Table of Contents
Foreword
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About Roy Chandler
Books by Roy Chandler
© 2009 and 2013 Katherine R. Chandler.
All rights reserved
Publication History
ebook: 2013
Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher
St Mary's City, Maryland
First Printing: 2009
Iron Brigade Armory
Jacksonville, NC
This is a work of fiction. The indcidents in this book and the situations depicted are the author's creations. They do not and did not exist or happen.
Foreword
Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Treasure Island, one of my favorite stories as a young man. Stevenson spent the later years of his life on the water in Samoa. The locals called him "Tusitala," which translated, means "Teller of Tales."
Roy F. Chandler is our very own modern day "Tusitala." Reading a Chandler book is like sitting by a campfire with a wise old man while being mesmerized by a great story. Such yarns are aflame with adventure, steeped with intrigue, and full of smoking action that make us feel as if we are part of the story.
Pardners is the story of men who are more interested in justice and doing what is right than in playing by accepted legalities. They ignore social expectations and create their own rules to meet challenges and dangers that would drop most men to their knees. Pardners is an adventurous masterpiece written for men who appreciate personal honor and loyalty who themselves might choose to act as Chandler heroes do.
This story has everything a man could wish to encounter in a book. It has a treasure hunt in the wilds along a Central American river, mystery, intrigue, exciting graphic action, a second treasure hunt, and it even has a peg-legged pirate. Pardners is fun to read, but the real story is about a lifelong friendship based on respect and trust. We are shown that there are still men who keep their word, say what they mean and mean what they say.
The two men, Alpha and Bravo, find themselves outside the support, protection and conventions of the law. They overcome their challenges with resourcefulness and a raw courage. They face tests of fire as they battle pirates, organized crime lords, and betrayal by a friend. The action never stops in Pardners, and you feel as if you were with them every step of the way.
Rocky Chandler is a multi-talented writer who gives his readers a lightning swift tale that, as always, leaves us longing for his next book. Pardners is a phenomenal journey into an action packed adventure.
Read it slowly and enjoy the hunt.
For full disclosure:
Roy Chandler is a close friend of mine, and I admire and respect him. I also love his books. I hate to see a Chandler book end, and I cannot wait for the next book to get here. Lately, Rocky has been threatening to give up writing and sit on his porch to doodle or drool or whatever old men do on their porches. If you love his books, as I do, then please call him, write him, or even send him a strip-o-gram to demand that he write another book. Writers should write and talented authors should know this.
Michael F. Maloney
Professor of Psychology
College of Southern Maryland
Introduction
If there is literary merit in this novel, it slipped in unnoticed. My books will never make the canon. They are written for men, and a few hardy women, who enjoy action and adventuring hopefully personally and often vicariously.
My books tend to be about "Old School" men who do as they should (and a little more). Men who physically act because they can and because they believe doing what (they believe) is right is essential to honorable living.
As usual, I have created a story that I would enjoy reading, and my readership has been kind in accepting whatever I have chosen to produce. That acceptance has been a gift beyond measuring, and I thank you all for it.
It is not improbable that Pardners may be my last book. I am now 83 years old. I have had more than sixty hardback books published, so I have enjoyed a full quasi-literary life.
An author, like an athlete, should know when to quit. Boxers usually hang on too long and become embarrassing has-beens. Successful men in all fields too often ignore declining abilities and clutch their power and influence until all others involved wish them gone.
It is usually much later than we think it is, but personal weaknesses are hard to see, and even more difficult to accept and walk away. I am watching my writing skills closely, and I have a team of competent (if sometimes overly-willing) critics that promised to convince me when they see my failings encroaching on enjoyable reading.
When they speak, I will listen, even though my senses may tell me they are premature.
I will, thereafter, write no more books—not one—and no unfinished manuscripts will be foisted onto an unsuspecting public.
I had a fine time creating this story. It contains bits and pieces that I have for decades longed to include but that never quite fit, until this adventure tale.
I like writing this kind of book. Remember, however, that this time you read for pleasure—not education or special enlightenment. When Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie do what they do, live with them, be part of the action and enjoy the feeble, all-man humor. If you do, you will again (if you are a regular reader) discover more about how this author sees the world.
My expectation is that you will finish Pardners and say with satisfaction. "Man, that would make a great movie."
Roy F. Chandler
Author
Chapter 1
Idaho, 2008
Don Byrne got the phone on the second ring and said, "Hello."
The voice spoke clearly and business-like. Byrne said, "Yes" twice, "How did it happen?" once, and "Thank you" before he hung up.
Byrne was moving as he listened. He snatched a holstered 1911A1 Colt .45 from its peg and belted the rig around his waist. Binoculars lay on his front windowsill. He reached them in passing and stepped deep into the shadows of his living room.
Byrne spoke on a cell phone because he had no landline coming into his home. Wired lines had addresses. A cell phone could be answered from anywhere. Byrne believed that special security to be important.
Using the binoculars, Byrne scanned the open mile of Idaho prairie fronting his home. Nothing
obvious stood out, but those coming, and he knew they were coming, would not that easily be seen.
Byrne speed-dialed a number he could list among the few he sought to remember. As the phones connected, he removed his shotgun from a hall closet and hung a leather bandoleer of 12 gauge shells over a shoulder. He was moving to the back of his house as his call was answered.
Byrne said, "Charlie, this is Alpha. Something very bad has happened." He could sense confusion and uncertainty on the other end, but the man had to be informed and immediately. Byrne winced as he recognized that he might already be la
te.
The voice said, "Alpha? What is that all about, Don? I haven't heard that name in twenty years."
Byrne was short. "Well, you are hearing it now, and listen closely. We do not have time to repeat a lot of details.
"Bravo is dead, hung with a wire in his backyard. That means people we know are making their moves. Bravo left my number to be immediately called, but somebody was slow. He was killed two days ago, and I am amazed that we haven't yet been hit. I'm going deep until I can work out who is where and decide what I can do."
Charlie was clearly shaken and confused—as Byrne had expected. "Bravo's dead?" Charlie lost his voice for a moment. "Who?" A short pause for air.
"Now wait a minute, Don. Bravo could have been murdered by almost anybody. We don't know . . ."
Alpha interrupted, "Bravo wasn't just hung; he was given a Columbian Necktie, Charlie. You remember what that is, don't you?"
The victim's throat was slashed ear to ear and his tongue was dropped through the gaping throat to dangle against the corpse's chest like a bloody necktie. When fully exposed, a human tongue is very long. Coupled with the drenching flow from severed carotid arteries, powerful messages were delivered. Such grizzly deaths were common during the Central American drug wars, but Colombia got the title.
Charlie remembered. Byrne heard him gasp and objects rattled—probably knocked from his desk.
"Well, that doesn't mean . . ."
"Yes it does, Charlie. At least one of them is on his way."
"Hell, Don, it could still be somebody else, and . . ."
Byrne squelched his irritation. Charlie had always been this way. The agency had wisely assigned him a desk and left him there for the last twenty or more years.
Of course, his name was not Charlie, but if the bastards had found Bravo, they were almost certainly close on the trail of the other two who had blown their leaders to hell and stolen or destroyed a large amount of their money.
Drug lords were unforgiving about that sort of thing, and although the few survivors had been sentenced to life without hope of parole, Mexican prisons could leak. Big money could change sentences. Enemies were loose. Doctor Don Byrne could feel it. They had to move—now.
Byrne said, "Look Charlie, do what you want, but you've got to remember how these people are. They won't settle for just you. They will kill your wife and your children. If you have parents or aunts and uncles, they will kill them. If you doubt that, you have forgotten some hard-earned lessons.
"I don't have family, so I can haul easily, and that is just what I am doing. You are still active. Get protection. Get home, get your family out, and stand with your gun ready until the agency gets its men in place. This is not a drill, Charlie. You have to protect your people right now—this very minute. Move, damn it!" Byrne hung up.
Staying deep within each room where shadow protected him from being seen, Alpha studied the forest that came closer behind his log house. Nothing unnatural appeared. A pair of small birds flitted among the trees. Their undisturbed activities were encouraging, but his home could be under surveillance, and every second might count. He needed to get out of the house, now. Alpha removed a second cell phone from its charger and dropped it into a pants pocket. He should appear peaceful and unaware, so he slipped into a forest-patterned long-sleeved shirt and left it untucked—covering his holstered pistol.
A well-maintained outhouse stood 100 feet behind his home. Alpha snatched a roll of toilet paper from a cabinet, and, without the shotgun and bandoleer, he stepped onto his back porch and strolled to it as unhurriedly as he could manage.
He kept his head from swiveling unnaturally and even controlled his eyeballs. Someone using a powerful telescopic sight or a spotting scope might detect nervous eye twitchings. Unfriendly watchers should be pleased to see their quarry entering as indefensible a position as an outdoor toilet, and Alpha needed the concealment of the single-hole privy.
The Idaho sky was cloudless as usual. The breeze was light from the north and bore no strange sounds—like roaring gunfire or straining engines. Alpha felt sweat popping. Despite a decade of preparation, he was no longer used to this. His mind touched lightly on the thought that maybe he never had been used to expecting that he might be shot dead at any instant.
He made the outhouse and entered with intense relief, but until the flimsy door closed, his back crawled in expectation of a bullet.
A painted sign was fastened above the toilet seat, and the lid was securely closed by a large drywall screw. The sign said, "Do not use. Saved for emergencies."
Byrne raised the entire top of the privy seat and reaching inside, flicked a switch that lit the toilet's pit. The pit was deep and clean. No disgusting smells rose. A wooden ladder emplaced along a side allowed descending into the pit, and Byrne used it. A few steps down, he lowered the entire seat platform back into position and attached a dangling wire to a metal eye under the forward edge of the seat. When fastened, the slender wire was reasonably tight and even a small raising of the lid would stretch the wire and limit upward movement of the seat.
Alpha dropped to the pit bottom and opened a small door set into the back wall. The opening exposed a low descending passageway that required crawling nearly fifty feet before it opened into a larger tunnel that allowed standing and swifter moving. The new tunnel appeared to be a mining drift angling from part of a larger operation, and the stone walls and ceiling were rough from explosives and picks.
Although it curved slightly as it had followed its ore vein, the tunnel led beneath the woods surrounding the back and sides of Alpha's house and into the steep hillside beyond. Tree roots both living and cut off ended as the tunnel passed beneath the steep-sided mountain.
Alpha's house electricity lighted both the outhouse and the tunnels, but as the passages opened into a genuine mine portal, Byrne threw a commercial switch that lit the heart of his worked-out silver mine.
Don Byrne had chosen his land as much for the old mine as the isolated rural wilderness within which he lived. He had owned the mine and the surrounding land for fifteen years.
Alpha thought long, and he thought paranoid. With Bravo's grizzly death Byrne knew he had chosen wisely, and he expected almost immediate confirmation of the importance of his Boy Scout like preparedness.
It had been two days since Bravo had died. It would have been foolish for the killers to have acted until all involved were known and located. Although brutally violent, these would not be foolish men. Byrne did not doubt for a moment that he and Charlie had been marked. Their enemies should have arrived either here or at Charlie's before now. Their delay would cost them.
The killer or killers, and Byrne suspected it would be a team of at least two, would want time and privacy to commit their ritualized murder, and Doctor's isolated mountain home would seem perfect. Finding a concealed route to the house had probably slowed them, but the killers had to be close, and Alpha suspected that he could already sense them.
Idaho and Montana were dotted with worked-out mines. Byrne's mine was relatively dry, and it had been dug on various levels that followed small ore veins until they petered out or became too small for profit. There was still silver in the many dead end tunnels, but silver would have to rise far above its present seventeen dollar an ounce value to make reopening worthwhile.
Miners who had worked Byrne's diggings had been mostly gone, but he had found the perfect old timer to make the changes he desired.
Tom Widner had appeared too old and creaky to do much other than sit on his porch and watch the seasons turn, but as soon as Doctor Don Byrne began talking about his plans for the old mine, Widner had perked up and taken serious interest.
Doctor Byrne offered very good money for the simple tunneling he desired, but he had other requirements. First, Tom Widner had to permanently move to New Mexico. Second, when he got settled in his new place, Widner was to hire one strong, young New Mexican man who knew next to nothing about nearly everything to help him do the heavy lifting. W
idner moved south, found just the right sort of dull and unimaginative lad, and returned to Idaho for work at the mine.
Tom Widner was not fast, but like most old time workmen, he labored steadily, and the job got done. The boy, they both called Salty for reasons Byrne never learned, dug the low-ceilinged getaway tunnel to Byrne's outhouse. Old Tom thought it would be more sensible to go all the way to the house, but Doctor Byrne vetoed the idea. He valued his log home and chose to not risk having it bullet riddled or blown up—if he could help it.
A few tunnels within the mine had been deliberately closed and sealed from easy opening. Tom Widner had hand-chiseled a man-sized opening in the roof of a main tunnel. Then Tom had cut and shaped a rock that fit the rather jagged-edged hole so closely that light did not penetrate.
A large steel eye was screwed and cemented into the top of the sealing rock, and a system of blocks and tackle led from the rock to the roof of a sealed-off tunnel directly above the larger tunnel below. An obscure hole was drilled to lead the tackle line to the lower tunnel. If he wished, Don Byrne could haul on the rope, easily raise the massively heavy stone stopper, crawl into the higher tunnel lower the rock, and pull up the line. From below there was no way to detect the hidden entrance to Byrne's secret lair.
Tom Widner returned to New Mexico and lived out his few remaining years in happier conditions than he had previously known. Salty remained anonymous and, as far as Byrne could determine, had disappeared from the world. Byrne's secret would not be easily discovered.
Byrne moved deeper into his main tunnel reached into an unobtrusive fist-sized hole in a rough-hewn wall and began hauling on his rope. The sealing stone rose quietly if slowly, and the electric lights that he had turned on glowed from beyond the new opening.
The main mine tunnel was barely six feet high and Byrne reached through the ceiling opening to tie off his hauling rope within his secret rooms. He heaved himself up and through—suffering a never-failing suspicion that the great stone plug would somehow break its pulleys or rope and drop, cutting him in two.
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