The Continuing tales of Bo Jon Littlehorse, P.I.

by Danny E. Allen

  The father-of the 8-member family was a former police-officer with the state-troopers so he knew the motis, in deducing. He-surmised that the truck, which she-didn’t recognize, had to be a ‘stranger’ in some hidden-role, which was being kept from-her. Considering that he knew very little of anyone, like her, she was probably, being stalked… He told her to do-exactly, as he said, and follow his-instructions due-to the grave-nature in what may have been occurring. Within minutes, Sue had a fond-farewell in the front-yard unnoticing, the large-truck…

  …As Susan pulled-out of the Dumas’ home-parking-area a strange new-black truck was sitting at the corner waiting, a man sat in the driver-seat. He was large, about 6’7”, heavy-set with a thick-beard, long-hair dressed-in a black denim jacket and jeans with a Texas-hat, he was trained-on the slight and petite-woman who carried-on her job. Waving goodbye to the people in the house, and being escorting to her-car by the patriarch of the family…. She drove-off passing, seemingly, ‘obliviously’ at-work… As the sports-coupe drove-pass, he waited a few seconds then pulling-off. Following the small low-speed car with the hard-working and strong-willed woman…

  Susan was not afraid but inquisitive and contemplating, she wondered who it could-be. A man was shadowing her, for what reason? She’d done nothing to anyone to make them upset. If anything, she’d shown empathy to those who had only need of her-help. Could it have been someone who didn’t like her for that purpose, it was so, she was being credulously, given to consideration of harassment, harm or worse… She began to feel fearful for what was a serious and dire, design-in propensity. It might have been a distorted-individual, or a potentially, perilous-person she didn’t know, but knew of her. The decisive- motive could ‘die’, anywhere from studious-presiding, to a perception by a devious or deposing-mind…

  …She could only guess, if that was somewhere in the area, she was in a serious-circumstance. She surely, was endangered by a “branded“-mind, imported to pursuing, perceiving and owing-to the motive of disorient. She remembered a black-truck, when she left home at four a.m. when picking up the newspaper, and then again it drove-by while at a client-friend’s home it stopped, then rode-on. A new-black truck in a mid-class neighborhood didn’t seem too, out of place. She looked at the car which now received her attention, she was instructed by Mr. Hector Dumas, who was a long-time area police-watchman trained-by state-deputies for small-communities, she was to do exactly as told… Hector was aware of a law-enforcement-agent who was staying over-in the next town, his name was Bo Jon Littlehorse. A native-American, staying with his friends for a three-day seminar for the municipal advisory-board… It was an official-conference, and so he decided-to make a serious phone-call… After a descriptive, explanation and implicated-communication, including what a formal run-down, insight and manifestation;after the given intricacy Bo Jon would then take-it from there. Hector realized this was serious-business, involving a strategy highly, effective would protect her until law-enforcement arrived…

  …So as Susan did as she was told she-acted nonchalantly, to the specifications of Bo’s details and design. She came to realized, he was serious about what was happening. As she was being escorting to the car she had already, ‘planned’-intentions… As she left the Dumas’s house she appeared unaware of anyone, having devious-intent. As it was potentially, contentious. Susan began to think it was someone she didn’t know but knew her, she was inclined to think that this person was unlawful, and in this situation had something to hold against-her. As the Dumas’s head-of the family knowing ,discretionarily, he was on the right-track… As she-entered her car to drive off, she realized their was something subversive, going-on… It was apparent that he didn’t want her to know his-presence yet he was seeking her out-to attain or attempt involvement. It was good that the Dumas’s had taken the right-steps, for her-protection, and to decide to confront an avail of what was imposing-on her livelihood. If anything, she-felt amazed and confused-in a new dilemma all its-own. She had to “steel” herself to the implication of an uncommon duly, volition.

  Susan was alone, in such an unusual implication, she poised-herself ready for such contentions, if someone-was acting to act-out, against her, in the scheme of things. She was the object-of-intention. Something she’d rarely, conceived. Now as she was following a specified-route she wondered whether she ‘would-be’, the target of a crime by association. She realized as being-followed as well, knowing to do as told… The black truck was not far behind, it became a prime-situation to pursued, Susan. She steadied herself quickly to what was at hand. In its pressing, she remained calm and was being brave, continued the play-out. Passing an eatery along the road through one of her routes this time would be different. She went by as the ominous dark truck was lengths behind, a hot pink ‘57 Cad pulled calmly out of the alley-behind the public-diner…five-car lengths behind the black vehicle. It went exactly, as planned. The finale of the plot was at hand. They drove-on, as Bo followed the black truck and it pursuing Sue, in the coupe the final-conflict in ensuing confrontation. Susan did exactly as told, she stopped and checked her engine…

  She was told to lift the hood and step to the curb. When she did this, the truck stopped 4 car-lengths behind. The 6’7”, bearded-man began to step out onto the roadway pulling something from his jacket, then a closely sized man grabbed his-arm. “You don’t want to do that…” The driver’s eyes became enraged as he pushed Bo Jon from the truck then started to pull something from his chest pocket what Sue didn’t know was that upon reaching the designated-spot a new-authority became involved…

  ***

  …Bo Jon Littlehorse, sat in wait behind a corner-eatery. Quite out-of sight. He was seated in his ‘57 Cad fully aware of who and what went-by. He hit his-cue, right on time. As the trailing black truck went by, Bo hit the pedal. They all were now on the same road riding toward the specific site. Both Sue and Bo, but not the soon to-be assailant, was following a vector-line to where the incident would be brought to a stop. The driver was steering-straight ahead trying to keep pace with his object of action, which she didn’t lead on-to her awareness of him… It all seemed quite efficient and the path-of-intent, interest and enticement as well as activeness, all seemed an un-daughting affect.

  ***

  Sue was being very careful, she did not want him(pursuer) to react before she would be able to protect herself… In all, the years-of engagements, in truly, fearful situations this one had never occurred to Sue’s admonishment. She looked in her rear-view mirror to see, almost alluding, to whether he was still-there biting her-lip rather, unknowingly. She was not the one seeking to overcome a problem, but somehow, the driver was in some way doing-so. Shots rang-out, the man had pulled-out a .45 automatic but fell dead before he could fulfill his mission…

  When authorities arrived the two gave their account of the story. It seemed she was going to be given pay-back for her aid to a needy and struggling-friend. Bo came through for her. “Thank you, you were there when I needed you.” Said the much grateful social-worker who hadn’t quite seen such a man of his caliber, physically. “Yes, ma’am don’t worry, you can count-on people when you need them…” Two-weeks later, the new-ground for a new Aposta Family Center was being dug. There were many people to give thanks and balloons, refreshments and state-officials, Sue was there as the new head-board-member… Bo was asked to come… “Well, it seems a lot of people do appreciate a helping-hand…” said Bo. “It seems they do, it seems they do…” Said Susan Hudson.

  The End

  Sergeant Whitson

  [Fifteen]

  The Baja-peninsula along the Pacific was where the warm, late Spring was now hot. Bo Jon was riding a rented-ATV for such purposes. He went across the sands to reach a resting-place along the Baja beach-shoreline… As the ocean’s water lapped at the beach, he began preparing for long-line fishing. As he set the line for sea-bass he set-up his beach-chair, umbrella can
opy, and beach supplies of water, food and tackle… He-was to make a day-of-it. It was morning, he-was easing into a nice seaside-vacation stint. …Reaching for his stow-of calendar-tea when a sound began to resonate-off the water-waves. It was small at-first, so he-didn’t pay it no mind as he calmly observed an oil-rig set-off about sixteen-hundred yards pumping Mexico’s oil-rich deep under-ground supply. One close-to shore so that meant they’d dug-into a very ‘worthy’ oil-reserve. He went-back to fishing. He watched seagulls fly over-head and then dive-for fish, they were relatively unafraid of human’s as the area was virtually, virgin-territory.

  Bo-sat quietly as sea, sky and surf-went hushly, on while he remained alert to his line and the calming luminescence, he had a strange, prickly sensation in his neck, one he had a unconscious ‘deep’ despondence about… It began to make the shore grow dark instead of brilliant he seemed to get a ‘bode’-sense of danger. It settled in as a hum, then it grew with a steady-thump. It grew, as if demanding attention. He decided, something was “wrong”… Then, it appeared, a large gunship-copter was flying-toward the Mexican rig from the shore. Then it happened, as it flew-out to the fully, working rig-tower beating-hard it sped-out to it at a determined constant-rate. It discharged with rapid-fire missiles, gunfire at high-powered intensity. The civilians on-board didn’t have a chance…

  ***

  The tower-caught fire and burst into a flume-of flames the nationals of Mexico had armed the tower-rig so it could be defended in-such emergencies. Overall, they didn’t have a chance. As wave after wave of arsenal came-in the entire deck blew-into pieces and if anyone was on-board. They could not have survived. Bo looked-on as the horrendous sight-occurred. He could-not help them. Then he had a nearly, resounding-feeling, the gunship, flew-in back-to shore. …It headed for his-position. Like a war-insurgence, he-reacted as a ground soldier being attacked from the air but there was little he could do but run for a near sand-dune he-ran as fast as he could, just-before it could make even the chance of getting-away. He summoned his military courage to look at the ship hoping to give hold to distract his getaway. As he gaze at the pilot and co-pilot, he held the sight-of one, riding beside the flyer… Then he-knew something beyond what he had even further didn’t understand-could have occurred.

  A face of a rebel dressed in-khaki camoflage a long ago individual-who now was on-uncertain terms. Someone, he-could not believe-in situation, and apparent-recognition. He delve for the other side of a sand-hill as the ship accelerated-pass. Now, Bo was moved by the reprehensive-nature and nascence of the whole violent-event. Bo-went home calmly, disquieted and fully-impressed, somewhere-in the last few-moments, a memory, and a Malay fell upon him, alone…

  A man in a war-like mission that had fulfilled what had long ago been a man of America’s soldiers of the U.S.M.C.… …Sergeant S.W. Whitson was a special-forces trainee. He met Bo Jon while he-was in Beret Special-Forces after becoming an U.S.M.C. three months earlier. He-had proven himself a fine-recruit and an earned-division declarative-entrant… He’d been referred-by his Unit-leader and admitted-by the Elite-forces for this, Bo Jon was honored by such accolades, and he was proud to be given entrance… Two-weeks earlier, he was informed as to certification, assessment, and assignment. He-arrived at the base early-in August. He-quartered with the trainee-platoon, bunking-alongside a certain soldier well-groomed, an excellently well-kept, well-suited to military-service. He became an en-par leader. He and Bo Jon were good as they measured-up and finally accomplished-level of Marine-Beret. Both attained sergeant and earned a number of qualifications, honors, and strategic and performance-medals. His-unit Colonel said of him that he was a better Marine, and a fine-enlistee. 18-months after going through specialized-achievement they graduated:Green Beret elite-forces… Entitled to go to war in any corner of the world… Bo Jon specialized surveillance and movement, while Whitson in tactical-fighting, troop-movement and special insurgency. One of the superior-military personnel, Sam was assigned to lead a troop-regiment in “The Con”, while Bo was sent to active-transport and readiness along the Cold-war DMZ zone in S. Korea after the final ceremony Bo and Sam went-their ways…

  Realizing, he’d caught in a slight-second, what could alter the core-of what he had thought to have been ‘dead’, 35-years. Trying-not to be subjective, even though it could easily to be assumed,was a forgotten-comrade… Was it an in-decent reality, or plain, military-pride that Bo was newly, contemplating… He didn’t know for sure, but he wasn’t going-to let it stand in his way if a truth, worth-knowing. He did so on, seeing a face buried in war-time lore… It was an ‘ode’, to war-hawkishness gone-bad or to those, so cherished-of stern believe and tragedy… The image swirling-away in very, terrifying-incident was not unmarred, nor elucidating, arisingly. But in the ‘seam’-of time, in Bo’s very-vulnerability in eloquent-timespan had almost in motherly, balance stood as ‘stark-reason yet like a Mexican-bandito, somehow declaratively ironic, yet perfuse…

  Could have been an instilling-pieces showing-him that made for the-reckon with true-solvency;the picture had yet to be made “real“. Somewhere the mystery-of a friend from long-ago, was reappearing. A friend-named Samuel W. Whitson had went-to war. His friend, lost to time… -He was not finished, trying to understand the actuality, or the possibility-of the fact. Among amenities’ ins-and-outs, having to accept his friend’s scenario long thought, by-gone… In the succeeding-years, some 30-odd, the friend who was a remarkable, gallant and devoted-soldier could at the instant sight, was reconceived… Bo Jon had been returned to civilian-life several-decades ago, with no-surprises, no unique circumstances… Making him divisional-in a multiplex of sub-imperatives and sub-ordinances. He fought-off, now failing-laws of human-thinking. He was raising a more elaborate-portrait of what Sergeant Samuel Whitson, might have become…

  ***

  For years he’d-remembered his friend. One cold-day in Bonn, Germany. He was recovering from frostbite on his tour of the DMZ resting in a bed-sector of the military-rehab he heard a voice singing gospel-songs in the dead-of-night… He pulled back the curtain to find a black man heavily, wrapped in bandages, he’d thought it was him at first-vocals but he wasn’t sure then as he astonishingly glanced at the bandaged and healing-body, he felt a deep-sense of respect. They spoke and kinship, returned. The talk lasted 2-hours when the night-nurse told them they had to get some-sleep… Bo and Samuel settled into their beds for the chilled and snowy-night. Sam had said how he was sent to the Macon to do heavy throng fighting, his skills were much in-demand and he finally knew why, the best-soldiers were sent to the front to die at the insurgence to try to stop Chinese, Vietcong and foot-soldiers from being overrun at established, Marine footholds…

  Many men died taking and retaking hills setting-up defense then suiting offensive-patrol… It was a moving encounter, he never spoke of himself, just that a lot of naïve men-died, needlessly. So when the guy playing point-man blew up, he had awakened-here. He went on about how his tour as Green Beret was a proud-service… “Why else would so many men evaporate into nothing…” Bo Jon knew his friend, was not the same.

  Bo returned to duty after his-friend whom he thought would get sent-back home was informed he was reactivated. He knew his friend’s life in deep cherish of his country would probably, end. He went back to finish his 3-years of duty and believed that the patriotism of his friend was a sincere act-of duty and code.

  ...After he tried to remember all his friend had said before, during and what his-end could have been through contacting Fort Seamus in San Diego. Where his military-attache‘, now major-general kept in-touch. Within three days he received a call about said Samuel W. Whitson… Bo ended his tour in ‘70 when he was debriefed and discharged. The turmoil of Vietnam was to last well into the first part of the next decade… As the strife left, men burned-out and despondent as the caustic-incursion never-fully admonished. Bo Jon never forgot what hi
s friend meant to him. While America’s choice to engage, was not theirs he realized Samuel William Whitson should and did pay the price for their-country…

  The man he saw at a glance was both a mortal and mortifying-recounting, how had a man, and such-act inherently concede to the volatile of irreverence in such reviled-remission. That was the question and also the indignant answer to the actions of the uncaring, assault against-those who were as victims fell-under such-intent… Bo had such dedicated-relevance by himself, and what occurred.

  ***

  ~He was very meticulous and informative… It was a red-line that divided-soldier from man, as if he’d been a machine and an individual invited to do for his country, of which ‘he’-excelled… He finally came to discharge… He was given an ‘honorable’-with medals of distinction, and a rank of High-Sergeant. He was released in L.A. where he said he wanted to start a soul-food restaurant. He was concertedly, where he was able to determine-either, if he was relying-on motis, or mystery. He opened a case that would only be ‘jealous’-of what might have been in fact. He could easily see that something very genuine could be brought-forth. Perhaps his friend sat somewhere in an L.A. restaurant cooking rare-steaks for his rich clientele, it was still-worth noting. He decided to not estimate, even in Corpsmen terms. He had to get that first-foothold. Suggestive and discretionary as, it seemed he was the soul-center of the need to know…

  He-decided to go the unbalanced-route, it was satisfactory to hope for the best but what if his friend was active among men who fought for their beliefs, what if life returning-home made him divide his bearings. It was a stern ‘what if…’. He decided the Mexican Antifederalis who’d sworn to fight against a government devoted in some-ways toward a regime-of neglect, poverty and greedy self-holdings. This in Bo’s mind separated, in his deepest-sense of inspiration, something any true-Marine could-not be blind…

  ***