Max didn’t like remembering that time. But he held no control over his dreams and now he dreamed of the first time he saw Gil, the bear and the men.
His body jerked and twitched and almost brought him completely awake, but the wind and the rumble and the softness of the cushioned seat all conspired against him and the dream took hold dragging him down to that cold winter’s day that had started so well and ended so horribly.
The snow was deep and wet and helped to confound the bear as Max tore at its neck from behind. The giant beast had stumbled in between Max and the Gray Wolf, robbing Max of his revenge. The wolf used the chance to slip back into the lush forest and disappear, leaving Max to deal with the terrible fury of the surprised bear.
It turned on Max, raking with a massive paw that missed, tearing instead into the bark of a sturdy oak and leaving four deep cuts in the white meat of the trunk.
Max ducked under, shot forward, spun and slashed his canines across the bear’s right hamstring. He tasted blood and fur and then ducked and spun again as the bear roared and snapped with his own jaws, the incisors twice as long as any dog’s. The bear’s trap-like jaws slammed shut on empty air and Max ripped a set of narrow gorges in the flesh of the bear’s snout before jumping back to avoid another attack.
The wind howled overhead, slipping down from the mountain peaks of the Great Alps, gaining speed as it pushed through the trees and whipping snow flurries into little blizzards that stung the eyes and ears, and made it hard for Max to see.
A panic rose in him. The same wind that spun the snow would eradicate the scent and even the tracks of the Gray Wolf. Max needed this to end quickly. He looked to the right, thinking to outflank the monster and sneak on by, and that was nearly his undoing. A heavy paw caught him on the side, just below his shoulder. Something sharp punched through his flesh and Max felt his breath leave him violently. His body lifted into the air as though on a breeze. He was thrown a great distance and only the soft padding of the snow kept his bones from shattering on impact as he landed. He rolled instinctively, a spray of white enshrouding his movements.
The bear charged.
Max felt hot blood pour from his side and life saving air still refused to fill his lungs. Even so, he burrowed into the snow, diving between the bear’s rushing legs. Max’s head broke free from the snow, just behind the beast. Without thought, Max clamped down with crushing force on the bear’s left foreleg, twisting his body, with all its weight, to the side, and feeling the bone crack like old wood. The bear roared, and the sound of its pain spurred Max on, filling him with the lust for battle. He released, gulped in a greedy rush of air as his lungs finally started working again, and surged up and forward, attacking the bear’s exposed genitals with rabid ferocity.
Dropping to the ground, the bear nearly caught Max’s head beneath its weight. But Max sidestepped and bounded through the thick snow, launching as soon as he settled and landed on the bear’s back as it once again gained its feet.
Gone now were any thoughts of the Gray Wolf, or his dead pack. Now there was only the bear and the blood and the challenge.
The fur around the monster’s neck acted like a shield of sorts and Max had to burrow his snout deep, his teeth tearing and rending, as he instinctively sought a fatal target. The bear beat at him with giant, claw-studded paws that hit against his shoulders and hips like falling boulders. But Max hung on, searching for the spine, or the carotid or the jugular, anything to stop this mountain of fury and muscle.
The beast thrashed back and forth, droplets of red scattering across the once white snow, turning the landscape into a grizzly scene of battle crazed carnage.
A massive blow that clipped the side of his head stunned Max knocking him off balance. He slipped over the bear’s shoulder, and felt long teeth plunge into his hip and inner thigh. Again he was thrown as though his weight were insignificant, only this time his body struck two trees with crushing impact before he fell to the snow.
The world spun above him as though he were chasing his tail as he had when he was a pup. Pain spread from his leg and hip, radiating up into his belly and chest.
There was a loud “crunch” and Max saw the bear crumple as the bone of its left leg finally gave way completely. The bear landed heavily, but was up again almost instantly, running on three legs straight at Max.
He couldn’t move, he tried, but the world was spinning too fast and the pain was so great, he could only watch as death raced at him.
A figure jumped from a tree, landing in the snow between the charging bear and Max.
It was a human. The man threw a rifle to his shoulder and fired at the bear. Again and again and again, until Max thought his ears would shut down and his heart would stop. Here was a terror like none he had ever faced, a power beyond his capacity to assimilate.
The bear staggered, tried to rear back, took two more bullets to the throat and collapsed, blood pouring from its throat and head and chest, melting into the powder and creating red pools that spread like blossoming flowers before continuing to sink deeper and deeper into the snow.
The man looked down at Max and it was the first time Max saw the face of the Alpha. Max thought the man would kill him just as he had the bear. Instead, the man turned, sprinted to the beast and touched it with the barrel of the gun.
The world stopped spinning, the pain subsiding to a roaring ache. Max forced himself to his feet. He lost his balance, righted himself.
He could attack. The man’s back was to him and the distance was not great. But the sound of thunder still rang in his ears, the flash of gunfire like lightning, a bright glowing spot that had burned into his eyes.
For the first time in his short life, Max felt the fear of the unknown. He turned and was quickly swallowed by the forest.
He would live to fight the Gray Wolf another day.
Max opened his eyes, saw they were still driving and let the motion gently rock him back to sleep.
11
Gil
I left a few minutes after getting Tom and Lisa to agree to let me talk to the two older boys that afternoon. Joseph was my first choice. He was fifteen and closest in age to Shane. Marshal, at thirteen, was probably too young to hang with his seventeen year-old brother, but there was always the chance he’d overheard something.
I still couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching, so I was hyper vigilant as I drove away.
That’s why I picked up the tail so fast.
Whoever it was, wasn’t as good as the guys who burglarized the Franklins. They were three cars back in a silver, nineties Chevy. There were at least two in the car, maybe more in the back, but I couldn’t tell.
I had to be careful not to lose them.
I turned Northbound onto Wadsworth from Alameda, passed the Federal Center to Sixth Avenue. Turning west, I headed for the foothills.
I wanted some privacy.
They dropped back another car length, which would be a good move if I hadn’t already spotted them. Too late now.
The jagged ridges of the great Rocky Mountains loomed before me, lightly capped with snow. It was spring, but even in late April snow wasn’t out of the question. Overhead the sky was a brilliant blue without a cloud in sight. The usual routine for a Colorado spring day is a gorgeous morning, with light rain moving in around three o’clock or so, then a nice cool evening and night. Today looked to be following the pattern.
But you could never be sure.
I opened all the windows and let the fresh mountain air stream in. Max sat up, sticking his head out the back window, the rushing wind slitting his eyes and pushing back his ears.
I got off at Indiana, cruising south toward the Fairgrounds. Only I bypassed the Fairgrounds and took the curving road to the left.
Now they were directly behind me, about a hundred yards back. I went up and over the hill, losing sight of the Chevy. But more importantly, they lost sight of me.
The road took an abrupt right at the bottom of the hill and ended
in a short cul-de-sac, completely hidden by a stand of tall Cottonwoods. I put Max in a down so he wouldn’t be thrown around on the backseat and gunned the Escalade, accelerating through the apex of the curve; threw her into a broadside skid, and stopped dead center in the middle of the road.
I keep a Remington model 870, 12 gauge, pump-action, 18 inch barrel shotgun with an extended magazine tube in a rack behind the headrest. It holds six rounds in the tube and one in the chamber of alternating slugs and buckshot. I hit the lock release button beneath the steering column and took the sleek, black weapon from its mooring.
I was standing behind the trees when the Chevy made the corner, my big, black Escalade right in their path.
There was a wild screech of tires and lots of cries and screams, covered by the pungent odor of burning rubber and brakes that clouded the scene in a billowing mass.
The Chevy came to a stop, parallel to my car, with about an inch between them. The driver’s side back door opened and two skater-looking dudes tumbled out, shouting curses. The first boy, wearing ratty cutoffs that hung below his butt and a black, sleeveless shirt with a leering, white skull set at an angle, held a baseball bat in his right hand. The second kid’s head was shaved and waxed to a high shine. A thick length of chain-links hung around his neck, looped by a long-necked combination bicycle lock. He held a crowbar.
They started toward my car, but I stopped them with a friendly greeting. I stepped out from the trees and said, “Looking for me, boys?”
Turning in unison, their jaws dropped as they saw the giant, black bore of that twelve gauge pointing at their crotches.
“Drop the toys, boys.” I couldn’t see the driver because they were blocking my view. They hadn’t let loose of their weapons, so I cranked off a slug into the front driver’s side tire. It sounded like a bomb going off, and both of them dropped the weapons just like I asked.
“Get out of the car, driver, or the next one will be through the door.”
The driver got out, hands in the air, pimply face shaking to beat the band.
“One at a time, starting with you.” I pointed at the driver. “I want you to turn slowly in a complete circle until I tell you to stop. And keep those hands high.” The three of them did as told, and when I was reasonably certain they had no other weapons on them, I stepped up close to Baldy.
“Who sent you, and why?”
He started to look at his partners, but I nudged his belly button with the muzzle of the shotgun. “Nope, don’t look to them for answers, just stay here with me. Who and why?”
“We was just drivin’…”
I dug in a little deeper and he squawked.
I tried again. “Don’t lie to me. It isn’t nice.”
“I don’t know what yer talking ‘bout, man.” His face was going from terror white, to angry red. I could see him trying to work up the courage for a good bluff.
I hate being lied to. It gets that rage going. After the shrink from the Sheriff’s Office told me my anger was due to guilt, I wanted to punch him in the face. I pretty much wanted to punch everyone in the face back then. The shrink said I needed to let go of my rage, talk it out and throw it away. I thought about it. But it’s too much a part of me. It’s who I am. Which was bad news for Baldy.
He poked a finger at my face and said, “Yer dead, dude.” He tried to smack the barrel of the shotgun to the side.
I let the rage take over.
Reversing the Remington, I slapped the butt of the rifle straight into his forehead. Not hard, just enough to make a sweet, hollow cracking sound. Baldy’s eyes rolled up in his head and he crumpled to the asphalt, unconscious.
I took a side step and was now standing in front of Skull Shirt. “Who and why?”
He was scared. They’d bought off on roughing up, or maybe even kidnapping a middle aged man driving a family car, and instead ran into a nut with a shotgun. But even scared, he had more going for him than Baldy.
“You can’t do this, man. We got rights.”
I looked dramatically to either side. “Do you see any police here? I don’t. It’s just you and me and this here scattergun. Now I like to give everyone a chance. You’ve had yours, talk.”
“All we know…” said the driver.
Skull Shirt stopped him. “Shut up, man.”
I looked at Skull Shirt shaking my head. “I really don’t feel like playing games here, pal. So unless you’d like to take a nap with your buddy lying there in the street you’d better answer my questions.”
“Maybe we better,” said the driver.
Skull Shirt grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled back his fist, ready to punch him as if I wasn’t there. Perhaps punching the driver was something Skull Shirt did a lot. Perhaps it had become so routine that even with a man holding a shotgun on him he still felt comfortable letting loose with his fists. Perhaps he’d forgotten I was even there.
I reminded him by smacking the butt plate into his temple. He fell hard next to Baldy.
I smiled at the driver. “Yeah, I think maybe you had better. It’ll be a lot less painful.”
This kid was bagging so bad, the seat of his pants was almost to his knees. I’ve never figured out how they can keep them from slipping all the way down and tripping them. At least he was wearing boxers.
“Hey, dude, some guy just paid us to bring you to him. That’s all I know.”
“Where were you supposed to take me?”
“To a gas station in Castle Rock.”
“And who’s going to meet us there?”
“I don’t know, dude, I swear. We’re supposed to go to the gas station and wait till someone comes for you. That’s all, dude. That’s all I know.”
“Where’s Shane Franklin?”
“Who?”
I would have kissed him with the shotgun, but I actually thought he might be telling me the truth. After all, the kid was scared. I was about to press the issue when I saw his eyes get big, looking behind me. I shoved him hard in the chest with the gun, to give me distance, and ducked and spun at the same time, the barrel turning in line at chest level.
There was a scream, and as I came fully around, I saw the bald kid going down hard. He was holding the chain with the lock at the end in his hand, no doubt planning to use it as a mace type weapon. But Max had seen the danger, hopped out the window, and was now firmly attached to his shoulder, all four canines sunk deep into human flesh.
Baldy hit the street on his ear and shrieked like it was a mortal wound. The lock and chain went skidding away.
Max gave the shoulder a hearty head jerk, then looked at me with contempt as if to say, sheesh, don’t you know better than to leave your back unguarded?
“I didn’t,” I said out loud. “I knew you had me covered.” I have a habit of talking to my dogs.
As if in answer, Max savagely jerked the kid’s shoulder back and forth, dragging him along the asphalt.
“Get him off,” he shrieked. “Get him off…please…please…” He was blubbering like a baby.
I hate that.
“Oh shut up your whining. That’s what you get for trying to bash my head in.”
“…please…please…get him ooooooff.”
Max crunched down harder and the kid shut up.
“All right, stop showing off, let him go, Max.” I gave him the release command, “Loose,” and grinned. “You proved your point.”
Max rolled his eyes, gave the punk a final shake, then dropped him. He padded silently back a few paces and lay down, licking Baldy’s blood off his lips.
I walked over to the kid and pulled the shredded remains of his t-shirt collar down. Four nasty punctures oozed blood, but internal pressure from swelling was already slowing the flow. In a few minutes, the damage caused to the surrounding tissue would force the flesh around the punctures to hump up like termite mounds. Painful, but he’d live.
I looked over at Max, and smirked. “I’ve seen better. Pilgrim would have taken off his whole arm.”
&nb
sp; Max blinked once, as if to say, bite me, and smacked his lips.
He knows how to get to me.
Not having a good comeback, since he just saved me from a really bad headache, I turned back to the punk. “Get up.”
“I…huuurt.”
“Poor baby.” I poked the barrel of the shotgun into the mass of swelling flesh, which provoked the desired audible response from the kid. “On your feet.”
He was a mess. The ridged imprint of the shotgun’s butt-plate was stamped across his forehead. His right ear and cheek were scrapped raw with road-rash from the fall, and his left shoulder hung low, the shirt splotched red and his bicep, forearm and wrist smeared with blood.
I looked from Baldy to the driver. “Grab your sleeping friend. We’re going for a ride.” I grinned. “After you change the flat tire.”
12
Max
The dog had seen the boy get to his knees and pick up the chain. He hopped into the front seat, then jumped through the open driver’s side window, landing as lightly as a panther on the asphalt. The boy made it to his feet and took two steps toward the Alpha’s exposed back.
Max vaulted his ninety-plus pounds through the air and landed with his full weight on the boy’s back, his teeth sliding into the soft flesh of the boy’s shoulder.
The boy crumpled and screamed. The screaming triggered Max’s prey drive and made him bite down harder and move toward frenzy. He thrashed his head back and forth, tearing at the meat.
Looking up at the Alpha, the dog wondered how he could have left himself so open to danger. But then the Alpha spoke to him in a tone that held no fear, no shame, leaving his dog brain to ponder, in as much as it could; had the Alpha known all along that the boy was there and just expected Max to protect his flank?
The confusion made Max’s head hurt, which again triggered his prey drive, the instinctual need to shred and destroy an already vanquished opponent. In response; Max jerked the boy again, dragging him along the black surface of the street.
Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay Page 5