A Pair of Second Chances (Ben Jensen Series Book 1)

by Brian Gore

  " 'scuse me?" he apologized; "Kinda off in another world there for a bit."

  "Yeah Cowboy, I noticed" she laughed. "Land on your head one too many times?"

  "Could be" he replied. " 'course, that assumes I can count... and, know how many is too many!" he teased.

  The waitress just laughed as she refilled his coffee cup. "Guess I won't ask, I'll just keep it full until you tell me quit!"

  "That'll work fine lady!" Ben grinned back.

  The waitress turned away shaking her head and muttering through her grin; "Cowboys! Ya gotta love 'em..." and to herself with a wicked smirk, as she stepped behind the counter; "and the more the better!"

  Ben turned the car onto U.S. 89, toward the mountains when he got to Vaughn. He followed that highway to Choteau where he turned onto a gravel road that took him southwest. Shortly, when he noticed his head starting to bob he knew his travels were done for the night. He pulled off the road, in a spot where a ranch road crossed a culvert leading into a hay meadow.

  He was close to the cabins... but it was late and it made no sense to push his luck now... It made more sense to just sleep for a few hours and roll on to the cabin at daybreak. He'd be gone from this spot at first light, and knew no one would bother him before then.

  Feeling as weary as he could ever remember being, Ben just pulled on the lever that reclined the seat back and pushed it down with his other hand. He laid his hat on the seat beside him, and dropping his head back on the headrest, was dead to the world, nearly as soon as his eyes closed.

  Chapter 21

  Musa ducked instinctively when the glass of the rear window shattered as the Yukon fishtailed, almost out of control, in his panicked retreat from the ambush.

  He drove as fast as he could, while still keeping the car on the road, for more then ten miles, before he managed to get control of his fear and slowed to legal speed without having attracted the attention of any local cops.

  While he retraced their route into town going back north up U.S. 287, unknown to him, Ben had left the ambush rolling west on Montana 287. So, Musa drove with his eyes furtively dancing between the road ahead, and the rear view mirror, expecting pursuit. By the time he'd gone back through Norris and turned off onto Hwy 84 toward Bozeman, his fear of pursuit had relaxed, if only a bit, though his eyes kept regularly searching the rear view mirror.

  Musa had approached within ten miles of Bozeman when a phone ringing from the back seat startled him like a small boy. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted Jamal's phone... or, at least the phone Tyrone had given him lying on the seat with the screen lit up.

  He quickly pulled onto the shoulder, sliding on the gravel. He put the transmission in park and turned in his seat, wincing at the pain that shot not only through his battered body, but now his bullet creased rump, to reach over the seatback for the cell phone.

  Looking at the screen the I.D. said "Tyrone"

  Shaking with fear that didn't fit a man his size, let alone "profession", a soft "damn!" escaped through the lips of his wired together broken jaw, as he pressed the answer button; "Hello?"

  "Who dis? You ain't Jamal!" Tyrone exclaimed.

  It was like Tyrone had uncorked a shaken soda bottle. The words came spilling out, in spite of his teeth being pressed tightly together, as Musa spewed all that had happened.

  "No I ain't, Jamal Dead mahn. Terrance and Devon too, they dead, they all dead, and I'm shot! Barely got away, got to the car or he'd have killed me too, that mahn is pure crazy mahn! He just fuckin' crazy mean!"

  "What you squallin' 'bout fool?" Tyrone demanded. "I asked you who this is? What kind of story you tellin' me?"

  "Ain't no story Tyrone. This is Musa! Those other bwoys, they're dead! Every one! We found him from talking to a waitress and some fool rancher. We go to his cabin, but he not there. That mahn, that cowboy, He left a note laying in his cabin. Jamal figured it out. Thought it was where they'd run to hide at. We went there but they weren't there, just him. Just that crazy cowboy mahn. Him and Jamal had words, but that cowboy he be hiding back in the trees. Jamal got stupid and just started bustin' caps into those trees mahn, he couldn' see nothin'... just trees, but the fool he just start shooting. That mahn... that cowboy, he shoot one time, kill Jamal dead."

  "Then Terrance and Devon they shoot, at the trees. Only the trees, they can't see nothin' either mahn! bang, bang, two more shots and they dead... I run back to the car to get the hell out of there... bang, he shoot me, but I made it into the car and got gone from dat place! Now I'm going down this road bleeding and talking to you."

  "Bleeding? You talkin' fine... Where he shoot you bwoy?" Tyrone asked.

  Embarrassed, Musa replied; "My ass mahn, the son of a bitch shoot me in my ass!"

  "Ok," Tyrone stifled a laugh; "Musa, you listen. Where you at now?"

  "I just saw a road sign. It say I'm ten miles from Bozeman."

  "Ok..." the phone went quiet for a short while as Tyrone thought. You got money? Enough for a few days?" Tyrone asked.

  Musa's hand went into his pocket; "Yeah mahn. I got a few hundred, and some plastic."

  "You go to Bozeman. You keep this phone. Get a room and patch up the hole in your ass fool. Stay by the phone. I will call you when I have something to tell you. Just lay up and stay cool. You understand?"

  "Yeah Tyrone, I get it."

  "You better god damn you. One stupid fucking cowboy and you little bwoys can't deal with him? Damn it mahn!" and the line went dead as Tyrone hung up.

  As he had often seen Jamal do, Musa looked at the phone in his hand with a blank stare for a few seconds before laying it down on the seat beside him.

  He had started to reach for the shifter when a stabbing pain again shot through his rump and reminded him of his wound. So, instead of immediately continuing on toward Bozeman, he shut off the engine and climbed slowly out of the driver's seat.

  The thought flitted through his head that he had once heard a song somewhere, which told of a man who thought he was still too young to feel this damn old. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly what that song was saying. Then he remembered that the song was about a cowboy and he laughed in spite of himself. God Damn Cowboys!

  Musa limped to the back of the car and pulled the door open, broken glass spilling onto the shoulder of the road. He pulled his own bag to the tail gate and opened it, searching for a fresh pair of the black cotton pants he preferred, a clean Black T shirt, and a fresh pair of black jockey shorts. He carried those around the passenger side of the Yukon pulled both the doors open, and then standing on the side of the road, shrouded between the two doors, took off the bloody pants and underwear he had on. He folded the t shirt up in a pad and pressing it tightly over the wound, he managed to slide on the clean pair of jockeys to hold his makeshift bandage in place.

  The bullet crease was raw and sore. A 1/4" deep maybe a little more, and ran across both cheeks of his buttocks. It hurt far worse than it was, being a long way from his heart, but the bleeding seemed to have slowed down considerably. With a little luck the compress would stop it... until he could get some first aid supplies in town... and deal with it better. The way it burned, you'd think the bullet was still in there. He knew, it would be a long time before he'd hear the end of this, shot in the ass! He cursed all cowboys with words only a Jamaican knows.

  The butt shot Jamaican Bandito pulled on his fresh pants, closed all the doors and slowly, gingerly, limped back around the car to climb back into the drivers seat.

  He hoisted himself up into the SUV, wide eyed and holding his breath, grateful for the running board. Ever so slowly, he released his breath, letting it leak out slowly, as his cheeks bulged with short, stiff, puffs, his mouth pursed as if he was blowing out a candle. Musa slowly settled back into the seat and sat holding tensely on to the steering wheel for several seconds, waiting for his breathing to return to normal, and the stabbing pain in his buttocks to recede. With a small laugh at his girlish whining about his tender ass, the big ma
n fired up the engine of the bloody, shot up Yukon, and drove into Bozeman looking for a drug store, a fifth of whiskey, and a motel, in that order.

  Chapter 22

  Just after the first light of day started breaking over the plains and hills to the east, Ben sat up, raised his seat and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He picked his hat up from the passenger seat and clapped it on his head.

  With his left hand he rolled the drivers window down and with closed eyes sucked in the fresh morning air... a faint smile creased his weathered face. One more morning, he was alive.

  The last few days had been such a blur, he had to think for a minute. How many days had it been? Two? Three? He started adding up the mornings in his head as he drove; "Let's see, came down the hill with the herd, and had that big brawl, day one. We spent the night at the cabin and left yesterday, day two... so, yup, this makes three! Damn! A lot can happen in two days and a wakeup!"

  By the time he'd caught up the days in his mind, Ben was turning off the graveled road into the dirt access road to the hunting camp, the little car lurching and bumping over the rutted drive.

  The camp was a bit "rustic" but apparently, for whatever reason, Anne Blythe had kept the power on. Early as it was there were lights on in the main Lodge building.

  Ben pulled up and parked in the small graveled area between the Lodge and the hunter's cabins off on the west side. He could hear A.H's bark coming from inside. As he stepped up on the porch, the door opened. The big dog came romping though the doorway to jump on him, as a solemn faced Amanda stepped out behind him.

  "Get off ya mangy mutt!" Ben cursed, laughing at the dog and pushing him away.

  As he wrestled with the giant cur, Amanda spoke; "I was starting to worry!" She scolded. "After you turned off, I realized you never told me how you were going to get here! You know, after you dumped the car... and now... you roll in here... driving the car you were supposed to be getting rid of?... mind telling me what's going on?"

  "OK Mom... can I come in first?" Ben asked with a smile...

  "Yeah sure... Mr. Jensen" she retorted; "you can even have a cup of coffee... but then... you'll explain yourself!"

  Ben sat down at the large table that had been used for twenty years and more, to feed half a dozen hunters at a time, every fall. Amanda served up a plate of bacon and eggs, she'd been cooking for herself and Timmy, along with a steaming cup of fresh, hot coffee, and then sat down across from him, folded her hands on the table top, and sat silently, looking across the table at Ben, with her eyebrows raised in a silent order to commence explaining.

  Ben, had dove into the food like he'd not ate in a week. Shoveling it in like he'd fall over from starvation if he didn't get it swallowed in the next three minutes.

  Amanda continued looking at him without saying anything. She simply cleared her throat.

  Ben stopped, fork half raised to his mouth... and looked up, un-moving, with his mouth full. He grinned, and went back to chewing, slowly lowering his fork to the plate. After several seconds he swallowed, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and spoke.

  "Uh... sorry Amanda... guess I forgot myself a bit" he smirked; "I was hungrier than I'd thought. Guess I've been living alone too long."

  "Ya Think?" she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I sat here worrying all night, about what was happening and no way to call you... since you so wisely smashed my phone!" The frustration and worry that had piled up, over the last twelve hours and more were plain to hear in her voice.

  "Ok." Ben took a drink of his coffee. "This is what's happened... oh... wait a minute" he exclaimed as he jumped up from the table and ran back out to the car.

  He was back inside in a minute, and handed her the phone he'd bought for her in Butte. "I got this when it hit me that we had no commo. Sorry I didn't think of it... before... but... better late than never! That is what they say isn't it?"

  She just sat there, holding the phone, looking from it, to the grinning cowboy and back to the phone.

  She was unsure of what to say. It was a simple thing, just a cheap cell phone. It wasn't much. She'd not had to say a thing. Yet, this man who, all things considered, she hadn't known long enough for him not to still be considered a stranger, had thought of her, thought of what she needed, and took care of it.

  She looked up at him and she couldn't help it, her eyes started to water.

  "What? I thought... You needed... I figured you'd... What?" he stammered, startled by her sudden tears.

  "It's nothing" she said, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand... "I'm just tired I guess. I'm really not dealing well with all this... crap!" she looked up at the off balance cowboy and laughed.

  "Ok... go on!" she commanded. Putting the phone down on the table in front of her, she told him; "Tell me what you were going to say."

  Ben looked at her in silence for a few seconds. If he ever came to have the slightest understanding of a woman, he'd quit chasing horses and cows, write a book, and fill in all the other men on earth, he thought.

  As he tried to recapture what he had been about to say, he walked to the stove for the coffee pot and reheated his cup, replaced the pot on the stove, then returned to his chair and sat down.

  "Remember when we were sitting at the table, back in the cabin, and I was telling you what we would do? Telling you about this place?" he asked.

  "Yes. Yesterday just before lunchtime." she said.

  "Right..." Ben sipped his coffee; "While we were talking, an idea came to me. I didn't say anything, 'cause I didn't want you to worry 'bout it. Don't know if you noticed, but I kept writing on that pad... the one I wrote the directions to here on? and then threw the note in the fire?"

  "uh... I guess so..." Amanda looked at him puzzled. "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Look, Amanda, I told you I hadn't only run cows for a living. I spent some time in the army... a long time ago." Ben looked toward the window, and for a few seconds before continuing, Amanda saw a distant cloud float across his eyes.

  "Back then, I learned something 'bout settin' a trap." he continued; "These men, or at least one of 'em, was a tracker. You bait a tracker with subtle, almost invisible clues. Make 'em too obvious, and he smells the trap."

  "From what you've told me, these guys have shown some skill at following those small clues. So I'm thinking, something too obvious, will make 'em... skittish. So, I wrote the name of a small, lonely, weekend cabin subdivision I know of, on that pad. It's a long way from this place, and a place I've got not one connection to. It's just a place that I happen to know of. I wrote it on that pad, and then burnt the note."

  "I know that." Amanda told him; "You said that. But how does a burned note set a trap for anyone?

  Ben grinned at her. "It don't. It's the paper, under the note that carries the clue for the tracker. The empty paper that had the impression of what I wrote. It's that small clue that a tracker like him is gonna think some dumb cowboy ain't gonna know anything about."

  Amanda looked at him surprised. "I've seen that on some... TV show!" she exclaimed. "How did you know he'd find it?"

  "I didn't know he would. Just figured the odds were better than even." Ben smiled. "I knew he'd find my cabin... I figured he'd be lookin' for some hint of a trail."

  "But... you said, Trap. Why, if you only sent him off on a wild goose chase did you call it a trap?" Amanda asked him, afraid to hear the answer.

  "I never said I was giving that tracker a false lead." Ben picked up his cup and watched her over the cup as he drank. "I said trap, and a trap it was. A damn good trap. A trap that damn fool walked right in to!"

  "Wha... what do you mean walked in to?" Amanda's voice quavered as the realization of what she was being told started to dawn.

  "Tell me Amanda, tell me true... what do you know, was going to happen, if those men found you, and took you back to that Tyrone fella." Ben demanded.

  She looked at him, suddenly very scared. His eyes had a dark, smoking, raging aura that almost sparked
as he looked at her.

  "They would take me back to Tyrone, and he would do what he promised the last time they caught me." she said very quietly.

  "What was that Amanda? What did Tyrone threaten to do? Say it!" Ben demanded in a tone that said they both already knew the answer.

  "He didn't threaten me Ben. He promised. If I ran again, they'd catch me again, and he'd kill me."

  "Yeah, well, he might still do that. But, it won't be because those men took you to him. Tyrone's gonna have to get himself some others to do that chore. Those fools won't be taking anyone anywhere."

  The finality with which he spoke startled her. Even though, deep down, his demeanor and tone told her what had happened, she tried to deny it.

  "Why not Ben? What did you do?"

  He looked up at her and his eyes flashed again; "What did I do?" he laughed, but there was no amusement in his voice. The chill in his laughter cut clear to her core.

  He looked down at the cup held in his calloused hands. "Those fools shot at me. They missed. I didn't." Ben suddenly looked up, his eyes jumping around the cabin, and asked; "Where's the boy? Where's Timmy?"

  "He's in the bedroom, it's early, he's still sleeping Ben, he's ok." Amanda answered, once again startled by this strange, violent man. They sat here, talking over breakfast, about what she realized was the killing of four men, and his concern goes to the welfare of her son!

  "They're... you killed all... you..." Amanda couldn't finish the question.

  "They were going to take you to that scum, so he could make good on his 'promise', weren't they? You want to spend the rest of your life running and hiding girl? You want your son to have to hide? His whole damn life? Only way to deal with a rabid coyote, is, you hunt it. You find it. You kill it. Whatever it takes. End of problem. But no, not all of 'em. That big one, the one held Timmy by the tent the other morning... he got away... but he does have a hole in him. He's got something to remind him how close he came. But that one, got away."