by Mark Gannon
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of Judy Shefte Van Dam. Judy recently passed away from the ravages of pancreatic cancer. During her illness, as in all of her life, Judy was kind and gentle. Those of us who knew her, never heard or saw her be mean to anyone. Her ability to find goodness in all is an example for everyone to follow. She faced her illness as she faced her life, with quiet strength and caring for others before herself.
There is a character in the book named Judy. The book Judy is not meant to be a reflection of the real life Judy. The choice of the character name was many years ago and should not be confused with the real Judy.
Please help in the fight against the ravages of cancer. There is a lot of research going on in many countries and many organizations. I hope one of these days soon there will be a cure. Please give to the organizations that are doing the research necessary to find that cure.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to acknowledge some of the many people who helped make this book possible. My wife put up with household chores unfinished, travel not taken, money spent on the book and research without complaining. It was her idea to incorporate more positive and fun female characters. Without this suggestion, the book and the series would not be nearly as complete or interesting.
Editors, Sharon Kay Gannon and Judy Kribs spent many hours correcting my numerous grammatical errors and incomplete plot lines while contriving to encourage me along the way. Thank you for your efforts, the book would never be finished without your help.
I also want to thank my beta readers who offered suggestions and encouragement while reading incomplete and rough draft copies. Their feedback was invaluable. Their effort to read the book while in a three ring binder and before the editing was greatly appreciated. They survived missing pages, unfinished plots and mid-book character name changes and still managed to give valuable suggestions.
NOTE TO THE MITCH TOBIN SERIES
The Mitch Tobin series has no relation to any real persons. It is a completely fictitious creation. This extends to all the characters and the bank that is central to the books. Mitch and his friends reflect the solid friendship of many of my western South Dakota acquaintances. Their characters are a blend of many that I have met over the years. The town of Spearfish is real while not always represented fairly or accurately in this book. I lived in Spearfish for ten years. It is a wonderful small town with great amenities and people. I hope that this book in no way offends any of the great people in that town and the surrounding Black Hills area.
This is the first book in the series. There are two more books in the series already written that will be released soon. Each book is a separate story in its own right. However, the three books together should be read to fully enjoy a slice in the life of Mitch and his friends. Their connectedness and mutual support is a reflection of many small groups of friends all over the world, the friends in this book just happen to be in western South Dakota. The three books – Early Withdrawal, Biitewaaboo and Special Deliveries take you through approximately two years in the life of Mitch Tobin and friends.
The book and the series are small town living and working as I have experienced. Thankfully mine has been without the drama and the murders. The working atmosphere in a small bank is similar in many respects to the day to day work of Mitch at the First National Bank. However, there is no relation to any of the banks I have worked at in my thirty seven year banking career. All of the staff, directors and buildings are completely fictitious and not related to any real person or place.
It is my intent with these books to write something of adult interest without the F bomb in every other sentence and without explicit sex scenes. The books are meant to be light, relaxing fair with a little drama making an appearance here and there. If I have succeeded in giving you entertainment without too many dull pages, please do me the honor of writing a short review for the people who follow you on Amazon.
Chapter 1
Many Hawks Ride
The evening flag ceremony was blown out if its lethargy exactly as John planned plus a little more. John told me what he was going to do but I didn’t believe him until he came galloping out of the trees aboard his war painted Appaloosa wearing a five foot long feather head dress, waving a war lance and letting loose with a blood curdling scream. John told me it was his traditional head dress and lance passed down from his great, great grandfather, chief of the tribe back in the 1800’s. Since the head dress and lance were stored in the tent I shared with John, I saw the ’Made in China’ label on both of them. My inside knowledge and lack of surprise cut John’s impact for me, but gauging by the reaction on those around me, he was making a sizable statement. When was the last time a tall athletic forty something Native American riding a war horse came charging at you waving a lance and screaming at the top of his lungs?
What was he screaming? Who knows? Who cared? The overall effect was just as dramatic as he hoped. The men gathered for the evening flag ceremony on the first night of the Black Hills Trail Ride jumped to get out of his way. Two men right beside me, turned tail and flat out ran away. Several others tried to keep their cool by slowly backing away but gave up on the macho effort and bolted. Jim Lowe, the man in charge, held his ground in front of the flag mast until John slid his horse to a stop within inches of Lowe. Then John hauled his arm back and threw the spear into the ground at Lowe’s feet. Lowe let out a howl of his own and scrambled over the rock pile base of the flag pole and hunched down for cover.
When I started laughing at Lowe the spell was broken. A surprise attack is frightening until you realize no harm is involved. My laughter helped others realize it was just John and another of his crazy pranks. John pulled a prank every year on the Trail Ride. You never knew when or where, but after eight straight years of high jinx, some wacko activity by John was expected.
The group John so rudely interrupted was the riders of the forty fourth annual Black Hills Trail Ride. One hundred plus adult men trying to enjoy a simpler time of recreation - horse trail riding. Of course they had balled it up in the usual fashion by dragging along many of the creature comforts of the day. There was the chow - prepared by a top chef cooked in a mobile kitchen made out of a semi-trailer with more equipment then most professional restaurants. Then a step over brought you to the supper tent that can comfortably seat eighty people. And from there it was only a few more steps to the entertainment tent with nightly live entertainment and all the liquid refreshments you could possibly pour down your gullet in four days. The participants were ‘required’ to sleep in tents to keep up the illusion of roughing it.
This annual foray into the Black Hills of South Dakota was tradition for many of the participants. Half of the riders were locals that selected the site, organized the equipment, decided on the trail routes and were in control of who was allowed to fill up the other half of the riding spots. I was one of the locals. Head of the local dictators (er - organizers) was Cap Lowe – Trail Boss.
Cap Lowe dusted himself off after his escape behind the rock pile. Lowe is all about dignity and image. It is hard to regain your image as Trail Boss after being forced to dive out of the way of John’s charge. Of course this didn’t bother John at all even though he put himself at risk of being black balled from future attendance with his caper. Those who fought or were aggressive and disagreeable were not invited back. After all, the Organizers wanted a peaceful fun filled relaxing trail ride. It was okay to put something sharp under a saddle blanket and have an unsuspecting rider get bucked off his horse, but don’t throw a fist openly at some one. Since scaring Cap Lowe was considered a prank, John was probably okay for next
year unless Lowe dreamed up some other reason to have him black balled.
Cap Lowe continued with the interrupted retirement of the flag prior to supper. “As I was saying – tomorrow’s ride will be about fifteen miles as we cover some rough terrain. The ride will start ….” The whole time Cap was talking he kept the circling horse and feathered head dress in sight. John was trying to ride his war horse inside as many camp areas as possible. He had gone to a lot of trouble with his native costume and wanted to make as much use of it as possible. With the flag down, it was time for supper at the food tent or liquid supper at the entertainment tent. For me it was time to check on the refreshments. On the trail ride, you paid one fee for the entire outing and it covered everything. That included all meals and all liquids no matter how much liquids you consumed. And there were a lot of liquids.
Chapter 2
Beer Tent
This was a good time of day to check with Lonnie the bartender. The crowd in the tent was light with many heading for supper or relaxing at their tent sites with their own group. As I came into the tent I was met with several “Hey, Mitch” and “Afternoon, Mitch.” Mitch Tobin – that’s me - a forty-two year old used to be cowboy turned banker who is still a sometime cowboy. My black hair is starting to silver at the temple and will eventually turn a distinguished gray if there is any left to turn gray. The thinner the hair gets on top, the heavier my blue-black beard gets. After a day at the Trail Ride and no shave it was starting to bristle already. “How are things going Lonnie? Any serious dent in the stock pile from last night?”
“Hey Mitch. I think we’re in good shape so far. Last night’s crowd was tame compared to first night in camp from some other years. Of course Earl and his crowd kept drinking as fast as they could and sneaking off with booze to supposedly take to their tent. But no three guys can really drink as much as they pretended last night. And from the way they were looking this morning, I think they’ll go slower tonight. Earl passed out right over there.” A quick nod in the direction of the other entrance flap. “And your buddy Frank was helping drain the booze too. How does a skinny guy like him put so much away? It’s downright amazing.”
Lonnie went on to serve some other customers. But the term customers is a little loose. No money exchanged hands and when things got busy you helped yourself to a beer, no one cared. The onetime fee was the same no matter how much you drank.
John next tried to ride his war horse, Sugar, into the entertainment tent. An occasional horse in the tents was not that uncommon. John looked pretty authentic with the leather breech cloth, body paint, long feathered head dress, lance and tomahawk. I told John, “You know the war paint on you and Sugar was a nice touch. That was absolutely great when Cap dove behind the rock pile. Crap that was fun to watch.”
“Can you guys move over a little so I can squeeze in here for a beer?” John was crowding his luck with riding into the tent. People tried it every year, either here or the dinner tent. Sugar was not anxious to get inside the tent with the breeze snapping the flap at the opening. “You know, I wasn’t going to threaten anybody with that lance because I was afraid of breaking it, but when Cap tried to stand and take my charge I couldn’t resist sticking it at his feet.” John was wound up from pulling off another good prank. “You should have seen the guy’s face - he about pissed his pants.”
“Hope that doesn’t come back on you John. You know how he is about controlling the trail ride.”
John just laughed it off. “He can’t touch me. Everyone else has their fill of his righteous attitude and it takes a majority to vote somebody out. Hell they will make me Boss of the trail ride next year. You never know.” Well that was right, but old Cap had a pretty tight rein on things. “Just the same I’ll let Cap cool off a little before I pester him anymore.” The bar customers that had been standing close to the tent opening moved out of the way as Sugar nervously pranced and stomped as John tried to edge closer to the bar. Sugar generally behaved well but John’s head dress of feathers tickling her sides and the lance bouncing around mixed with the tent popping in the wind was making her goosey.
Lonnie had been listening in and asked, “Who’s Cap. I know most all the locals out here and I don’t know a Cap.”
“Cap is short for Captain. That’s our nick name for Lowe since he’s so bossy about everything.” Turning back to John I said, “You know Cap is going to keep running the trail ride. He’s the only one willing to do all the extra work it takes to pull this thing off.” The Site Committee has a tough job. After selecting a suitable camp spot they are just started. They spend several days in the area mapping out the rides for three days. Rides need to be an appropriate length, not too short or too long - preferably ten to fifteen miles. The trails have to be suitable for beginning to moderately experienced riders. And the trails need to be sensitive to environmental issues such as abuse of grass and soil. After selecting the site and trails the committee has to apply for permits and receive approval from the Forrest Service for that year. The Forrest Service approval process is getting harder and harder to obtain. The environmental issues keep increasing. Site and trail selection is already well underway for next year by the time the current year’s trail ride is taking place. “No matter how much I don’t like Cap, he puts in more effort on all the necessary work than anyone else is willing to do. Hell, you wouldn’t want to do half what he does.”
“You may be right, but I still can’t stand him.”
Lonnie came back to get John’s order. “What are you having tonight, John? Some more of that Morimoto Soba Ale like last night?” John was having a bad effect on Lonnie. Our bar tender was having thoughts of becoming a beer snob like John.
Selecting beer was an important decision to John. He has more beer varieties in his walk-in cooler at home then the bars in town. “No, the Soba Ale went with the crab legs last night. We need something heartier with some earthiness to go with the prime rib tonight.”
I tossed in, “If you just drank Bud Lite like the rest of us, we wouldn’t have to stock so many different kinds. Besides, how do you know what‘s on the menu for tonight.”
John made a horrible face at the mention of drinking a domestic mass produced beer. “You and Frank have absolutely no taste.”
“This from a man sitting a horse at a plank bar in the middle of the mountains wearing a breech cloth, feather head dress and war paint.”
“Are you trying to insult my heritage - again?” John was always trying to take offense. It was his way of trying to get one up on me. “Yes I do know what is on the menu. Cookie asked my input. He knows I actually taste what I eat unlike you.” Well that is hard to argue. John did actually have some taste buds.
“I taste what I eat. I’m just not a picky eater like you.”
Lonnie butted in, “As much fun as it is to listen to you two jaw at each other, I’m still waiting to find out what you want.”
“How about a Chipotle Ale? The dry peppery taste should complement the beef.” As Lonnie reached out to pass the beer to John and John stretched to grab it, Cap Lowe walked into the entertainment tent right behind the nervous Sugar.
“You know damn well we don’t allow horses inside any of the tents Many Hawks.” Cap’s normally loud voice was pitched a little higher than normal probably due to being pissed at John. With a quick move Cap jerked his cowboy hat off and took a swipe at Sugar’s rear end. “Get out damn it.” Unfortunately the wind gusted at the same time and put some extra snap into the tent flap. The tent flap hit Sugar on her nose about the same time Cap’s hat swatted her rump. Sugar jumped four feet sideways right out the tent opening taking the corner tent pole with her. John wasn’t hurt by the tent pole because he was no longer on Sugar. With his balance shifted to the horses’ bar side and riding bare back for full effect, he had no purchase on Sugar. John was momentarily suspended horizontally about five feet in the air holding his beer. He hit the floor just a second after Cap Lowe who was flattened by Sugar in her attempt to get out of t
he tent. So two times in ten minutes John was responsible for Cap Lowe hitting the dirt. Not only did John and Cap hit the dirt but the corner of the tent fell in and the canvas floated down to cover everyone.
Lying in the dirt under the canvas I saw John trying to right his Chipotle Ale in an attempt to keep his precious beer from spilling. I hissed at John, “Don’t worry about the damn beer let’s get the hell out of here unless you want Cap to get his hands on you.” As this thought fully filtered into John’s brain his expression changed into alarm. “Follow me.” I had a line on the right direction and crawled past John to the edge of the canvas. Rising up I helped drag John out from under and back into day light. Men were milling around the tent all talking at once and wondering what to do.
John turned around and surveyed the damage. As he reached down to lift the canvas he growled at me, “Come on Mitch we need to get this off the other people inside!” When I didn’t move to help him he looked at me with impatience and anger.
“John, think about what you may find under that tent. I doubt if anyone is seriously hurt except their pride. Do you really want to hurry your next meeting with Cap?”
“Good point. It might be a good time to get changed for supper.” Sugar was standing a short ways off still quivering after the escape from the giant tent animal. John talked softly to her as he grabbed the reins and swung up. “Care for a lift Mitch?” A quick glance at the tent showed Cap crawling out from under. Before my butt hit Sugar’s back John was already digging his heels into her sides. John hollered back over his shoulder, “Hey, Lonnie, we’ll check back after supper. Make sure you chill another Chipotle for me!”
Chapter 3
Chow Tent and Poker
Chow tent was not an accurate name. The food on the Trail Ride is better than most New York Fifth Avenue five star restaurants. Cookie, real name Chris Winston, ramrods the chow on the Trail Ride for a vacation. “John, why are you traveling with that no good Mitch? Didn’t I warn you about keeping company with a low life banker last night?”