“How did I forget that?!” he yelled, when he first saw the shiny silver blade lift from the ground.
He took a step back as his opponent swung like a rope, bringing the blade across Richard’s right upper thigh, cutting through his jeans and deep into the flesh. Richard gasped, having never felt that much pain.
“Big trees fall hard,” was the first thing his opponent said, catching him on the same side calf with another slice.
Richard screamed out in pain and stumbled back, with his head spinning and feeling faint. The crowd on both sides was yelling so loudly that neither opponent could make out what was being chanted. He fell back hard onto the dusty arena floor. Both men looked at each other, crippled and broken.
Richard’s man, not wanting to get into a grappling war with his opponent, threw the knife in a last-ditch effort, spinning over and over and careening handle-side off of Richard’s head with a thud, opening a large gash and landing another ten feet behind him. “No more swords,” said Richard, smiling as best he could through the pain. “Just me and you on the ground. You’re in my house now.”
Richard began to crawl on his hands as his opponent shimmied away, dragging both legs.
“Run him down! Run him down!” called out the crowd. “Run him down!” they cried, stomping their feet and raising fists into the air. The twenty-year-old bleachers creaked and moaned under the weight of the crowd. Most didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Look at that!” said James to Jason. “Their energy, fear and rage are making a mob mentality out of the lot of them… Wait a minute!” he said, as he fixed his sight on a woman bursting down the bleachers’ side stairs with her three children, followed by more people on all sides. “What’s going on?”
Snap! Screams came from the far-left bleachers. James and Sheriff Johnson looked up to see the crowd falling into the middle of the bleachers from both sides, dropping like a high-rise building detonated precisely so as not to cause any damage to other structures around it.
“Oh, no!” shouted James, getting caught up in the sea of spectators around him headed towards the sounds.
Richard’s attention was diverted, and he wondered if the fight was over, as his opponent dragged himself lightning fast around and behind him.
“Got you now, big guy,” he called out, wrapping his right arm around Richard’s throat. He let out a war cry, drowned out by the large crowd running to help their fellow townspeople.
Richard buckled and gurgled as his rival laid him on his back. It took longer than the last time he had done this, since he had no use of his legs to secure the bear of a man. But after three minutes it was done.
“So, what do I get?” he asked the deputy, still laying in the dirt. “Some kind of reward? Maybe a medal or…I know! How about a Key to the City, presented by the Mayor himself?”
“I’ll send the Sheriff over. Don’t go anywhere.”
The deputy headed over to Sheriff Johnson, amidst the chaos.
“Get Doc Walters and any other medical people here now!” said the Sheriff, out of breath. “Are they done?” he asked the deputy.
“Yeah, the big guy went down hard. The other is asking about some prizes, like a Key to the City.”
“Figures,” replied Sheriff Johnson. “I’ll take it from here. Be right back. You get the medics.”
“Sheriff,” said the last man standing, or lying. “I’m going to need some help over...”
Sheriff Johnson pulled his pistol without a word and shot him in the forehead. “And one for you, big guy,” he added, as he pulled the trigger.
No one seemed to notice, with the chaos going on—no one but James.
* * * *
“All hands on deck!” called out the Sheriff to his deputies, medical personnel, and citizens he directed to check on the injured.
The following weeks would be filled with quiet conversations, both indoors and out, about what really happened that night.
James sent word with Jason that they wouldn’t be joining the family for dinner. The restaurant owner carefully packed a prepaid dinner for eight into travel containers with a sincere “I’m-so-sorry-you-couldn’t-stay” speech.
“Me, too,” replied Janice. “It’s just so sad about those people,” she added, as they walked outside and headed home.
* * * *
Jason returned to join James. “I need you both here,” said the Sheriff to James and Jason. “I’ll drop you guys off at your ranch when we’re done for the night.”
“What do we know, Doc?” asked the Sheriff two hours later.
Doctor Walters sighed.
“Your motorcycle man is awake and talking some. He re-broke two ribs, along with his right scapula—the shoulder blade,” he replied, sensing the Sheriff’s confusion. “Anyway, he should recover fully, but we will know more in the coming days. He got a boxer’s lump on his forehead somehow,” he added, being careful to use common language with the Sheriff, “but it’s improving.”
“Yeah, I saw one of those on George Foreman, the boxer and grill guy. Can’t remember the fight, but the lump over his eye was baseball-sized and he recovered okay,” replied the Sheriff.
“We have 52 citizens from the bleacher incident that have passed through here or are waiting to be seen,” Doc Walters continued.
“How many dead?” asked James, standing next to them both.
“Fourteen—six of them under age ten, and seven or eight more that could go either way in the next day or two.”
“Oh, my god!” said Jason, gasping at the news.
“The others are not so bad. A few broken bones, cuts and bruises,” added the doctor. “Except for the other two.”
“What other two?” asked Sheriff Johnson, having a good idea of the answer.
“Your fighters, the gladiators, one with a bullet to the head.”
“Well, there’s that. Let’s keep that between us. Understood?” said the Sheriff.
“Yes, of course, sir. My job isn’t to question how they died, just to save them if I can, and those two are beyond that… Well, I had better be getting back to my patients,” he replied as he turned to leave.
“Doc Walters!” the Sheriff called out, stopping him in his tracks.
“Yes?” he replied, nervously turning back around.
“Thanks for taking care of my motorcycle guy and all of the others. You do good work for my town. Now show me around here. James and Jason and I want everyone to see us checking on the injured and families.”
“Okay,” replied the doctor. “There are a few in surgery. We were able to get hold of the hospital in Trinidad and had a few of the injured transferred up there. Just temporary, you know.”
“Sure, that’s a good call,” replied the Sheriff, “as long as they come back.”
They stopped in to see Ken, who had his own room for about an hour but now shared it with four others.
“How you holding up, Evel?” asked the Sheriff.
“Oh, you know…” Ken replied groggily. “I still have a few hundred bones to break, but I’m getting a good start on taking the record.” He laughed at his own joke, quickly returning to a less painful, stoic demeanor.
“It was a solid jump,” said the Sheriff.
“I just caught my back tire is all.”
“I know. I saw; we all did. If it hadn’t rained, I think you would have made it. Let’s try again next week.”
“Uh…you’re joking—right, sir?”
Now the Sheriff was laughing. “Yeah, I am. When you get out of here,” he whispered, “you can go home.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but I want you on my team and back on the City Council. You will draw a small paycheck from the town fund, like all of my deputies, but we will have you on other projects.”
“How would I get back on the Council now?” asked Ken. “Don’t I need to be voted in?”
“You already were. I’m just reinstating your former position. I need your eyes and ears there. Understand?”
“Yes, sir, I do. What did he think of the chair?” he added quietly, looking over at James across the room.
“He loved it. Even took his son, Billy, for a victory lap in front of everyone!”
“That’s good; I’m happy to hear it.”
“When he’s released, take him home,” the Sheriff told his relieved girlfriend. “I’ll be by to check on him soon.”
* * * *
“You did good with that one,” said James, as they made their way through the hospital. “I guess you now have an empty jailhouse.”
“That I do…for now, at least,” replied the Sheriff. “I was going to get away fishing for a few days with Kate before…well, before all of this happened. Now it’s probably not the best idea.”
“Oh, I don’t know. By the middle of next week, most should be well on their way to recovery. It’s not your fault, you know,” added James. “Those bleachers never carried that kind of weight, and nobody stomps around on them at a rodeo. It was just an accident, tragic as it is.”
“Yes, but it’s my accident on my watch.”
“Thank you also for your tribute to me today, Sheriff,” added James, changing the subject.
“Why, you’re welcome, James. I’m just glad someone appreciates all of the hard work I put into it. Now let’s get a check on the others here and get you gentlemen home to your families.”
* * * *
Jason kept quiet on the way home, holding his question just behind the tip of his tongue. He opened the front gate and let James get settled before locking it back behind the Sheriff.
“All right, Jason. Ask it,” said James, as they met back on the front porch and settled in with the first glass of Scotch they had since James was shot.
“Okay. Why did you thank him for the stuff he did today, mostly for himself?”
“Because he effectively eliminates his competition, as I’m sure you have noticed by now,” replied James. “He is not my friend or yours, and that’s why we keep him close…real close,” he emphasized, patting his chest. “Nothing he did today was for me but he thinks it was, and that’s all that matters for now.
“You and I will volunteer to watch over the town and suggest he take the fishing trip he was planning. If he goes, it won’t be relaxing for him, by any stretch, but when he returns to things just like they were, we will have gained more trust in a few days than we have up to this point, everything accounted for. Now, let’s get some sleep. We’ve got chores in the morning before church.”
* * * *
Both men slept like only an exhausting day can yield, waking to the sunrise coming through the bedroom windows.
Four more died in the night, and all the others were expected to make a recovery of varying degrees over the next days and weeks. All would be honored on Sunday morning at the largest mass the small church of Weston had ever recorded.
“We will have an additional service at the cemetery tomorrow at 3 p.m. for those who have left us for eternal life with our Creator,” announced the pastor at the service.
The Sheriff reluctantly agreed with James’ and Kate’s assurances to leave for a few days the day after the services.
* * * *
Jason brought James’ tractor Monday morning to help dig the cemetery plots and meet with other ranchers. Some on the Council lobbied for one mass grave but were quickly overruled by the Mayor-elect.
“They each deserve a proper resting place,” James directed, not asking for anyone’s agreement.
Most families had lost someone they knew. Once the sting of losses left the forefront of everyone’s minds, the quest began for answers to what happened and how.
* * * * * * *
Chapter Eight
Lake Pueblo State Park
Pueblo, Colorado
The pit fight went about as textbook as Mike imagined it would. One man, seemingly the champion from the night before, or maybe consecutive nights, emerged with his hands in the air after only a few minutes.
Mike waited another ten minutes, as the men he had watched moved from tent to tent, like some kind of check-in. A few fired shots into the air, maybe blowing off steam or keeping the camp fear factor high. The band of settlers danced around as the music was turned louder. Mike couldn’t place it, as he was more of a country music guy, but it sounded like what he knew of death metal. The kind where young men would go down front into the mosh pit, dancing with no pattern or rhythm, just running into each other and occasionally throwing a wild fist or elbow.
Time to go, he thought, as the crowd surrounded him closer on all sides. “Hey man, watch it!” he yelled, as a young teen ran square into him, followed by another from the other side, and two men grabbed his legs.
“Hey, what the hell?!” he said, as he swung his arms, connecting with anyone close to him. He looked down to see his legs wrapped with rope and thought This isn’t good! as he was pulled off his feet. He covered into a fetal position, protecting his head as best he could from the punches and kicks slipping through the pile of people on top of him.
“That’s enough!” he heard from somewhere far away. “That’s enough!” was shouted again, followed by two shots in the air.
* * * *
“Do you think he needs help?” asked Lonnie, with all of us concerned, sitting around a small campfire but unaware of Mike’s current predicament.
“I don’t know, but he didn’t want us to come, no matter what. We have to believe he has everything under control,” I replied.
* * * *
Mike felt the rifle barrel poking into his back without needing to see it.
“There are four more,” the man said, “so don’t try any funny business. Hands behind your back.”
Mike did as the man ordered and felt the zip tie tighten around his wrists.
“You’re a spy,” said the man, striking Mike below his left eye before spitting in his face.
“You’re a big man when you have your target tied up,” said Mike, smiling. He didn’t mind getting spit on; it happened to both him and his brother, Arthur, numerous times growing up. This was just an older bully now, but all bullies eventually got theirs—this he was sure of.
“You have a mouth on you,” said his captor. “Maybe we have time for one more pit fight tonight.”
“Sure. I’ll fight you,” said Mike without hesitation.
“Not him,” said one of the Gatelin brothers, walking up. “I’ve got something better in mind,” he said, holding one arm up.
Two other guards brought out a struggling man wearing a gag and blindfold.
“I’ll bet you recognize my brother. Am I right?” he asked.
Mike had a pit in his stomach, which was rare. He wasn’t worried about fighting a man, any man, but he saw where this was headed and wanted no part of it.
“How about I fight your last champion?” suggested Mike. “I win, and my group heads out immediately. Same if I lose.”
“I don’t think so. You see, my brother tends to have a mouth just like yours sometimes, and it has come to our attention that he may be planning a coup with your help. Isn’t that right, little brother?”
There was no response from the frightened sibling, who showed visible signs of a beatdown.
“You two will meet in the pit as soon as we get the torches back on. Fight to the death. And Michael—that’s your name, right?”
“Only my mother, sister, and women I’ve cared about ever called me that. Mike is fine.”
“Whatever you say, Michael,” he spat, drawing out the end like a Northerner trying to re-create a Southern drawl. “Refuse to fight, and either or both of you will be shot where you stand.”
Mike waited to be led down into the earth without another word. He learned two things from watching the first fight. The two men had been left down there alone, with only one walking back up to the rim unassisted, and handcuffed again at the top. It was almost of as much importance that he could see one, the champion presumably, taunting the other but couldn’t
hear what was being said.
The brother was led down first—shaking, sobbing, and calling out to let him go. He called to Mike to show him mercy. Mike shook his head back and forth, not saying a word. He was shoved the last few feet as his hands were unbound. Mike circled his opponent slowly—the man who should have been in charge tomorrow, the man who could have freed his people. The man who was sure he would not live to see tomorrow looked back at him with the eyes of a defeated man who once was liked, respected, and even envied by other men.
“Which of your brothers did this to you?” asked Mike.
“All of them,” he replied.
“Hold on,” said Mike in a near whisper, as he continued to circle left.
“I’m sorry,” the brother whimpered. “I’m sorry they knew. I didn’t say anything—I swear that on my children.”
“I know,” replied Mike, looking out of the corner of his eye to see his captors back up on the pit’s top. “I’m not going to kill you, but you have to do everything I say without question, or they are going to kill us both. Understand?”
“Yes, okay. I don’t see that I have any choice in it.”
“You do, but if we can pull this off, you will still lead this group and go home to your family. Now when I get close, hit me in the face hard,” ordered Mike.
“You’re not going to be mad?”
“No. No. Do it on three. One…two,” as he stepped in close…“three.”
The Gatelin brother hit Mike on the right cheek. Mike was shaking his head afterwards.
“Good one,” Mike said, to cheers from the guards. “Now it’s my turn,” said Mike, pretending to punch him in the gut. “Bend down and fall to your knees,” he said quietly.
“Finish him!” came the chant from above.
Mike backed away and circled slowly. “We’re going to do this a few more times. Keep throwing punches but don’t hit me in the nose—I hate that. After a few minutes, I’ll give you the signal before I pretend to choke you. Once I do, you play dead for as long as you can. I mean, don’t move at all! I’ve got one chance to change this back the way it should be.”
“How will I know if you did it?”
Next World Series | Vol. 5 | Families First [Homecoming] Page 7