The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  “In exchange, I’d like to stay a night while I’m getting Stool’s things shipped. I’ll pay for the lodging, of course. It’d be nice if I could stay in the same cabin Stool lived in, if it’s available.

  The manager was enthusiastic. He volunteered his grounds man to help remove Stool’s material and made Stool’s cabin presentable.

  Additionally, if he agreed to personally truck the old motorcycle to a place called The Shop in Kentucky, Tim would pay—with a little extra for the manager. The agreement allowed Tim to move on and not have to await a cross-country shipper’s schedule. It was good dealing all around.

  Tim settled into the primitive cabin. Except for the name Stool crudely carved into a wall timber, there was no trace left of his friend’s occupancy. The manager claimed that a lady known as Madam Moon, who had more than a little ESP and who had raised pot on the hill across the river, had occupied the cabin before Stool, but Tim found no essence of her lingered.

  Stool’s cot bed sunk comfortably in the middle, and Tim lay looking at roof beams that had surely caught Stool’s eyes thousands of times. It was a good way to put a friend’s memory to rest.

  In the morning, he would finish packing Stool’s papers into the Servi-Car’s box and roll the machine free of its steel enclosure. The bike’s tires still held a bit of air, and the manager promised to pump them up a little before loading. Not to a full 35 pounds, Tim warned—just enough pressure to keep them from destroying themselves.

  Then, Tim supposed, he would continue south, visiting all of the sites. He planned to run east for a day to visit Yosemite Park. He looked forward to working his way around Mount Tamalpais and crossing the Golden Gate Bridge with Alcatraz on his left and sparkling San Francisco dead ahead.

  He would cling to the coast with its touristy riches until he reached Los Angeles. From there he would work northeast, probably on The 15, and cross the Mojave Desert to Las Vegas.

  Or maybe he should go out The 40 and switch onto old Route 66 when he could. At Needles, he might head north to run along Lake Mojave and into Laughlin before hitting Las Vegas and probably Lake Meade. Hmm, that way sounded most interesting.

  From there? Tim found his plans shifting more than a little. He would stay loose on further scheming until he got a lot closer.

  Then? Dennis Baird’s advice came ever more often to his thoughts.

  Honor, he would work on.

  Substance? He had inherited more than he would ever need. His effort there would be mainly not to lose it.

  Purpose? He should discover a purpose for his life. Motorcycling clearly was not to be it.

  Perhaps …? Tim Carlisle’s thoughts roamed as he rode the long and twisty miles down the magnificent California coastline.

  8

  Ah, The Strip! The Golden Mile! Blinding lighting and glitter, everybody on stage, acting out. Nothing real. Nothing meaningful and most less than useful. Zero gravitas—Las Vegas.

  Tim Carlisle thought it stunk. He recognized that he observed with a jaundiced eye, but an unexpected cynicism showed him desperation in too many eyes, the old sweat on performers’ clothing, and endless re-echoing of shallow and false laughter.

  He attended three shows and walked through casinos dropping a few dollars and a handful of quarters en route. All were alike. Each was as phony and as gilded as the others.

  He had passed on to view Lake Meade. The great dam was worth admiring. The lake? He had seen bigger, although not in deserts. What had he really expected?

  The Mojave had not been as bleak as he had supposed, although it was still not a place to suffer serious breakdown or to be caught in during a sand storm.

  Modern transportation took much of the bite out of nature’s hissy-fits. On horseback or wagon? That would have been resoundingly different. He was, gratefully, one hundred and fifty years too late for that experience.

  The Pacific Coast Highway had been an absolute stunner. The hard and twisty riding hoped for had been there most of the way. He had ridden cautiously around the thrust of Mount Tamalpias, and there had been the most beautiful city he had ever seen. In bright sunlight with the magnificent span of the Golden Gate Bridge in the foreground, San Francisco had shown like a jewel.

  Monterey and Big Sur were marvels and Hearst Castle was almost beyond belief. Stupendous to the eyes of a Pennsylvania country boy.

  The west coast of the country exceeded his expectations, and Yosemite Park with its Half Dome and sky-clawing cliffs was natural beauty beyond simple description.

  Of course, as he rode south, normal freeway traffic became a horror, and he turned east to cross the deserts with hunger to be free of the jamming and impatient struggle of southern California driving.

  Despite the sights, the days ran together. Get up, mount, and ride until he wearied. Get off, eat, and go to bed in whatever unnotable community he happened to reach.

  Now Tim sat on his handsome motorcycle in the service area of the Las Vegas Harley-Davidson franchise.

  Not a mechanical breakdown!

  He was simply re-weighing a decision perhaps too casually arrived at—an almost painful conclusion that he was tired of riding a motorcycle across the country.

  Seeing even the most amazing sights had become mundane, in part he supposed, because he was alone and had no one with whom to share the thrills of discovery.

  Tim recognized that, for now at least, he was tired of biking. More fairly, he was tired of the kind of motorcycling he was doing. If he had been part of an accommodating group or a club or especially if he was riding with one pal, it could have been different.

  Alone? Too long, and too many hours exactly the same as the many gone before. He should get off the bike and walk away before riding became only work and he might never again enjoy lengthy cycling.

  What would Old Dog have thought about such traitorous feelings? Tim figured Uncle Dog might have said, “You’re sick of riding? Go do something else.” And that would have been the end of it.

  Tim Carlisle had arrived at the Old Dog conclusion hours before. He sat now because, before he tossed in the towel on this ride, he ought to have at least a general idea of what was coming next.

  He could ship his machine and fly home. He would be in Bloomfield tomorrow—which was why he sat frozen and undecided in the Harley shop’s parking.

  Many riders flew to and from their destinations while their bikes were trucked both ways. Vegas was a common port for shipped motorcycles, and the Harley-Davidson Las Vegas dealership would handle the transportation of his custom without a blink.

  If he flew into Harrisburg International, he would try to have Galloway pick him up. Who else could he get to drive him the twenty-five or so miles to New Bloomfield? No one came to mind. Good Lord, did he have only one friend that he could lean on?

  Shooter was probably out of town. He did work for a living, after all, although no one knew exactly what he did to earn that living.

  Maybe he would have to hire a cab or take a bus to get home. Pathetic!

  The few hours consumed in reaching New Bloomfield were not his serious problem. What came after that was.

  Dennis Baird’s advice came to mind. “Have purpose,” the dentist had said. Try though he might, and Tim had spent many a mile trying to determine a challenging and interesting personal future, nothing worth a hoot in hell came to mind. If there was an occupation that he could believe would hold interest for a career, Tim failed to see it.

  That same lack of discovery had been part of his college difficulties. What was he actually working toward? A degree? To do what? He could never decide.

  College? He should undoubtedly return for that final semester. A dozen credits in subjects he cared nothing about—ludicrous but ticket punching was part of success in life. If you wanted to reach “C” in the world, you usually had to complete “A” and “B,” no matter how irrelevant they might be.

  Paying dues was required whether you chose employment as a schoolteacher or simply became a union ma
n in a thousand occupations.

  His recognition of dues paying was not just arriving. To reach the 300-pound level, Tim had lifted weights with brutal dedication. No one started at that standard. You had to labor, pound by agonizing pound, until your elbows locked on the big 300. Those painful pounds had been dues.

  Tim smiled at his remembering. He also recalled a TV show where Paul, Sr. of American Choppers, who was on the wrong side of middle age, had bench pressed 405 pounds more than one repetition. That kind of lifting made his 300-pound effort appear small indeed.

  Tim ignored the temptations of even mightier lifting. He was finished with heavy weight training. Was he also finished with motorcycle traveling?

  Still undecided, Tim found his left foot dropping his bike into first gear. He revved the engine a few times, enjoying its deep and familiar rumble. Then he sighed aloud and rode on into the agency’s service area.

  He really had ridden enough for now. He would fly home and search there for more serious meaning to life.

  Tim sensed his interior smile was mostly a cynical smirk. Meaning of life? That sort of thinking was beyond his depth. Tim Carlisle just wanted to discover something that would hold his interest, to be enjoyable, to be adventurous, to be … ? Of value? Well, that would be nice, as well.

  Of course, one possible career move always lurked at the edges of his considerations. The military!

  Either Army or Marines held appeal, but the services were more than outdoor adventures while visiting distant places. Serving his country drew strongly. He envied men who had served, often in difficult and dangerous situations.

  Shooter Galloway had done that, more than once, and Tim Carlisle really did admire and envy his friend’s seldom-discussed adventures.

  He could go home and discover what Gabe Galloway really thought about him signing up with the Army or the Corps.

  Geez! To face full on and to labor through whatever he encountered, “Yes, sir—No, sir” with no honorable way out? Years of it? Tim felt his uncertainties rise again. Still, a man had to do something in life. Didn’t he?

  9

  Tim saw Gabe Galloway cross the square, point a pistol finger at someone in a passing car, and step briskly onto the brick sidewalk.

  There was something about Galloway’s stride that often caught Tim’s attention. Shooter walked like a warrior, Tim had decided. Not like a “soldier.”

  He corrected his image. Soldiers were most often not warriors at all. They served, but warriors fought. Galloway’s stride was strong and confident, but his body leaned a bit forward, his chin was a touch close to his chest.

  He did not glare out at the world with challenge. His eyes avoided scuttling about, but Tim often noted that Gabriel Galloway was always observing and judging, watching beyond where most people looked and evaluating what he saw.

  Galloway was not drill-field straight and square-shouldered in his posture. He stood and moved in an almost imperceptible crouch. If a panther moved on two legs, he might look a bit like Galloway, ready to spring into action, or more accurately in Galloway’s case, to snatch one or both of the .357 Magnum Smith and Wesson revolvers nestled in his vest pockets.

  Tim Carlisle envied his friend’s hard-earned experience that had changed him from just another local acquaintance into a worldly man who, when necessary, could be extremely deadly. If he could manage it, Tim Carlisle intended to be a lot like Gabriel Galloway.

  How that was to come about had not yet been discovered.

  Galloway entered the restaurant, saw Tim at his table, and pulled out a chair. He checked his watch. “Gee, It’s only zero-nine hundred, and you are already up. Getting an early start?”

  “I’ve already jogged six miles and punched the heavy bag,” Tim lied.

  Shooter did not choose to continue the subject. Since his return from motorcycling a month before, Tim Carlisle had accomplished the sum total of nothing.

  Galloway would have driven on to the military school two blocks up the hill, but he had seen Tim’s shiny cycle parked on the square and decided to again give his friend a nudge toward moving off the dime and joining any productive work force.

  Tim was curious. “How come you’re in town on a week day? How come you are even in the state, for that matter? I thought your work took you to exotic places like, well, Hoboken, New Jersey or even southeast DC.

  Galloway was up to an answer. “As an important executive, I choose my work places as well as my work hours. Men of significance, like myself, and unlike yourself, do not punch tickets or time clocks, Master Carlisle.”

  “But you do have to carry a weapon.” Tim’s voice was envious, not condemnatory.

  Shooter pinned his friend’s envy. “Too bad you can’t do the same, young fella. Oh, I know you’ve got a permit to carry concealed. So do half the other do-nothings around town. The trick is to be important enough to have to carry.”

  Tim snorted, “The real skill is to be smart enough or connected enough to not have to lug a pistol everywhere you go.”

  Galloway snickered. “You’ve got me there, buddy. As much as I like guns, I wish I didn’t have to carry all of the time.”

  Then Shooter grinned, “But being heroic and adventurous, I’m stuck with it, I suppose.”

  As if re-weighing his words, he added, “Of course, fine women go for us gun-carrying guys, which is important if compared to their obvious disinterest in you wimpy, pacifistic people.”

  Galloway ordered before adding, “Made any decisions, Tim? Figured out anything to do with your time other than loafing? Picked anything?”

  Nettled, Tim said, “I’m working on it, Gabriel. Hell, I’ve just gotten back from a long motorcycle trip, and I’m carefully choosing which route I want to take.”

  Shooter had been hoping for an opening, and he jumped in.

  “Tim, riding a motorcycle is not doing something. Cycling is an escape from doing everything.

  “I really hate pointing it out, but so far in life, all you’ve done is avoid doing anything. You’ve been drifting in neutral ever since high school.”

  Tim sounded indignant. “I’ve all but completed college.”

  “That’s what I mean. You’ve all but completed a lot of things, including your radically shortened motorcycle trip. Your biggest triumph to date is lifting a heavy weight.

  “You aren’t sitting on your butt because you are choosing the right course; you’re stuck because you aren’t trained or educated to do anything.

  “Are you a plumber, an electrician, a schoolteacher, a male nurse, a clerk, a … the facts are, you aren’t hirable, except for heavy lifting.”

  Galloway seemed to catch a passing thought. “Hey, I heard that Fred Thebes is looking for a garbage man to pick up his blue bags all over the county. You could do that, I think?”

  Tim was working on a brilliant riposte when Shooter’s order arrived. The delay offered time to change the subject.

  Only Galloway did not allow it. “So, what are you going to do in this life, pardner?”

  Tim tried levity. “Why I thought I’d go to work for you. Whatever it is you call work seems to be comfortable living with short hours.”

  Galloway was quick. “Fair enough. I’ll start you off at about thirty thousand a year, but anything you make on the side, so to speak, comes back to me.”

  “What’ll I be doing?”

  “What do you care? It’ll be more than you are doing now.”

  “I don’t jump until I know where I am landing.”

  “Good policy, but I’ve noted that you don’t jump—period.”

  Shooter scratched in thought and drank a bit of soft drink. “I’ll tell you what. You’ll have a uniform, and you will carry a piece, but that’s all I’m telling you. Are you interested?”

  “Maybe, but I need more information. You haven’t described anything.”

  “Well, you would have to take an oath. Is your word any good?”

  “You know damned well it is, Galloway. What’s th
e job?”

  “Tim, you know that you will have to start at the bottom don’t you. Knowing me won’t help you at all.”

  “What’s the job, Shooter? You are driving me nuts.”

  Shooter smiled, “Well, to describe it thoroughly, it’s enlisting in the United States Army or signing on with the Navy’s policemen, the United States Marine Corps.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t get lathered. It’ll be easy. You sign on with me. I send you to one of the services, and you pay me any differences between your military pay and what I am offering.

  “By the end of your first enlistment you will be disciplined, you will know more, and a certain maturity will have settled in.

  “Thereafter, you can go on to other things, maybe even in my field … which will remain undescribed as usual.”

  Galloway leaned back, obviously satisfied that his friend could not disagree.

  Tim Carlisle sighed, a resigned sigh. “Gabe, that was a long and not particularly clever way to once again push the military. Good, God, I thought you might actually be coming up with something new, something sensible, something … ” Words failed him.

  Galloway said, “That was something sensible, but I will explain further. This year, right now in fact, you should go down to Blackwater and learn to shoot and to mingle with some of the best fighting men in the world.

  “Then, you should enlist in whatever military service appeals to you. Not the Air Force or the Coast Guard, Carlisle, I’m talking fighting men here.

  “If you pick infantry, The Corps could be the best selection. If you are interested in law enforcement, choose the US Army Military Police.”

  Shooter paused, “Just as an aside, and do not read too much into it, serving as an MP including CID might serve you, in case you stay interested in what I do.”

  Tim ignored the advice and jumped to his long held curiosity, “Are you saying you are some kind of a cop, Galloway?”