit a spell and get our bearings."

They sat on a smooth ledge of sandstone looking over House Rock Valley. The view was breathtaking. To the east, they could see the twin towers of the Navajo power plant in the town of Page; behind the generating station rose the looming dome of Navajo Mountain. The world below was an endless expanse of weirdly-shaped, burnt-brown slickrock. The morning air was so clear, it seemed almost polished. Visibility was somewhere in the 150-mile range.

Dwayne pulled off his cowboy boots and groaned with relief. "I'd give anything for a horse. These poor dogs of mine are blistering something bad."

Linda chuckled as she twisted the cap off her canteen. "That's what you get for wearing those silly cowboy boots. Anyone could tell you they weren't made for walking."

"Yeah, that's true enough, but they surely do impress the girls, and they're great for kicking hippies' asses."

"Oh hush. You'd never kick a hippie, and it's not much of a woman that would like a man for his shoes."

Dwayne looked skyward as if he were asking for some help. "If I had known you were going to lead me on a forced march, I'd have worn my sneakers."

"You're the one who is leading this expedition, Bub. And you wouldn't be such a damn tenderfoot if you walked more often. You Forest Service people are all alike; you spend most of your time driving around in trucks."

Linda took a long swig of water from her canteen and passed it over to Dwayne. "How many miles do you figure we hiked so far?"

Dwayne rubbed his feet as he stared down into the valley they had spent the night traversing. "Ohhh, I'd say we've gone about nine or ten miles; a lot longer than I thought it would be."

"That last mile felt like it was straight up."

"Well, at least the climbing part is over."

"How much further until we find Jenny?"

Dwayne leaned back and closed his eyes. "It's hard to say. Hell, we don't even know where she is, and Pinnacle Ridge is about twenty square miles."

"We know they had to have driven into the pueblo where they're digging, so that's got to narrow it down a lot. I've seen a topo map of this area and there are, like, five roads on the whole plateau. Isn't there a small road that goes part of the way across Pinnacle Ridge?"

"Yep. the trail we've been following connects with it right past that big rock formation over there – the one that looks like a big ol’ nipple. The locals call it Emma's Nipple, in honor of one of John D. Lee's many wives."

"How romantic. It looks more like the Capital Dome to me," said Linda as she combed her hair with her fingers.

Dwayne chuckled. "A tit by any other name is still a tit."

Linda gave him an exasperated push. "So once we get on that road, we'll run into Saunders and his men, right?"

"That's a pretty safe guess. They're pueblos all over the area, Linda. You probably didn't notice it, but we're sitting on the edge of some pithouses right now. The cattle have trashed these structures so bad, you can hardly see 'em anymore; and what the cows didn't trample, the cowboys stole, or just smashed for the hell of it. The Anasazi were pretty much all over this plateau." Dwayne leaned forward and picked up a piece of rough, gray pottery that was lying in a wide depression on the ledge. "They caught the rain in these natural depressions and then stored the water in big jars – big gray ones, as a matter of fact." He threw the piece of pottery over the cliff and they both watched it fall into the canyon below.

"I'd say we've got about two miles to go until we get to the place where they're probably digging." Dwayne looked at his watch. "It's nine o'clock now. It's pretty flat from here on out. We should be there in another hour."

"That's great!" exclaimed Linda.

"Well, I don't know about that. There's no way they'll be looking for us to come in from this direction, but that's about the only advantage we have. And surprise will only take us so far. After that, it's a shotgun and pistol against automatic weapon fire. And this time, there'll be more than one person to deal with, there'll be no cover of darkness, and they'll have Jenny as a hostage. Do you know what that means?"

"We're screwed," said Linda as she looked down at the ground and frowned.

"Yeah, probably. But it also means that we'll have to get right on top of these guys before we start shooting." Dwayne looked Linda squarely in the eyes. "We don't have to do this, Linda. Jason will find our rigs at Bighorn Buttes sometime this morning, and when he does, he'll call out the troops. We could just sit right here for the rest of the day and wait for a chopper to come and find us."

"But, what happens to Jenny then?"

Dwayne sighed with weary dismay. "For all we know, Jenny is already dead."

"No!" replied Linda adamantly. "Saunders made it sound like Jenny was running the show."

Dwayne slapped his thigh in frustration. "What the hell kind of sense does that make?"

"I don't know, Dwayne. But the point is, she's a major part of their operation, so they'll keep her alive as long as they're digging."

"You can bet your ass that our little shootout last night has brought a halt to the digging, Linda. Right now, those boys are loading up their loot and making fast tracks for home. And when they leave, they're gonna kill Jenny. Guaranteed."

"Which means you better put your boots back on and get it in gear, Cowboy. We've got to save Jenny."

"Just so long as you realize what we're up against," said Dwayne as reached for his weathered boots.

Linda poked herself in the chest with her thumb. "Hey, I'm the one who saw Saunders blow an Indian's head off, remember? I know what we're up against. We can't run from something like that. We can't hide out and wait for help to come. We have to hunt it down and kill it – before it does the same to us."

Dwayne rose stiffly. "Well, come on then, girl. Time's a'wastin’, and we don't want to be late for the surprise party."

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 30

2011-06-09T08:24:00.001-07:00

Jason arrived at the Fredonia police station as the sun was starting to burn off the frost from the previous night.

After alerting Dwayne about the possible danger to Jenny and Linda he had stayed in Hurricane, looking for clues about what Saunders was up to and what his next move might be.

They had searched the Saunders' home until five in the morning. By the time they finished, they had filled two police vans with illegal contraband, not including the prehistoric artifacts. A professional archaeologist would have to be called in to deal with the incredible collection. They had uncovered an amazing arsenal of weapons, including automatic pistols and rifles, several rocket-powered grenade launchers and grenades, some plastique explosive, a shoulder-held missile launcher, and countless small arms. If B.T. Saunders had been home that night, he could have held off an attack of the Utah National Guard. There were also drugs scattered all over the house. In the kiva, they discovered a pound of cocaine and five ounces of heroin; in the bedroom, methamphetamine; in the living room, marijuana; and in the bathroom, barbituates, from Qualudes to Thorazine. All in all, B.T. Saunders had enough drugs to qualify as one of the largest pharmacy in southern Utah. Jason had never seen such an assortment of weapons and drugs in his entire career as a lawman. But they found nothing that might indicate where they could find B.T. Saunders, and nothing that might lead them to believe that he was hunting for Linda Joyce,

Barry had taken all the evidence with him back to Cedar City to be analyzed and held until Saunders was brought to trial. Jason had promised to keep Barry informed as to what was happening on his end.

Jason hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours and his head felt like it was being squeezed inside a slowly tightening vise. A devout Mormon, he could seek no temporary relief from caffeine. He grimaced with fatigue and stress. How long could he continue to run on just adrenaline?

"Morning, Sheriff. Long night, huh?" said Deputy Tom Mutz as Jason entered the police station.

"I don't have time to go over it with you right now, Tom. But I need you to tell me about your search of the ASN chopper."

"The preliminary report is on your desk, Sheriff. But there's nothing real conclusive. We gathered some clothes fibers and hair samples. And there was a little dirt in the cargo bay that might match up with the dirt from the potted site in Jumpup Canyon. It's way too early to tell yet. We got a whole bunch of prints from various places inside the chopper, but it's gonna take a while to sort 'em all out. We didn't find any blood or anything like that, if that’s what you wanted to hear."

Jason patted his deputy on the shoulder. "I'm sure you did your best, Tom. How about giving the Forest Service office a call. Talk to Ben Tissaw; find out if Dwayne and the girls have called in on the radio this morning. I need to go clean up, but I'll meet you in my office in about ten minutes."

"I'll see what I can find out, Sheriff."

A few minutes later, Jason looked up from the airport report and greeted a smiling Tom Mutz. "Please tell me they called in and everything's alright?"

"Yeah, Jenny Hatch just radioed in a few minutes ago. Ben took the call himself. He said Jenny sounded tired, but she'd be coming home late this afternoon."

"Did he talk to Dwayne?"

"Well, I don't think so. At least, he didn't mention it."

"How about Linda? Did he talk to her?"

"To be honest, Sheriff, I didn't ask."

Jason frowned. "Well, try using your brain the next time, Tom. Now, you go call Ben back. I want all three of those people accounted for. You tell him to raise 'em on the radio and confirm that they're all safe and sound. Understood?"

Tom felt like a fool. He left hurriedly, determined not to let his boss down again.

Jason went back to reading the report, but his mind was elsewhere. Why would Jenny call in to the office, rather than Dwayne? It didn't make sense that Dwayne would go all the way out there in the middle of the night to check on Linda and Jenny, and then not call in himself. Something wasn't right here. He started to rise from his chair at the same moment Tom returned, slightly out of breath.

"Okay, I just got off the phone with Ben and he can't raise anyone but Jenny. She says that Linda has already gone off to work, and that Dwayne has gone with her to provide protection. Ben tried to radio Dwayne and there was no response, so he's either away from his radio, or in an area where he can't hit a repeater to transmit his signal over the mountain."

"Yeah, or it could all be a crock."

Tom looked like Jason was speaking a foreign language. "Why would Jenny Hatch say that everything was going well, if it wasn't?"

"Hard to say, but I'm going out to House Rock Valley to check things out for myself. Want to take a ride?"

Tom smiled. He wanted very much to get out of the office and get some fresh air. "You bet, Sheriff. You mean right this minute?"

Jason drummed his fingers on the top of his desk as he tried to organize his thoughts. "I'd like to get on the road by nine o'clock at the latest. I need to phone home and let my wife know what's been going on. I was gone all last night and she'll be worried sick. I also want to call the D.P.S. office in Flag, and see if we can get their chopper up here for the day. House Rock Valley is a big place, and it would help to have a chopper."

"I'll order us some sandwiches from Nedra's."

" Good idea. I haven't eaten since dinner last night. Get me two of everything. I'm starved. And I’m sorry I yelled at you Tom. The pressure and no sleep are driving me nuts."

"Don’t think nothing of it, Sheriff,” said Tom with a wave of his hand. "We’re all on pins and needles. That’s for sure. And you being in charge and all, it’s a wonder you haven’t blown a gasket yet."

"Thanks, Tom. I appreciate everything you and the boys are doing. Please let them know that."

Jason picked up the telephone. His first call was to his wife June. She told him she and the children were worried about him and that he better be careful. If he got hurt, she was going to paddle his big behind. That made Jason smile. His family had always been his rock.

The request for helicopter assistance was turned down by the Police commander in Flag. There had just been a multi-car collision on Interstate 40 and the police chopper was being used to ferry the seriously injured to hospitals in Phoenix. When it finished, it was scheduled to help search for some backpacker missing after an overnight hike on the San Francisco Peaks.

Jason put on his windbreaker and left his office. Tom was standing in front of a cluttered desk, having a heated telephone conversation. Jason checked the duty roster to see who was working the day shift today. Deputies Pratt and Lamb were presently out on patrol, but they could be called if needed. Velma Jensen, the office secretary and dispatcher, was handling the switchboard. She looked as harried and over-worked as Jason felt.

"How's it going, Velma?"

"It's going nuts, Sheriff. That's how it's going."

"Well, hopefully this will all be over soon. Now listen closely, Velma. Tom and I are going to take a drive out to House Rock Valley. We'll probably be gone most of the day. I'll call in every hour on the hou with our locationr. If I don't, here's what I want you to do. First, you alert the main office in Flag and tell them to send help up to Bighorn Buttes just as fast as they can. You hear? Then you send both our deputies to seal off both ends of House Rock Valley Road. Tell them not to let anybody in or out. Tell them to treat every car as armed and dangerous until proven otherwise. Search everyone and everything. I mean everybody! Then call Ben Tissaw over at the Forest Service Office, and let him know what's happening. But under no circumstances, do I want anymore of his people to go into that area."

Jason pointed a warning finger at Velma. "You follow those instructions to the letter, Velma. And if you don't hear from me on the hour, then you call out the cavalry. If there's a change in plans, I'll give you the details over the radio. Understood?"

Velma Jensen was a very nosey person by nature, and it was clear that she wanted to ask a million questions; but she held her tongue and kept it simple.

"Did you call your wife, Sheriff? You know how she worries about you."

Jason laughed as he gave the heavy-set Mormon woman a wink. "I just checked in with June a few minutes ago. She told me I better not miss dinner again like I did last night."

Velma nodded solemnly. "She's a fine lady, your wife. And you'd better do as you're told, Sheriff, if you know what's good for you."

Jason smiled and shook his head. "I'll try my best to get home by seven, okay?"

"Don't you be late when you call in on the radio, either, Sheriff. I’d look pretty darn silly if I got everybody in a snit, and then found out that you just forgot to call in."

Jason rolled his eyes. "You have my word, Velma. Every hour on the hour, just like the news on the radio."

Jason walked over to Tom, waiting by the bulletin board. Tom looked agitated.

"I just got off the phone with Art Shaw, from up at the Kanab Airport. He called to say that the ASN chopper was just picked up by some fancy-pants retired judge. The guy's name is Keating. He had an Arizona driver's license and lives down in Scottsdale. I wrote the number and the address down."

"I forgot all about the chopper, but a judge isn't going to have anything to do with pothunting and murder," said Jason as he headed for the front door.

Tom followed his boss. "Yeah, well, maybe. But Art told me to tell you that they tracked the chopper for the first few miles, like you asked ‘em to do, until they lost it on radar. And it wasn't heading southwest toward the ASN mine."

Jason stopped and spun around to face his deputy. "It wasn't? Which way was it going?"

"Southeast, Sheriff. Straight for House Rock Valley."

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 29

2011-06-03T05:41:00.000-07:00

Sorry for not posting the last few weeks ... been dealing with a very sick 90 year old mom. She's been battling for her life and I've been helping out the best I can. Please think good thoughts for her if you can ...

B.T. sat in a lawn chair outside the Big Boy Pueblo on Pinnacle Ridge, his pants around his ankles and the shame of his failure hurting more than the shotgun pellets buried in his left thigh. He had let Linda Joyce get away again. He had also allowed himself to be beaten at his own game by some hayseed Forest Service cop. The embarrassment that B.T. felt was almost too much to stomach and he angrily dug the tweezers into the raw, swollen gunshot wound as if trying to get even with himself. When he removed the last pellet, he poured hydrogen peroxide on his leg to clean the wound and howled at the pain.

Otis heard the piercing scream as he came out of the pueblo with a large cardboard box in his hands. "What's the matter?!" He hastily placed the box in the dirt and charged over to his boss, a worried look on his face. "You okay, B.T.?"

B.T. shook with spasms of burning agony as the shotgun wound bubbled and foamed. "Oh, you bet, Otis! I'm just...fucking...GREAT!"

He threw the nearly empty bottle of peroxide at his friend. "You stupid, inbred asshole!"

"Me and the boys can go down there and kill that nosey cunt and the guy who shot you. I mean, how far could they have gotten on foot?"

B.T. glared at Otis. "NO! Now is not the time. They can wait. We've got to have everything boxed-up out here next to the helipad by ten o'clock, when the Judge arrives. That's our number one priority. Once the chopper is loaded and the Judge is on his way back to town, then we'll go looking for those bastards and set things right. Understood?"

"No problem, B.T. Red's got the boys packing all the loot in newspaper, so the shit don't get broken. We're about half done, but it should be a cinch to get everything boxed away before Judge Poop gets here."

"That's good, Otis. You let Red handle the details of packing the gear; just make sure she knows we have to be finished by ten. And hey, I'm sorry that I snapped at you like that before."

Otis spit in the dirt. "You don't need to worry 'bout a thing. We've got it all covered. How's the leg doing?"

B.T. touched the edge of the wound. "I think I'll be able to walk on it without too much trouble once I finish bandaging it up. I'll come help you as soon as I can. But until then, you're in charge, Otis. Don't let me down, buddy."

"Take your time, B.T. Between me and Red, we've got it all under control."

Otis turned and walked back to the door of the pueblo where a pile of large, cardboard boxes had been assembled in a neat line. As Otis deposited his box on the pile, Billy Ray came stumbling out of the pueblo carrying a huge box. Otis waited for the big man to drop his load before he jokingly gave him a push. Both men laughed as they jostled; Otis threw his arm affectionately around Billy's massive shoulders and steered him back toward the pueblo. B.T. smiled as he watched. Even with the terrible events of the previous evening, they were still going to pull off this raid. Another three hours and they would be far from the Paria Plateau and home free.

The Judge would not be pleased. In the Judge's world, a wounded man was at best, merely careless; at worst, a victim. But the goals of the mission had been accomplished. They had put together what was probably the largest and most magnificent collection of stolen Indian artifacts ever assembled from one site in the Southwest, and they had done it in the course of three short days. B.T. was convinced that when the Judge saw the shipment they were hauling out of the Magician's burial, he would quickly forget their other troubles. In the final analysis, the good far outweighed the bad.

It was crunch time. He would have to supervise the packaging and loading of the artifacts, and then he would have to stroke the Judge's ruffled feathers. That completed, he would have to make sure they didn't leave any tools or trash bearing traceable fingerprints for the nosey piggies who would eventually find this place. He had made a mistake telling Linda where they were digging, but it was hard to imagine the cops would show up at the Big Boy ruin before noon. That was plenty of time to load up their collection of prehistoric artifacts and get off the Paria Plateau.

There was still the question of what to do with Jenny Hatch. She would be a great asset in any future digging operations. It wouldn't be difficult to get her strung out on drugs, and once she was addicted, she'd do anything for them. B.T. genuinely cared for Jenny. She was strong and sharp. She had red hair and green eyes, and he saw her as a sort of spirit sister. Most importantly, she was extremely valuable. Then again, keeping Jenny was a risk. After botching the hit on Linda, B.T. wasn't really in a position to make any decisions for the group about taking on a new partner, especially a strung-out, involuntary one. B.T. would present the case for keeping the gutsy archaeologist, and then it would be up to the Judge whether to keep her or kill her. In the meantime, B.T. would make sure Jenny called in to let the Forest Service know things were still going well on the Paria.

B.T. bent over and grabbed his knapsack. He must be ready for the dragon if it returned for Jenny and the others. He felt around inside the pack and his hand settled on a full box of hypodermic needles and the drugs. There was more than enough power left to handle the job.

2011-05-13T11:16:00.000-07:00

The Severn River Association’s First Century

It takes many years to save a river

It seems odd, but the Severn River Association is the oldest group in the United States dedicated to the preservation of a river. You’d figure that honor would fall to some group affiliated with John Muir.

On April 29, 1911, 32 wealthy white men from Baltimore who owned summer homes along the Severn River got together and started the Severn River Association. Their primary mission was to stock the river with fish, prevent watermen from poaching and upgrade Ritchie Highway so they could get to their getaway cottages a bit more easily. The first president of the group was the colorfully named P.M. Womble, who ran the show for 20 years.

I succeeded Womble as president many years later, from 1995 to 1997, a hectic time when growth and development started to change the face of the Severn. I have many fond memories of battles lost and won during those days. It has been years since I got together with those old friends. When current president Bob Whitcomb asked me to attend the 100th anniversary gala at the Calvert House, I was a little surprised because I hadn’t thought about the Association for many years.

I am glad that I went.

The highlight of the party was the film Moving Water: 100 Years of Fighting for the Severn. For the fascinating documentary chronicling the Association’s history, Naval Academy professor and Chesapeake Bay Blues author Howard Ernst teamed up with longtime Herald Harbor resident Charlotte Lubbert.

Next, six past presidents spoke for a few minutes about what each had tried to do and how they thought the rive was faring today.

I spouted some gibberish about how everyone needs to work together if we are ever going to save the Severn. All the presidents agreed that the Severn was in pretty bad shape and relentlessly under siege. By the time the last speaker got up, I was feeling a bit blue.

Cliff Andrew, president from 1984-1989, changed the tune:

“As I began preparation of my remarks for this evening’s Centennial Celebration, I mentioned to a friend that the Severn River Association was marking its 100th Anniversary this month.

“He commented, Oh, that’s great; just look at the river; what have they accomplished in 100 years?

“I replied, ‘Well, a lot!’

“Tonight I have time to identify only a few of those accomplishments; and I want to pay tribute to a dozen individuals — many of whom are no longer with us — who in the process of fighting for this river in the mid 1980s I met and came to know and love: people like Bill Barry, Marshall Dowling, Jan Hollmann, Colby Rucker, Lina Vlavianos, John Kabler, Robin Ireland, Stu Morris, Marion Warren, Charles Iliff, John Sherwood and Ned Hall, as well as the six gentlemen with me on this podium tonight.

“If not for these men and women,” he went on:

The Severn would not be a state-designated Scenic River.
There would be no 1,300-acre Severn Run Natural Area.
There would now be a Marriott Hotel on College Creek.
There would have been no Operation Clear Run or Clearwater.
There would be no strict, county-enforced sediment control.
There would not be a Severn River Commission.
There would be no Severn River Land Trust permanently protecting over 1,000 acres by conservation easement in the Severn River watershed.
The Critical Areas law would not exist.
There would be no 9,000-acre Patuxent Wildlife Refuge.
And there would be no Scenic Rivers Land Trust with another 1,000-plus acres of land permanently protected through private conservation easement in the South, West, Rhode, Herring Bay and Patuxent rivers watersheds.”

I had convinced myself for the last decade that my time with the Severn River Association, while not wasted, was of dubious value. I was wrong. Fighting for a river is a noble cause. But it is often difficult to see the tangible results when surrounded by so much doom and gloom.

I think it’s like planting a tree. There is instant gratification when you first get your hands dirty. But then you forget about the tree until you happen to stumble upon it one day, and it’s all grown and climbing gracefully into the sky. I realize now that it takes many years to grow a stately tree … and to save a river.

© COPYRIGHT 2010 by New Bay Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 28 - Part II

2011-05-10T08:37:00.001-07:00

He didn't have to wait for an answer because he suddenly heard the warning rattle of a snake in the darkness to his right. Dwayne spun around and let loose with two shotgun blasts as fast as he could pull the trigger and pump the stock. The noise of the explosions were like cannon shots going off inside a barrel. The smell of cordite and sulfur filled the air. Dwayne bent down and hastily picked up Linda, sleeping bag and all, and threw her over his shoulder. He straightened up unsteadily and pumped a fresh shell into the chamber and fired off another blast in the general direction of the last.

His fire was met with a return volley of shots that sprayed the rocks and bushes all around them. The muzzle flash from Saunders' gun had been plainly visible a hundred feet away in a scrub-oak thicket. Dwayne aimed the shotgun at gut level and fired off another round as he took off running.

Linda couldn't see what was happening; she hung over Dwayne's left shoulder and watched the dull gray ground go by, feeling helpless as a baby.

Dwayne thought there was a good chance that he had winged Saunders, but there was no way to be sure. He headed straight for a large juniper tree which grew along the back wall of the canyon, where his back would be guarded by the lofty Buttes. If he and Linda could work their way back up the talus slope and take refuge at the overlook where he had first spied the camp, then they would be relatively safe. Dwayne's body gave out as he reached the juniper and he collapsed to his knees, dumping Linda headfirst into the sand. His chest heaved as he squinted his eyes and anxiously looked back over his shoulder. The coast seemed clear.

"Dwayne, cut my hands free," whispered Linda urgently. "That bastard tied me up so I couldn't get away, and it hurts like hell. Please get me out of these damn ropes."

"Saunders could hit us again at any second and I need to reload," said Dwayne as he untied Linda's hands. "Get yourself ready to move. Can you handle a gun?"

Linda rubbed her numb wrists. "Yeah, I've fired a shotgun before. I used to go duck hunting with my dad."

Dwayne began feeding shells into the magazine of the shotgun. "I thought you loved birds?"

"I do," agreed Linda as she slid free of the sleeping bag. "And some of 'em I even love to eat."

Dwayne finished reloading and jacked a live round into the firing chamber. "That's the kind of birdwatching I like best, too." He handed the shotgun to Linda. "The safety's off and it's ready to go. Now hug that tree and use it as a shield. If you see Saunders coming, wait 'til he gets in range before you fire, and then you aim for his chest. That way you can be sure he won't keep coming. You have to pump it after every shot, and you got six to give. Here's a box of shells just in case something happens to me."

"Where are you going?" asked Linda in a tone of voice which indicated she wasn't too thrilled with the idea of him leaving.

"I'm climbing right up there." He pointed at the hill of loose rock behind them. "I'm going up that talus slope to an overlook. It's how I got in here without him catching me."

"You called him Saunders. How do you know his name?"

Dwayne shook his head. "It's a long story, and we're gonna have to save it for later. Right now I just want to get to higher ground and find out what's happening. I'll still be right above you. I’ll never be out of earshot. Okay?"

Linda smiled bravely. "If you say so."

"That'a girl." He squeezed her hand and then took off.

Linda sat peering out at the moonlit landscape for the next thirty minutes, waiting for Saunders to show again. She stared into the moonlit darkness, her eyes straining to see the homicidal psychopath who had been seconds away from strangling her. Rage washed over her like a wave. Saunders had terrorized her for so long now that she had moved beyond fear and self-preservation, and into the realm of seething revenge.

She heard a sudden noise behind her and turned and fired into the back wall of the narrow canyon.

"WHOA! It's me!" screamed Dwayne. "Don't shoot!"

Linda lowered the shotgun in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Dwayne, I thought it was Saunders."

"Saunders is gone! I just watched him barrel-ass out of here in his truck. He took off in a real big hurry, heading south on the House Rock Valley Road. I 'spect our Mr. Saunders is hit, I betcha he's hurt pretty bad. Otherwise, he'd've stuck around and tried to finish us off."

"He told me about some big burial site they were digging up on the Paria Plateau – some place called Pinnacle Ridge."

"That's about ten miles southeast of here."

"Saunders has Jenny and he's making her dig the site for him. The way he talked, there were some other men up there with him, too, but he didn't get specific. He said that Jenny was leading the dig. I know that doesn't make any sense, but that's what he told me. The guy's as crazy as a loon, Dwayne. I mean, completely out of his mind. He was about to kill me when you showed up. You saved my life!"

"Not yet, I didn't. We've gotta get our butts out of this box canyon right now. If he's got company up there on the Paria, then he might send 'em back down here after us. We've gotta get while the gettin's good. So let's go. And how 'bout puttin' the safety on that shotgun."

"I already did, Dwayne. Jesus, I'm sorry. I could have killed you."

"Well, at least I don't have to worry anymore about whether or not you can shoot the gun, huh? Come on, Annie Oakley, let's ride."

Back at camp, Linda grabbed her down jacket. "Let me get some things from out of my truck and I'll be ready to go." Linda let out a startled gasp. "Oh Christ, look what that bastard did to my truck! He slashed all my tires!"

Dwayne walked over to inspect the damage. "Saunders might be crazy, but he ain't stupid. And I betcha we'll find that he put my truck out of commission, too, along with the radio. Goddamnit! I could have nailed his truck when I first got here, but I didn't even think of it. I was so worried about finding out how you and Jenny were I wasn’t thinking straight. Course, he'd still be here if I had knocked out his truck, so maybe it's just as well. Can't say I'm sorry to see him gone."

When they checked Dwayne's truck, they found that Saunders had stolen the distributor cap and slashed all the wiring to the radio.

"I'm afraid we'll have to hoof it, Linda. I've got a couple gallon canteens of water in the bed of the truck. Jason'll be out here by tomorrow morning. If I don't call in, he'll know there's been some sort of trouble here."

"So, what do we do between now and then?" asked Linda. She laid her shotgun on the tailgate and adjusted her canteen.

"The main thing right now is to get away from here. Hell, we might even get lucky and find someone driving down the main road, 'though I doubt it at this time of night."

"If somebody comes along, how will we be able to tell whether or not its Saunders or his men?"

"I saw his truck, remember?"

"But what if he's in one of the other guys' truck?"

"Good point," agreed Dwayne. "I guess we don't hitch any rides."

Linda grabbed Dwayne’s elbow. "Look, I'm sick of running from this shithead. He's got Jenny up there on Pinnacle Ridge, and God only knows what he's doing to her. You said the place isn't that far away. I think we should go after Saunders. He'll never expect that; maybe we can get lucky and take him by surprise. You did it once already. If he doesn't get off the Paria real quick, he's going to get caught. He's not going to leave a witness like Jenny alive. Believe me, Dwayne, I've heard this guy's views on life and death, and he'll kill anyone who knows who he is. That's why he killed Ken."

Dwayne's mouth dropped open. "How the hell do you know about that?"

"Yeah, Saunders was nice enough to give me the details; he made it sound like he was putting a dog to sleep. The way he sees it, he's doing a person a favor by killing them. That way they get to live forever. How can you deal with that kind of madness?"

"I know a shortcut up onto the plateau. It's an old cattle trail that's too sandy to drive – nobody uses it anymore – but it'll be easy on foot. It'll save us a couple miles, and Saunders and his boys'll never look for us to come in from the east side of Pinnacle Ridge. But, the turnoff to the trail is about five miles down House Rock Valley Road, which means we'll be out in the open for at least the next couple hours, and that's exactly where those fellas are gonna be looking for us. Count on it."

Linda picked up the shotgun and angrily popped in a shell. "And we'll be looking for them, too, Cowboy."

Dwayne shook his head and chuckled. "You're something else, girl." He picked up a full canteen and draped it over his shoulder. Leaning over the bed of the truck, he used his finger to print PINNACLE RIDGE on the dusty back window of the pickup.

"That'll tell Jason where we've gone."

Dwayne and Linda walked down the sandy road together, the moonlight illuminating the way. It was nearly midnight.

"It'll be dawn before we get where we're going, Linda."

Linda clapped Dwayne affectionately on the back. "Just think about how good we're going to feel when we sneak up on those bastards. I can't wait to see Saunders' face."

A lone coyote sitting on top of the Paria Plateau cut loose with a baleful howl, quickly answered by a chorus of high-pitched wails from all around the valley. It was a unsettling sound to a cowboy; Dwayne felt surrounded by the unseen enemy. The devil dogs were out hunting by the light of the moon and the scent of blood was on the wind.

Anasazi Strip - Chapter 28 - Part 1

2011-05-03T13:08:00.000-07:00

As Dwayne neared Bighorn Buttes camp, he began to slip into a deep funk. The moon was just starting to climb above the Paria Plateau and the Camel Rocks were highlighted against the nighttime skyline like giant sentries. Dwayne could almost see the rocks breathe. This dead-end canyon would make the perfect trap. Dwayne had spent the year 1970, fighting for his life and country in the sweltering jungles of Vietnam and he knew all about stumbling into deadly ambushes. And as he drove from Fredonia to House Rock Valley, Dwayne had become more and more convinced that he was entering a war zone. Saunders killed Professor Jarvis while searching for the location of Linda Joyce. If Jarvis knew where she was camping, then so did Saunders.

Dwayne pulled over and parked the government truck; he felt much safer walking into danger than driving. He had hunted since he was ten and he could stalk prey in this type of country as well as any man. He was armed with a 12-gauge Remington over and under, and a nickel-plated 44-magnum in a holster on his hip. They were close-order weapons, which was precisely the way Dwayne intended to fight: up close & personal.

He put on his dark green parka and stuck a box of shotgun shells in one pocket, filling the other with stubby 44-caliber rounds. The rising moon would make his task more tricky, but Dwayne planned to walk back up the road about a half-mile or so, and come around to the camp in a big half-circle, hugging the base of the Buttes. It might take Dwayne a while to get where he really wanted to go, but he was going to arrive there alive. If the girls were okay, then they would all have a good laugh on ol' Dwayne.

As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he noticed the outline of another vehicle parked a hundred feet away in the shelter of a small grove of pinyon pine trees. Dwayne raised his shotgun and made his way in that direction. Every one of his senses was tuned to the unexpected, but the only sound he heard was the rhythmic buzzing of a Shoshoni locust in search of a mate. The vehicle was a black GMC pickup, probably Saunders' truck. If Saunders was still here, Linda and Jenny might still be alive. He jotted down the truck's license number on his forearm. Dwayne was suddenly reminded of the Army custom of pocketing dog tags before going into battle, so that the graves registration people would know who they were dealing with. Hopefully, Jason would find the tag number and use it to track down Saunders if Dwayne ended up getting killed tonight.

He retreated back down the road, looking for tracks, and scanning the perimeter as he followed the two-track road away from Bighorn Buttes. Fifteen minutes later, he was well away from Linda’s camp. As he left the road, he was forced to slow his pace through the irregular groupings of cactus and sagebrush. He could see the obstacles clear enough in the moon glow, but only as long as he moved slowly.

Grand Canyon rattlers did their hunting at night, usually lying motionless underneath the natural ground cover. It was a myth that rattlesnakes always rattled their tails before striking. Sometimes they did. But just as often, they didn’t make a sound. Walking through a high desert at night, when the moon was high, was like walking through a mine field. Dwayne kept his eyes glued to the ground. The terrain sloped gently uphill to Bighorn Buttes, and after about fifteen minutes he was finally standing on bare rock at the base of the looming sandstone cliffs. His boots made a loud clip-clap sound on the hard rock and he found himself wishing that he was back on the soft sand again. He stepped gingerly and crouched low. Below him, there ran a dry wash whose sandy bottom sparkled in the moonlight like water. A rabbit broke from the cover of a fourwing saltbush and took off down the sandy creek bed in a flash.

Dwayne could see that he was slowly gaining elevation; he was now at the same height as the tops of the two sentinel rocks where Linda was camped. He couldn't see down into the floor of the canyon; but by the same token, Saunders wouldn't be able to see him, either. He began traversing the series of talus slopes which drained off the thousand-foot high stone walls. The ground gave under his weight and tiny rocks slid down the steep slopes in tinkling mini-avalanches. He sand-skied to where the drainage slides funneled together and leveled off, forming a finely polished pour-over spout. He crept up to the edge of the precipice and cautiously peered over the side. There, almost directly beneath him, was Linda's camp.

The moon lit the valley floor in a weird parody of daylight; everything could be seen, but it was like looking through a milky lens. Dwayne spotted Linda's truck, and nearby he could make out the faintest wisps of smoke rising off a smoldering camp fire. Jenny's government rig was nowhere in sight. Beside the fire Dwayne saw a large, dark shape that looked like someone in a sleeping bag, but there was no movement. He cradled his shotgun and crouched down, smelling the pungent odor of sage as he stared down into the silent camp. Somewhere down there, Saunders was waiting for him, like a hungry rattlesnake in hiding.

So far, everything had gone pretty well; he had managed to get close enough to the camp to see what was going on, and he apparently hadn't been spotted yet. But Saunders had to have heard him arrive; as soon as he saw Dwayne's government truck, he'd know that someone official was playing hide and seek with him. Dwayne figured Saunders would move to high ground, probably somewhere around the Camel Rocks. Dwayne carefully studied the two monoliths, but if Saunders was there, he was well-hidden.

Dwayne stood up quickly and made his move. He stepped over the edge of his rocky perch and skied down the treacherously loose rock slide, banging his shins several times on embedded boulders. He hit the canyon bottom on the dead run, and didn't stop until he was safely behind the cover of a large juniper tree. He grimaced in pain as he rubbed his bruised legs. There was no telling whether Saunders had heard him make his sudden entrance, and there was no way that Saunders would have expected him to come in from the backside of the canyon. Even if he had heard Dwayne, he probably had to change position. Dwayne wasn't going to give him time to regroup.

He could see smoke hanging lazily in the air about a hundred feet away. He took a deep breath and began darting like a rabbit from tree to tree, his shotgun at his hip. Running in sand with cowboy boots on was not easy, and he almost pitched headlong into the dirt several times. At one point, he heard a rattler sound its tail alarm, no more than a few feet away, and he nearly pissed his pants.

He burst into camp and rushed over to the motionless sleeping bag by the fire. Dwayne turned the bag over and almost shouted for joy when he saw that it was Linda. She was still alive!

Linda's eyes widened in amazement. She grunted and groaned as she kicked at the clinging sleeping bag. Dwayne removed Linda's gag, cupped his hand over her mouth, and spoke in a hushed whisper.

"Now listen, Saunders is probably real close, so we've got to be quiet and we've gotta get moving. You understand?"

Linda nodded her head.

Dwayne removed his hand from Linda's mouth. "Where's Jenny?"

"He's got her someplace up on the Paria Plateau where they're raiding an Anasazi pueblo. He's had her since yesterday. She never showed up here like she was supposed to."

Dwayne frowned with confusion. "You don't know where Saunders went, do you?"