Howell's lay on the south side of the pike. A paunchy looking rider was just crawling off a once fancy Harley, gone to ruin through neglect. They stopped to look, and Tim said, "Gee, all the chrome's rusted right through."
"Yep, when this bike was new it was a dream machine. Too late now. Polish every week, Tim, or a street bike will get away from you. That's one of the reasons we're storing your ride in a super-dry spot. Your tires will have to be replaced, of course. Never risk a bad tire. A blow out at any speed is something you never want to experience."
"You ever have one, Uncle Dog?"
"Never on the road. Had a rear tire go on a dirt flat track when I was young. No way to control upright. I laid her down and tried to kick clear before I got too tangled. The track had a protective outside berm. I slid up it, doing pretty well with my leathers protecting, but still going fast. Went over the top and broke off an armload of dead pine branches about six feet in the air. Landed on pine needles and got up unhurt. Scared hell out of me, though. Tore up the bike, of course."
"Wow!"
"I don't recommend it."
They went in and poked through the Harley-Davidson T-shirts for a minute. Finding nothing inspirational, Tim went to check out the showroom bikes and Old Dog made his way to the service counter to line up beside the neglected bike's rider. Old Dog glanced over and his mind said, "Oh hell!" He looked away, but doubted it would do any good.
He felt the rider's eyes touch him—then examine closer. Studying me like a bug, Dog thought. Old Dog slid a hand into the side pocket of his jacket, avoiding eye contact, waiting it out.
When it came, the rider's voice was a snarl.
"I know you!"
Old Dog was studying literature scattered on the counter and ignored the speaker.
The rider kept on. "I mean you, old man."
The words dripped hatred.
Old Dog finally looked around. His eyes were cold, his voice disinterested. "And I know you, Hunch." Dog let it lay there.
Up close, Hunch looked older, a thick-bodied beefy man with a pugnacious look and mean, close-together eyes. He wore gauntleted riding gloves against the late March cold, and he chose to suggestively beat one clenched fist against the other palm, glaring in open hatred at Old Dog.
Rocking on his toes a little, Hunch almost spat, "I'll bet you remember me." His thick lips sneered, "Now you're nothing but a withered up old man."
Old Dog faced Hunch more squarely. Apparently undismayed by Hunch's animosity, Dog said, "Well, you're about the same." He pretended to look closely. "How's your head, Hunch. Looks a little out of shape to me."
Hunch seemed to swell all over. He said, "Damn you . . ."
The female clerk interrupted. "No trouble in here, guys. Take it someplace else." She called behind her for assistance.
Old Dog's voice stayed cold. "There won't be any trouble, will there, Hunch?" Dog's hand came from his jacket pocket, and Hunch saw the flash of the stainless steel derringer in Dog's hand.
Old Dog said softly, "It's a. 22 magnum, Hunch. It'll give you a bad bellyache."
Hunch came off his toes, his eyes suddenly wary.
Dog said, "I see you're still riding Bidwell's Harley, Hunch. I thought even a stupid thug like you would have gotten rid of it by now."
Hunch's eyes turned startled. His voice rattled with unexpected uncertainty. "That's been my bike for years. I'll keep it as long as I want."
Dog laid it out flat. "Bidwell has never been seen since he rode off with you, Hunch. You killed the kid and took his motorcycle. The brothers know it, and they'll get around to dealing with you."
His eyes plainly nervous, Hunch defended. "I bought that Harley. Paid Bidwell cash and my old ride. I . . ."
"No you didn't, Hunch. You sold your wreck to a rider named Bates who hails from Denver. You killed Bidwell and stole his machine. It's coming around, Hunch, and it'll get to you."
Hunch lacked a poker face. Old Dog watched astonishment change to chagrin and settle into anxiety.
Hunch said, "I don't give a damn what you think, old man. "He again made the words an insult. "If you didn't have that gun, I'd fix you right now."
"No you wouldn't, Hunch. You will always bring a knife to a gunfight. You're a loser, Hunch. You always will be, so don't come against me. I never lose to sleaze bags like you."
Hunch practiced control, "All right, you've got the gun, but I know you're around. You won't be hard to find, and I'll make it a point. One of these days you'll look up, and there I'll be. Then we'll see."
Hunch snatched his helmet from the counter and stomped to the door. He held there, hungry for the last word. "You'll see me again, old man, and it'll be the last time." The words dripped venom.
Old Dog stepped to the window and watched Hunch throw gravel getting away.
Dog nodded to himself, as though deciding something. He said only, "You can bet on it."
Just drawing close, Timmy thought his uncle sounded pleased about something.
Chapter 16
Storing the Harley took most of the afternoon. Old Dog supervised from a board pile, and Timmy did the work. He ran the motorcycle until it was hot, then drained the used oil. The empty tank and engine were flushed with kerosene. A quart of new Harley 60 weight oil was put in and the engine turned over a few times to circulate and recoat everything with clean oil.
With Old Dog directing, Tim loosened the push rods. He removed the spark plugs, threw them away, and squirted oil on top of the pistons. The cycle was rolled a little in gear until both pistons were high in their cylinders. The spark plug holes were sealed with common cork bottle stoppers.
Tim disconnected the gas line from the carburetor and plugged it. He filled the fuel tanks to their brims. The gasoline would spoil, but it would keep the tanks from rusting. The battery was removed and set aside. Dog had a friend who could use it.
Old Dog had thick nylon straps to hold the motorcycle.
"How strong are these, Uncle Dog? We wouldn't want the bike to get loose."
"Each will safely lift two tons, Tim, and nylon won't rot or rust. As long as the sun doesn't beat on it, it'll stay as strong as new."
The straps were led under the motorcycle, and the loops brought together on top. A cable lift from an old trailer was still pulleyed to the barn's ridge board. A remnant from farming times, it could lift anything.
Old Dog had a number of worn bed sheets ready. Timmy draped them over the motorcycle, thoroughly concealing it. At his uncle's direction, he cranked the Harley five feet high. They stood back and watched as its swing slowed.
"Balances good, Uncle Dog."
"Yep, now gather those sheet ends into a bunch underneath, and I'll bind 'em tight with cord. A bed sheet is good covering. It will protect, and air gets through. Never use plastic. You'll get moisture, and that will mean rust."
The motorcycle rose ghost-like, the winch's steady clacking measuring its ascent.
Larry came out to watch.
"Ought to be safe up there, Dog."
"Safe enough. Just make sure he's ready for it before you bring the bike down. Young riders get hurt most often, Larry."
"Not before he's eighteen, Adam. We'll see that he goes to motorcycle school as well."
"That's wise."
Old Dog turned ironic. "Don't know that I've left the best of legacies, Larry. I've never claimed motorcycle riding was smart."
"Not much chance he won't ride, Dog. You've put that in him—for better or for worse. It'll be our job to see that he starts right."
"I'll miss seeing it, brother. The worst part of dying is realizing you aren't going to know how things turn out."
Tim and Larry placed the long ladder against the peak-trapped Harley, and Dog handed over a length of half inch braided nylon rope. "OK, Tim, each loop of this rope will hold six thousand pounds. You take at least four turns around the ridge pole and through the sling loops. Cinch 'em up good and tie off with a square knot. Then put a half hitch in each line en
d, so the knot can't work over the years." Tim climbed without hesitation.
Larry said, "His mother's scared of heights. I'm glad he didn't inherit that."
"Timmy's gutsy, Larry. Just like you were."
"Yeah, I made the teams by struggling at it till I finally got good enough. Tim has some of that. He's able to stick with his weightlifting, which is pretty boring, and he's been talking about shooting baskets like you said Harvey Thebes did. I think he'll set himself a schedule and go at it
"I see a lot of you in him though, Adam. He moves smooth and easy, like you did when we were young. Man, you had the moves."
"Wonder where they went? I haven't seen any in a long time."
Larry chuckled, "Know what you mean, Adam, but you've still got moves. Doc Klein says anybody but you would be in bed by now. Adam, your joints don't crack when you bend. You ever notice that? Getting up, the rest of us sound like breakfast cereal. Heck, you've still got oil in your joints."
Timmy hollered, "It's tight, Uncle Dog."
"OK, get a good grip, your Dad'll let off the cable, and there will be some slack."
The cable loosened, and the Harley came down a few inches. "We'll leave the cable in place, and it'll be there when the time comes to lower the bike."
Old Dog said, "Come on down," and Timmy braced his insteps against the ladder's uprights and slid down like a hurried fireman.
The ladder was laid aside, and the trio surveyed their work.
"Think it's safe up there, Uncle Dog?"
"Unless the barn burns."
"Oh man. I didn't think of that."
When he was alone, Old Dog dug through the barn's accumulated junk until he found a roll of brown coated wire. Produced for the military, the steel wire had almost no stretch. It was flexible and camouflage painted. The army had used it for booby trap tripwire. Larry had picked up the roll decades before when he had done a National Guard hitch. Old Dog had use for it.
Two hours before dark, Old Dog parked his truck and walked the half mile along the mountain to his lookout above Bat Stailey's backyard. No one splashed in the heated pool, but music could be heard through opened French doors. The night was again unseasonably warm, but Old Dog kept his gloves on.
Dog sat a while. Even the slow walking exhausted his lungs and trembled his legs. Once, well, once he could have run the distance without drawing a deep breath.
Where had it all gone? His body was becoming an embarrassment. Dog studied his exposed wrists, leaned down, showing bones and tendons. The skin was limp. He pinched some into a ridge. Elasticity gone, the ridge stayed there. Tired skin, tireder muscle, and probably brittle bones, Dog thought. He gave thanks that his mind was staying clear . . . or was it? What he intended to do damned sure wasn't what most would consider rational.
He planned to kill Hunch Watson—if that was Hunch's real name. He could couch it in no easier words. Taking out, wasting, doing in were handy conscience easers, but they were evasions. Old Dog would do what society should but never would accomplish—punish a murderer.
Hunch's own promises of vengeance made it all easier. It was likely that Hunch would eventually locate his old enemy, or at lest where he had lived before . . . but Old Dog did not seek self-defense justification. Hunch needed killing. He, Dog Carlisle, was the only tool available. Vengeance is mine, sayeth Old Dog.
Hell, slews of people did not believe a death penalty was moral under any circumstances, and here he was about to act as judge and executioner. Old Dog examined his conscience and discovered no qualms. It would be nice if there were others to do the job, to share responsibility, but there were none. Despite his claims to Hunch, no biking brothers would bring Hunch to account. Those were at best wishful words. Hunch would get off scot free unless . . .
Old Dog recognized that if he were not dying he too would let Hunch live. He might—probably would—pound Hunch senseless, but Hunch would, in the end, ride away. The risks of discovery and imprisonment were too great. The living had too much to lose to risk murder. Others might also beat the hell out of Hunch, and the biker community would certainly ostracize him, but kill him, fully avenge the young rider? Improbable.
None of that genuinely bothered Old Dog. He intended to go ahead. He wanted to be the one to rid the world of Hunch Watson.
And maybe, just maybe, Hunch might hold the key to at least locking away Bat Stailey, and that would be a worthwhile accomplishment.
One thing did bother Old Dog. He would like to face Hunch man-to-man. He would like to fight Hunch to the death—any weapon would do. But, he could not. He was old, sick, weak, and slow. Hunch would win. So, he had to go another, just as effective if less satisfying, route.
Dog rose and made his way through the woods to where Hunch would park his motorcycle. Hunch always used the same final one hundred yard plunge down the mountain, braked hard, and stepped off. He would surely take the same approach this time. Old Dog listened to the woods. Hunch's Jap bike was almost silenced. If Hunch was coming there would be only little warning, but Dog was intentionally early. Hunch had always come at dusk. There was plenty of time.
Old Dog walked fifty feet up Hunch's approach. Too close, he went another fifty. About right.
He unrolled his tripwire, careful to avoid crimping. He stretched it shoulder high and bow-string tight across the path. Against the backdrop of trees the coated steel wire was invisible.
Hunch would barrel downhill. He would be riding erect, looking ahead, preparing to stop. Dog had the wire a touch low, where it was sure to go under Hunch's chin.
Some called it clotheslining. It was vicious and certain. It was a weapon of war. The result would be instant and terminal. Old Dog hoped the motorcycle's crash would not carry to Bat Stailey's house. It was only a long stone's throw below.
Hunch did not come. When it was dark, Old Dog removed his wire. He would return. Hunch had always appeared during a month's last week. Dog hoped Hunch would not skip this visit. He also hoped his strength would hold up. God, he felt like crawling into the woods like a dying animal.
Not yet, tasks to accomplish first. Adam Carlisle was creating his personal monument, his anonymous gift to uncaring humanity's welfare.
On the third night, Stailey's right hand thug became restless. The burly head knocker named Clout repeatedly approached the screened door, looking expectantly into the woods behind the house. Old Dog said, "Ah hah," softly so only he could hear. He left his lookout and walked back to his tautly stretched wire. He again sat, this time out of sight, just above the wire, where a riderless motorcycle could not somehow find him.
The wait drew long, but Hunch was due. Stailey's man proved it. Old Dog felt no impatience. He wished there was a way he could let Hunch know he was about to receive justice, but that was impossible.
Well, little was perfect. It was more important that the wire clothesline do its job properly. If it did not . . . in his pocket, Dog's gloved hand gripped his tiny five-shot pistol.
Hunch was a little late. He could not safely ride the mountain after dark, so this evening he would have to hurry.
Old Dog heard the motorcycle first as a soft purr, seeming to drift directionless along the mountain. So quieted was the engine that its sound came only moments before it burst into view.
Hunch rode swiftly, twisting his machine expertly through the trees, familiar enough with the mountain to know his way. Old Dog saw the flash of his paint only an instant before the Kawasaki reached the open downslope—and the waiting wire.
For another instant before the downhill slope smoothed, Hunch and cycle were airborne, and Hunch actually opened the throttle for his closing dash.
Old Dog could hardly watch. What was about to happen was a biker's worst nightmare. A necktie of wire held no mercy, except being ultimately swift and final.
Hunch was sitting straight, focusing forward.
The motorcycle hurtled ahead, and then, as though reaching the end of a tether, Hunch stopped and was momentarily suspended. The
wire twanged and snapped under the horrendous strain. It whipped itself into wraps around the floating figure before gravity took hold and Hunch's body slammed leadenly to the earth.
There was a tremendous spurt of blood, black in the forest's dim light, a geyser of death that shot from beneath Hunch's helmet. Old Dog had seen worse, but it could never be ignored, and he looked away.
Like a runaway freight, Hunch's machine plunged onward. It crashed against a smaller tree, somehow righted, and disappeared down the hill. An instant later Dog saw it bouncing sideward into a smashing roll that seemed to go on forever before he heard it come to a sliding stop. Dog wondered if the damned thing had reached the swimming pool.
He took a quick look at the downed rider. Hunch was done. The violent garroting had killed. The massive hemorrhage from severed arteries had only made sure. Old Dog experienced no regrets. As it had been in Korea long ago, enemy dead held no significance and little interest to the living. Dog headed downhill. What he needed next should be in Hunch's saddlebags.
The Kawasaki had gone a long way. It should not have. The bike should have immediately fallen on its side, slammed into trees and stalled. When Old Dog reached the battered motorcycle it was on its side and still running, the rear wheel, bent and twisted, but turning. Incredible! Dog reached for the kill button . . . and Clout charged from the downhill woods only a few yards away.
Astonishment was mutual. Clout had no reason to expect anyone but Hunch to be at the motorcycle wreck, but here was a stranger bending over Hunch's smashed machine, perhaps reaching for Hunch's package. Clout reached for his pistol.
The crash had been loud enough to rouse the dead, but Old Dog had expected to have a little time. Clout appeared seemingly from nowhere. Dog saw Clout's hand go inside his coat, and Dog reached, too. He also dove for cover. There were large trees nearby, but Old Dog was more interested in the closest.
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