 
### THE LONG RIDE HOME

A Novel By:

DAVE STURGES

Published by Dave Sturges at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright 2010 Dave Sturges

CHAPTER ONE

Jeb Grissom was a quiet boy, almost a loner. Oh, he had friends, good ones too, but having been raised as an only child on a ranch outside the small town of Grifton, Montana, he enjoyed his time alone, craved it even. Jeb's parents were both killed in a plane crash when he was eleven and his aunt Clarice, who moved into the old ranch house after the funeral, became his legal guardian.

The ranch of thirteen-hundred plus acres would be Jeb's when he turned twenty-one, but for now, his Aunt Clarice and Toby, an Indian ranch hand, took care of the place and paid the bills by raising a few cattle. Clarice was nice enough, loving and all, but Jeb never really warmed up to her the way an orphan might to a surrogate mother. He felt more like an obligation to her than a surrogate son. Toby, on the other hand, claimed to be a "retired" Apache warrior and enthralled Jeb with his stories of the old west and tales of his many acts of bravery in the face of "overwhelming odds." Fact is, Toby was only fifteen years older than Jeb but had been a trusted employee of his parents since just after Jeb was born. Jeb and Toby were very close and it was Toby who tried to talk Jeb out of going into the Army.

As a senior in high school, Jeb was a big strong boy at just over six feet and a handsome lad too. He excelled in sports and was a four-year letterman in three of them; wrestling, football and baseball. Academia was certainly not his forte, but he managed to get by. He was certainly bright enough, just lacking motivation or interest. He was more contemplative, reflective, thoughtful and quiet. He shunned the devil-be-damned, hell-raising of his athletic counterparts and, because of this lack of participation in the adolescent wild life, was perceived by most as somewhat of a dark knight. As the usual, unanimous pick for team captain, the other boys obviously respected him but, as with all quiet and serious men, were fearful of the unknown. Girls were drawn to him but most could not cope with the silent uncertainty.

There was one girl though, one who dared to break through that rough exterior in hopes of finding the knight in shining armor that would scoop her up on his trusty steed and gallop off into the sunset, every young girl's dream. Her name was Jenny Rogers and she was a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty. They dated heavily throughout Jeb's senior year and even discussed marriage.

In the fall of 1964, Jeb was drafted into the Army. Jenny was heartbroken, her big wedding plans seemingly dashed. Jeb soon resigned himself to his two year commitment and consoled Jenny by promising to marry her as soon as he was discharged, a big wedding with all the trimmings. On October 23rd, Jenny, Toby and Clarice put Jeb on the Greyhound bus that regularly stopped at Sally's Café on Main Street. Everybody passed out the hugs, laughed, cried and generally repeated a scene that was happening daily at bus depots across the country. The Vietnam War was in full swing. Families were deeply worried and rightfully so. American losses were climbing as the anti-war sentiment spread like wildfire across the college campuses of America. The protests and marches were on the evening news literally every night.

Nonetheless, Jeb resolved to do his patriotic duty. He didn't clutter his mind with thoughts concerning America's involvement in an unpopular war. He didn't worry about the right and the wrong of it and refused to dwell on the danger or the prospect of dying. Young and naïve, he would not be thought a coward nor would he shrink from his duty by running off to Canada. He would approach the Army the same way he approached life in general with energy and enthusiasm, viewing each new turn as an adventure. The Army would be a great new adventure indeed.

On the long bus ride to Fort Ord, CA, Jeb drifted in and out of consciousness imagining what it would be like and how he might excel as he was always want to do. How soon would he win a promotion? Would he eventually see any real action or be stuck behind a desk in some dreary behind-the-lines post? Little did he know that the war would change his life forever just as it had for every reluctant hero who managed to cheat the Grim Reaper and return home alive.

Boot camp was boot camp, painfully degrading, shamelessly inane and absurdly juvenile to any intelligent man. To Jeb, the physical demands were nothing. It hadn't been long since he'd done "two-a-days" for spring football practice so he was in great physical shape and could hang with the best of 'em. When it came time for the boot camp graduation ceremony, Aunt Clarice was too sick to travel but she was more than happy to pay Toby's freight and Jeb was glad to see him there. The two of them reminisced after the Saturday ceremony, had a nice dinner and Jeb spent the night with Toby on the extra bed in his modest hotel room. The next day, they saw the few sights of Monterey and Jeb dropped Toby at the Monterey airport for his early afternoon flight home.

Monday morning, right after muster, Jeb was called in by the Officer of the Day. He trotted across the green, as the central exercise yard was called, to the Admin Building thinking he was about to get his marching orders. At the Duty Officer's door, Jeb stood at attention and rapped three times. A gruff voice from behind the door shouted, "Enter!" Jeb opened the door, marched in a couple of steps, closed the door behind him, marched another three steps, did a right face and, with two additional paces, clicked to attention in front of the desk. "Sir, PFC Grissom reporting as ordered," he said.

"Stand easy and state your business!" was the crisp reply.

Jeb moved his feet farther apart and clasped his hands behind his back, the Army "at ease" position. "Sir, I don't know my business. Sir, Sarge just said to get my miserable butt over here a-sap." Jeb was surprised and a little perplexed that the man was not aware of his visit.

The officer rummaged through the papers on his desk and eventually looked up, "Oh yeah, Colonel James wants to see you. Go on down the hall to the last door on the right."

"Sir, yes sir!" Jeb replied as he snapped to attention. An abrupt about face, two paces, left face, three more paces and Jeb was out the door and heading down the hallway.

This was all seeming quite ominous to Jeb. "What on earth would a Colonel want with me?" he mused. "What could I have done? What possible sin could I have committed?" Reaching the door, Jeb doffed his cap and prepared to execute the same formal entry. He drew himself up at the door, knocked the obligatory three times and, after hearing the word "enter" from beyond, opened the door and started to go in. Before he could even begin the ritual, the man at the desk said, "Grissom, get your ass over here and sit. I've got a proposition for you."

Jeb, sensing that any semblance of military protocol had just gone out the window, walked over to the desk and took a seat. He marveled at the man confronting him. He was a monster at over six-foot-six and, Jeb guessed, well over 250 pounds. He was a white man but dark as an Aborigine, sun-baked and crusty-looking. As Jeb took his seat, he couldn't help himself from uttering the required, "Sir, yes sir!"

The man at the desk looked up, "Forget that crap and listen to me. You have managed, heaven knows how, to achieve the highest score any recruit has ever attained in this boot camp and I am here to make you an offer."

Taken aback, Jeb nevertheless managed to respond, "OK, sir, I'm listening,"

"Well, the US Army would like to offer you immediate admittance into Ranger school at Fort Bragg, NC. Normally, you have to prove yourself in the regular Army, but in wartime the rules seem to change daily. It's completely voluntary but based on your scores and perceived potential, the Army would like to have you give the Rangers a try right now. What do you say?"

Jeb was stunned. He had no idea he had been viewed as anything other than a normal recruit. He'd never even gotten an "attaboy" let alone any formal recognition, plaque or anything. He was a little confused and really didn't know how to respond. Maybe they mistook him for some other hot shot. Finally he volunteered, "Sir, it sounds like quite an honor but I really don't know anything about the Rangers. What do they do?"

"Son, the Rangers are the most elite unit in the military. They are truly a special fighting force. They're highly trained in everything from weapons to counter-intelligence. They can make a bomb from whatever they have and can diffuse the most sophisticated bomb the enemy has. You'll learn how to exist in any environment for any length of time, how to navigate by the stars and how to operate any weapon ever made. In time of war, which is now of course, the Rangers are the eyes and ears of the regular Army venturing, quite often, behind enemy lines to gather intelligence and guide in air strikes. It takes a special breed of cat to do this job and your superiors seem to think you're that kind of guy. What do you say?"

After a few seconds of reflection, "What will it cost me, sir," Jeb posed almost apologetically, "what's the catch?" He was sure there had to be some strings attached. He remembered Toby's admonition, "Never volunteer for anything – period! You'll live longer!"

Col. James, leaning forward, immediately responded, practically bellowing, "Listen you arrogant little prick! I've just offered you one of the most prestigious appointments the Army has to offer and all you can say is, 'What'll it cost me!' Hell, a lot of soldiers would kill for this opportunity!"

Humbled by the unexpected emotional response from the big man, Jeb's automatic and instinctive reply was a quick, "Sir, yes sir!"

Leaning back in his chair again, obviously trying to collect himself, the Colonel just stared intently at Jeb while rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Eventually, he began to speak, much more controlled than before, "Son, you're already on the hook for two years and maybe longer at the discretion of the Army. The Ranger school is sixty-one days of intensive training and very expensive. If you don't wash out, by the end we will have invested a great deal of money in you. So, to get in you'll have to sign on for an additional two years for a total of four, which you will serve whether you wash out or not. So, I'll ask you one more time, what do you think?"

Not to be intimidated, although he certainly was, Jeb returned the favor and stared back at the Colonel for what seemed like an eternity. Neither man spoke. Finally and with as much bravado as he could summon, "How long do I have to decide, sir?"

The Colonel, without taking his eyes off Jeb, slowly raised his left arm, pulled the sleeve back with his right hand as if looking at his watch, but not, said, "Soldier, I'll give you thirty more seconds. It's time to shit or get off the pot."

Jeb felt like he was between the proverbial rock and a hard place. If he didn't take the offer, there would probably be recriminations of some sort for shunning such a "great deal" he thought. On the other hand, the additional time would really only be a little over a year he rationalized, since the training lasted almost a year with travel time, leaves and such. And, maybe by then the war would be over and he could just cruise until discharge. In the end, Jeb concluded he really had no choice at all and that his response was somewhat preordained. "OK," he muttered almost under his breath.

"OK what?" countered the Colonel.

"OK, sir!" Jeb shot back without thinking,

"No, you dipstick, I mean is that a 'yes'? Are you ready to give this a try?" the Colonel asked again.

"Yes, sir; I guess so, sir. You've made it sound so appealing." Jeb was prone to harmless sarcasm, innuendo and, oftentimes, just couldn't help himself. This was one of those times. When he was in school, his quick wit and dry humor was perceived as an asset but as with many things in life and if used at the wrong time, could be quite costly.

As the Incredible Hulk slowly began to stand, "Well then, done! The die is cast. You'll have your orders as soon as I can get them ready. Your airborne qualification class, Jump School, started today so we gotta hurry. Sorry, but there'll be no trip home for you so, good luck, soldier! One word of advice though, better leave your smart mouth behind! Those Black Hats (what the Ranger instructors were called at Fort Benning) won't appreciate it one little bit and you won't like the consequences, trust me. They will smoke your ass!" With that, he thrust a huge paw across the desk for an obvious farewell handshake.

Jeb stood up, grabbed and shook the offering, then snapped to attention and delivered the best salute he could manage, given the somewhat uncomfortable circumstances. The Colonel quickly returned the gesture with his own version of a salute that was not very military at all, sloppy, half-hearted. Jeb immediately wheeled around and left.

* * *

In the barracks that afternoon, Jeb laid in his rack, hands behind his head, and stared at the bottom of the upper bunk. "My God, what have I done?" he thought. Well, no do-over's in the Army. As the Colonel said, the die was cast and he better get his head around it. As always, Jeb was determined to look at it as a new adventure and attack the challenge with vigor. He would lay there, alone with his thoughts, until he felt good about things, then charge ahead.

Jump School, also at Benning, was three-weeks long and a prerequisite for Ranger School. The Ranger School was based at Fort Benning but consisted of specialized training in three different locations. Phase one, called the "Benning Phase," was conducted in Camp Rogers and Camp Darby, both at Fort Benning and was mostly physical assessment. Phase two, the "Mountain Phase," was at Camp Merrill near Dahlonega, GA and consisted of mountaineering and reconnaissance. Phase three, the "Florida Phase," was at Camp James E. Rudder on Eglin Air Force Base, FL. It was by far the most difficult involving jungle warfare in a rain forest and swamp environment with venomous snakes, other reptiles and biting insects. The failure rate in the arduous sixty-one day program was over fifty-percent.

As Jeb was drifting in that no-man's land between consciousness and sleep, the reverberating cadence of hard-soled boots on the wooden floor jarred him into awareness. When the neatly pressed pants of the Drill Sergeant came into view through the adjacent bunks, he sprang to his feet, quickly moved to the end of the bunk and snapped to attention, eyes fixed on the far wall. It was instinctive, reactive and strictly according to Army protocol. Evidently, if you look directly at a Drill Sergeant, his head will explode or something equally disgusting will happen. It didn't make a lot of sense to Jeb, but he wasn't about to question the wisdom of the Army, especially now.

The Drill Sergeant stopped abruptly when he reached Jeb, thrust out his right hand and said, "Here is your orders boy. You ship out in an hour."

Jeb took the package and returned his hand to his side never moving his gaze from the wall, not relaxing a muscle.

"Rumor has it," the Sergeant continued, "you're going to Ranger school at Benning."

"Sir, yes sir!" Jeb answered.

The Sergeant stepped around directly in front of Jeb, stuck his nose right in Jeb's face and literally shouted, "Don't you disappoint me! Don't even think about making me look bad, boy! If you fuck this up, I will personally hunt you down and ruin your day! Do you get my drift?"

"Sir, yes sir!" Jeb barked at the far wall.

Then something surprising happened. The Sergeant stepped back, relaxed, stuck out his hand and said, "Good luck, son." He almost sounded human but Jeb knew that was impossible. Drill Sergeants are mechanical, or bionic, or satanical creatures of some kind, anything but human. They have no conscience, no compassion, no understanding and little relation to the human species. The Army must search far and wide to find the most heartless bastards they can just to fill the job of Drill Sergeant. Therefore, tentatively Jeb turned his eyes slightly downward looking straight in the face of evil, smiled ever so slightly, shook the man's hand and said simply, "Thank you, sir."

The Sergeant nodded, turned and briskly walked toward the barrack's door. Over his shoulder he shouted, "Be down on the green with all your gear and ready to go at exactly 1500 hours!" Then he disappeared.

Down on the green with nothing more than his Army issue duffel bag, Jeb waited nervously. He had no idea how he was getting to Fort Benning or what to expect in the way of transportation. He hated the thought of riding a bus all the way from California to Georgia. Soon, an old military jeep rattled up in front of him and stopped. The chipper young driver turned to Jeb and said, "Are you Grissom?"

"Yes I am," Jeb replied.

"Well, throw your gear in the back and get your butt in here. I'm your chauffer," the young man said, ending with a grin from ear to ear.

Jeb quickly complied. The young soldier shoved the jeep in gear and off they went. "Where are we headed?" Jeb yelled over the sound of the wind in the WWII vintage convertible.

"I'm delivering you to the airport!" was the quick reply.

"Then what?" asked Jeb almost at the top of his lungs.

"Then, my job is done!" the driver replied with another big grin.

Jeb folded his arms and sat back, foregoing any more attempts at conversation. "So, the adventure begins," he thought. "What a day. What a hell-of-a goddamn day!"

* * *

It had taken Jeb nearly 24 hours to make the journey from Fort Ord to Fort Benning. The first leg was a helicopter ride from Monterey to Travis Air Force Base approximately forty-miles west of Sacramento, CA. At Travis, Jeb was stuck for over eight hours before catching a Lockheed C-130 Hercules military transport to Lawson Field at Fort Benning via several stops along the way. He had slept little and was running on the adrenalin spurred from embarking on his new adventure.

They arrived at Lawson Field in the early morning hours the following day, Jeb and a hodgepodge of other midnight travelers, all military of varying ranks and all flying under protest. The C-130 is pure transportation with absolutely no amenities and, to the men's dismay, no flight attendants! When they finally disembarked, they grabbed their gear and walked into the terminal single file.

Inside the terminal, one of the flight ops guys directed him to the front door where, when he emerged, he was pleased to find a much newer vehicle waiting for him. It was still a jeep and not a limo befitting his fantasized stature and rank, but nevertheless much nicer with a hardtop and windows that worked.

After the usual exchange of pleasantries with the driver, the trip from the airfield to the barracks was filled with trivial chitchat about nothing in general. Jeb was as bewildered when he stepped into the barracks as when he left Fort Ord. It occurred to him, looking at the typical, Army-issue barracks with the rows of bunk beds along the walls, that he could have still been in Fort Ord and this was all a dream. That, of course, was not the case.

The timing of Jeb's training, as it worked out, was fortuitous. He went directly into Jump School, which lasted three-weeks. When he had successfully completed Jump School, the next Ranger class wasn't to begin for almost two months. In the interim, Jeb was assigned as an aide to the Ranger instructors, the Black Hats. It was fortuitous in that, after several weeks of doing their bidding he began to be viewed as one of their own. This was to stand him in good stead when he actually became one of their students. That, coupled with the fact that he learned a great deal about how to survive and prosper in the program, gave him a real advantage over the neophytes.

CHAPTER TWO

It had been seven grueling months of damn hard work! The Christmas of 1964 had come and gone. Jeb made a quick trip home to reconnect with Jennie during the holidays but that was it. Prior to that though, they had corresponded almost daily. Jennie's letters were romantic. Jeb's were not. Jennie composed beautiful love letters. Except for the, "Love, Jeb," at the end of Jeb's letters, he could have as easily been writing to one of his old football buds. He was definitely not a romantic and Jennie had struggled to accept that about him. She had convinced herself that the sentiment was there but that he just didn't know how to say it. Jeb did, in fact, care deeply for the girl and fully intended to marry her -- someday. But rambling on about sweet nothings was not his style. It was foreign to him, uncomfortable even. He wasn't afraid of commitment. He was deeply committed in everything he did, a true pragmatist. The success of any endeavor was the important thing, be it the Army, the Rangers, or marriage. Jeb was committed to doing whatever was necessary to achieve the desired outcome and lived by this credo.

Jeb's ability to focus on the task at hand, to plan, organize and execute, boded well for him. He continually emerged as a leader and it was no different in the Rangers. He had been designated as "Squad Leader" many times and thrived in that capacity. His men not only liked him, they respected him. There was one exception though, a fellow soldier named John Clancy who loathed Jeb's success and longed for the chance to shame him in front of his men, to punish him for his success. Clancy was one of those unhappy individuals that muddle through life full of hate, making excuses for their failures by blaming others. The shrinks would probably say he had a poor self-image and was over-compensating by being a bully, demanding respect instead of earning it. But maybe he was just plain evil, a bad seed, someone who should never be allowed in the gene pool. Clancy believed the road to respect was through intimidation. At six-foot-four with a ruddy complexion and a perpetual scowl, he was certainly visually intimidating. In hand-to-hand combat training, for Clancy it was not enough just to defeat his opponent. He invariably had to be restrained to keep from killing the man. The officers liked his competitiveness but feared his lack of control.

Two of the Black Hats of the Fort Benning Ranger School were John Childers and Joel Timmons. Sporting men, at the end of each class, they would organize a seek-and-destroy competition affectionately called, "Talley-ho!" Each man would pick a team of five soldiers who would be armed with semi-automatic paintball guns. Initially, a soldier from one of the teams, "the fox," would be sent into the woods alone, and given a few minutes to prepare before the five men on the opposing team, "the hounds", would be sent in after him. The object, of course, was for the "hounds" to get the "fox" and vice-versa.

When Timmons pulled up to the observation tower in a remote area of the base on the morning of the big event, Childers was already upstairs pacing around. His five-man team was standing around a pickup on the far side. The tower, basically a twenty-foot square wooden platform on stilts, stood in the middle of a large clearing in the woods. Timmons shut off the motor and headed up the stairs.

It was one of those typical winter days below the Mason Dixon, overcast and dewy in the early morning hours but still uncomfortably warm, especially if you were dressed from head to toe in jungle warfare camo fatigues with a full pack and a rifle.

When Timmons finally stepped onto the platform, Childers greeted him with, "Friar Tuck, you son-of-a-bitch, hell of a day to be sleepin' in. Where's your team?" Childers jokingly referred to Timmons as "Friar Tuck" because, given a brown robe, a rope sash, and some sandals, he was Robin Hood's jolly old friar incarnate. He had pure white mutton-chop sideburns that curved up over the tops of his ears and wrapped around the back of his shiny bald head. Couple that with a huge potbelly and there you have it. In lieu of responding to Childers's question verbally, Timmons pointed across the clearing to a small troop carrier with the requisite olive-green canvas cover emerging from the woods on the bumpy dirt road that approached the tower.

The tower was old and in disrepair. There was a handrail around the edge but a little rickety in spots. In the center was a six-foot folding table that had been left standing in the elements too long and was as weathered as the tower. Around the table were four folding chairs, the metal variety with no padding of any kind, rusted and dirty. Childers, a relatively indescript man with a medium build in his late fifties and graying hair, was leaning against the rail puffing on a large stogie, a huge pair of binoculars dangling from his neck. After they shook hands, Childers reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out another cigar in a colorful metal container with a screw top, and offered it to Timmons.

"Thanks, don't mind if I do," said Timmons as he took the offering.

"Well, Joel, this is probably our last go round with Talley-ho, ya know," said Childers.

"Why's that?" asked Timmons.

Childers, pacing around and staring off in the distance, thought about it a second before answering, "The Brass, in all its infinite wisdom, has deemed it too dangerous and ineffective as a training tool. They view it as merely entertainment for you and me. Imagine that."

"Yeah, imagine that!" echoed Timmons with a chuckle. He began to light his cigar after having painstakingly licked it from stem to stern and bitten off the end to enhance the draw. Speaking between puffs, he added, "Well then, let's hope this is a good one. Deal's still the same right, a hundred bucks a man for every 'hound' the 'fox' gets, and five-hundred additional if he gets them all?" Childers nodded slowly in agreement.

"Who's your 'fox' this year?" Timmons added.

Childers, after acting like he was pondering the question for a few seconds, said, "I'm going with Clancy, a nasty son-of-a-bitch who'll probably end up in Leavenworth but ruthless and mean'll get him through this, no doubt. Who's your guy?"

"I think Grissom is up to it," said Timmons. "Nobody can touch him in hand-to-hand and he's a sneaky SOB ta boot. So, flip the damn coin and let's get started."

Childers fished in his pocket for a coin and thumbed it in the air hoping for a landing mid-table.

"Heads!" shouted Timmons.

Both men put their knuckles on the table and leaned in to better see the outcome as the spinning coin finally came to rest.

"Ha, tails it is so I guess Clancy goes first," said Childers. Walking over to the rail opposite the jeep, Childers hollered down to his 'fox', "Clancy, you're up so get your butt out there on the double."

Clancy, who had been waiting impatiently, immediately and without a word threw on his pack, grabbed his rifle, trotted to the tree line and disappeared into the dense foliage.

Timmons, much more military-like than Childers, grabbed Childers's radio from the table, pushed the transmit button, and said, "Strike One, Strike One this is Top Dog. Come in."

"Top Dog, this is Strike One, over," replied Grissom.

Timmons pushed the button again, "Grissom, give it exactly fifteen minutes, then deploy your men. The 'fox' is Clancy so be careful. Top Dog, out!"

Jeb and his men, who had stayed in the back of the troop carrier, threw open the canvas flap, dropped the tailgate, gathered their gear and piled out. All were eager to give Childers's bunch, Black Ops, a try. Jeb was the first to get organized, so he gathered himself and turned to the group. "Alright you guys," he began, "the 'fox' for Black Ops is Clancy. He's very good so just get some paint on his chest and don't screw around. This is supposed to be non-contact but, knowin' Clancy, he'll try to hurt you so be careful and don't pull any punches. Jones, you and Simms take the left flank. Frank, you and Lightener take the right," Jeb pointed toward the woods as he continued, "and I'll free-range up the middle. OK, we go in exactly nine minutes. Check your weapons."

Jeb had wondered a short distance from his team and was comfortably seated in what he called the "Filipino squat". He had picked up this unusual sitting position as a kid from an old man who worked on the ranch for a while. You basically sit down on your haunches, feet flat on the ground with arms folded and resting on your knees in a neat little bundle. The "Ornamentals", as his father called all Asians, could sit like that for hours and so could Jeb. He had even slept like that on occasion by resting his forehead on his arms.

This time, Jeb had his head on his knees but he was not sleeping. He often used the Filipino squat as a substitute for the much too conspicuous Lotus position and would drift into a light meditative state undetected, alone with his thoughts. This was only a game supposedly, but Clancy was a scary guy regardless of the circumstance and Jeb knew he had to be at his best. And then there was the fear. Jeb was ashamed of his feelings of fear but they were always there; fear of failure, fear of humiliation, fear of the unknown, fear of death, fear of nothing, fear of everything.

Several years before, Jeb had gotten lost in the Montana wilderness on a simple day hike. It was getting late and the sun was fading fast. Being disoriented is one thing but spending the night unprepared and alone in the Rockies can easily cost you your life. As darkness began to creep in, fear turned to absolute terror. Jeb unconsciously began to jog, then run, then sprint in a panic through the forest in no particular direction. All this knowing that panic was his worst enemy. Absolutely exhausted, he finally collapsed on a log and began talking to himself out loud. This was his way of coping, of getting control, of dealing with his fear.

"Listen, you asshole," he began, "calm down! Get your shit together. We can do this. Turn your brain back on. You have everything we need to survive in your daypack; matches, fire-starting sticks, granola bars, water, emergency blanket, flashlight. Ah, but it's not freezing so we won't need the blanket. We'll be Ok. Now get up off your ass and let's get some firewood before it gets dark." As it turned out, Jeb wasn't far from a road and, when he heard a truck go by, he was able to walk out easily, jubilant but humbled. Nevertheless, Jeb learned to stop and think when faced with danger and not to just react. That skill allowed him to overcome his fears and find success more often than not.

Jeb finally, slowly rose from the squat, turned to his teammates while looking at his watch and said, "OK, get it together, thirty seconds to launch." As the team members moved in the direction of their assigned routes, Jeb finally said, "Go!" and all began to jog toward the tree line.

Unlike the pine forests of the west, the woods of Fort Bragg were an unholy mix of bushes, trees, and vines. They were constantly wet, moldy smelling and practically impenetrable, a perfect training ground for those destined for Vietnam. Moving about was tedious but, with the damp foliage combined with the relatively soft cotton fabric of the fatigues, quiet enough for a modicum of stealth. The young recruits had been trained to move slowly and to be acutely aware, stop often and listen intently. The "fox" had a definite advantage in that he could set up in a blind, remain still and quiet, and wait patiently for his prey. But that, too, posed a bit of a problem because of the two-hour time limit for the hunt. If you waited and nobody came, you could not win.

Jones and Simms on the left flank were the first to encounter the enemy. Clancy rose from the undergrowth after the two had passed and, from point blank range, put one round squarely between the shoulder blades of Simms. Jones's fatal error was not immediately diving for cover but turning to face the assailant. A semi-automatic weapon fires as fast as you can pull the trigger and Jones took Clancy's second shot right on the chest before he could even focus on the threat. Both men dropped their arms and hung their heads as Clancy, without a sound, quickly and quietly vanished into the green. After he was gone, Jones and Simms began to make their way out of the woods and back to the observation tower, disgusted and beaten.

Meanwhile, Frank and Lightener had gotten separated and both were wandering aimlessly. This was problematic in that each had one more "friendly" they had to identify prior to pulling the trigger. Clancy, on the other hand, knew that anyone he came upon was the enemy.

As Frank was standing beside a tree surveying a small opening in the woods ahead, the barrel of a gun slowly descended from above to within an inch of the top of his head. Bang! Frank dropped to his knees grabbing his head with both hands in pain.

"You mutherfucker!" he mumbled.

Clancy dropped from the tree branches and landed in front of Frank. Towering over the pretend corpse with his hands on his hips, Clancy chided, "You're number three, sweetheart, only two more to go. Now, get you're sorry ass out of my forest!" Frank rose in shame, turned and began to make his way out, rubbing his aching head all the while.

As Frank disappeared, Clancy heard a twig snap, not loud but muffled like a small branch soaked to the core. It was enough though. Clancy immediately dropped to the ground and slithered through the undergrowth like some kind of venomous snake cautiously moving in the direction of the sound.

When Lightener moved, Clancy moved. When he stopped, Clancy stopped. Even though they were less than twenty yards apart, Lightener had no clue that there was a threat lurking nearby. He inadvertently took a few more steps toward Clancy, stopped, knelt down on one knee, put his rifle on the ground, and proceeded to re-tie his bootlace. Lightener was arguably the weakest member of Strike Force One in both skill and physical strength. Jeb felt he was a nice enough guy but just never took anything seriously. For whatever the reason, all he cared about was just getting through the program. He didn't need to be number one in anything, just get by. So, it wasn't surprising that he would be so careless as to make such a hideous blunder in front of the enemy.

Clancy was quick to take advantage of his distracted foe. He silently rose to his feet grasping a six-foot long, two-inch diameter branch and immediately broke it over Lightener's exposed back. Lightener dropped like a stone, unconscious. Clancy straddled his lifeless body, put the barrel of his gun against his backbone and pulled the trigger knowing the man would carry the mark for weeks. Clancy believed that stupidity must be punished and his brand of punishment always involved pain to the poor individual that committed the crime.

As Clancy was standing there, admiring his work a voice came booming through the silence from directly behind him. "Clancy, you rotten son-of-a-bitch, you're done!" bellowed Jeb as he put a paintball square in Clancy's back. Clancy turned slowly around as Jeb just kept them coming, as fast as he could pull the trigger. By the time Clancy was facing Jeb, he was covered in paint from top to bottom. Jeb walked up to Clancy, put his rifle on the ground and, while Clancy was wiping the paint from his eyes, hit him with a haymaker right on the jaw. Now, as poor Lightener was beginning to stir, there was another unconscious soldier on the ground. Jeb helped Lightener to his feet.

"Think you can make it back to the truck?" Jeb said as he picked up Lightener's rifle and handed it to him, "Clancy and I'll be along shortly."

"Yes, I think so," responded Lightener painfully, "just point me in the right direction."

Jeb helped him along for a few steps and Lightener staggered on through the brush, groaning as he went.

Childers and Timmons had been sitting at the table playing cribbage and watching for the casualties of war to come walking in. They both stood and went to the railing as Lightener staggered a few steps out of the woods in obvious distress and collapsed in the grass. Frank, Jones and Simms ran out to assist their wounded comrade the rest of the way to the truck.

"Wonder what happened to him?" said Childers.

"That crazy bastard Clancy happened to him, that's what!" said Timmons. "I'm tellin' you, we really need to think about getting rid of that nut case before it's too late," he continued.

"Well, maybe so," said Childers, "but let's see what happens today and we'll get the full story when it's over."

"Assuming he doesn't kill someone twixt now and then!" said Timmons.

"So, now it's just Clancy and Grissom," said Childers, "Let's see which one of our gladiators emerges next."

Jeb didn't like Clancy, not even a little, and consequently didn't trust him either. So, before Clancy rejoined the living, Jeb bound his hands tightly behind his back, just for good measure. When Clancy was securely shackled, Jeb rolled him over, grabbed his canteen from his belt and doused his prisoner full-face to shock him into consciousness. It worked. Clancy gasped as though he'd been starved for air.

"Cut me loose, you cocksucker," Clancy said as he struggled against his bonds, "this ain't part of the deal!"

"I'll cut you lose when we get back to the tower," Jeb said, "I don't trust your sorry ass! Now, get to your feet and let's get going."

"We got another round to go yet. I'll get you then you shithead!" Clancy said.

"Yeah, yeah," Jeb muttered in response.

Timmons and Childers finished another game of Cribbage and Timmons stood up to stretch. He looked at his wristwatch and turned toward Childers.

"Well, ten more minutes and we sound the horn. I hate stalemates!" he said.

Childers stood slowly then moved to the handrail and stared at the tree line. As he was about to turn away, his eye caught some movement in the undergrowth.

"Here they come," he said as he raised his binoculars.

Timmons quickly stepped to Childers's side and fished his little opera-style binoculars from his breast pocket to get a better view. Neither spoke although they both could clearly see that Clancy's hands were bound behind his back and that Jeb was using his rifle butt to nudge him along. They could also clearly see that Clancy was covered in paint and Jeb was perfectly paint-less.

"Well, John, your guy might have faltered just a tad at the end but still, you did win four large," said Timmons, slowly lowering his binoculars and grinning from ear to ear, "Now, let's see what Grissom can do, as if this ain't enough." Timmons paused before continuing, "I'll settle right now for 500 bucks if you want to concede."

"The only thing I'll concede is that you're awfully goddamn cocky just having lost four of your hand-picked warriors in a five-on-one battle!" said Childers.

"I guess that's a no then?" Timmons said, still chuckling.

"You bet your ass that's a no! Now get on the radio with your goddamn golden boy and tell him we'll start round two in exactly thirty minutes!" Childers responded.

After thirty minutes, Timmons picked up the radio again but, before he could call, he noticed Jeb jogging across the open and watched him disappear into the trees. Game on! Exactly fifteen minutes later, Childers leaned over the rail above his team and shouted down at them, "OK, you guys get the lead out! The one who gets Grissom gets a free steak dinner!"

Jeb had been a hunter most his life and he was good at it. He didn't know how to be the hunted. That whole concept was foreign to him. After fifteen minutes in the woods, it had become his world, his domain. When the hounds came, they would be entering his house and that unwelcomed entry would be dealt with swiftly. It was really just that point of view that made Jeb feel strong, even invincible. Instead of being afraid and on the defensive, he was alert and on the offensive. In the latter frame of mind, that of an aggressor, he was dangerous, very dangerous!

Jeb's opponents were predominately city boys. The only woods they'd ever seen were in the park. None, to his knowledge, had ever hunted anything. Jeb determined logically that the real threat was Clancy for several reasons. One, he was a farm boy and a hunter. Two, he was mad dog mean! Three, he was smart and cunning and not encumbered by moral issues such as sportsmanship or fair play. And four, he was angry, mad as hell, after the demeaning events of the morning.

But, Jeb had other advantages. He knew the lay of the land having methodically memorized it in the morning session knowing he would need that knowledge later. He also had the element of surprise in that, rather than lying in wait deep in woods, he was near the tree line watching the invaders as they approached. Jeb noted immediately that Clancy had deployed his team in a very strange way. Four approached the woods in a tight group, very foolish in Jeb's mind. As he watched the four cautiously enter the foliage, he could see Clancy waiting patiently until they disappeared. It was then he realized that Clancy was using his teammates as bait! It was a little unethical, certainly immoral, but potentially quite effective. In an effort to locate Jeb undetected, Clancy was willing to sacrifice his men. He would shadow them and, as Jeb was distracted dealing with them, Clancy could more easily identify Jeb's position and gain the advantage during the confusion.

Jeb stealthily and quickly repositioned himself in the foliage ahead of the four men. As they approached, he jumped up, waved his hands wildly over his head to get their attention and then quickly vanished again, leading the group deeper into the woods. And they, not knowing Clancy's insidious plan, did just as Jeb had hoped. They separated thinking they could surround the lone warrior. Not a chance. One by one they fell until there was only one left -- Clancy!

Jeb had been accused of having a warped sense of humor, from time to time, and this was no different. He saw an opportunity to really have some fun with this final event and set out to do just that. He had a fiendish plan. He lashed his victims together arm-to-arm around a tree and once again vanished into the foliage to wait for Clancy's inevitable approach. The four pawns, peering at each other around the tree, were surprised and entertained by Jeb's antics such that they chatted and laughed with each other as they waited to see what would happen next.

Clancy could hear the voices and crept slowly forward to make his kill. Step by careful step he inched his way closer, knowing that his quarry was just within reach. In mid-step, there was a resounding whop! The sting of a paintball fired from close range hit him right in the back of the head. Jeb knew it was against the rules to aim for the head but he couldn't resist and, after all, it was Clancy. Clancy dropped to one knee, rubbing his stinging dome with one hand while he slyly drew his survival knife with the other. Who knows how far he would have gone with the knife but, when he wheeled, Jeb's rifle butt landed right between his eyes, splitting open his forehead and sending him into the Neverland of unconsciousness.

* * *

The game clock was running down and Childers was pacing the tower while Timmons calmly played Solitaire at the table. Finally, Childers stopped and raised his field glasses.

"What the hell," he muttered to himself.

With that, Timmons rose up and joined him at the rail. In the distance, something was emerging from the woods. It could have been a man in full camo stooped over and struggling to walk, but it could as easily have been some sort of animal, a bear maybe. It wasn't immediately evident. As the creature cleared the foliage and moved out into the clearing, it became obvious that there were not one but four creatures closely following one another like ducklings waddling along in tight formation. Eventually, Jeb appeared several paces behind them with his weapon slung loosely over his shoulder casually puffing on a small cigar.

As the motley bunch painfully approached the tower, Timmons and Childers made their way down the stairs to await their arrival at the bottom. Here they came with each man resting his forehead on the butt of the one in front. The lead man, all bent over with his head down, was swinging his right arm back and forth, the trunk, while his left was tucked tightly between his legs. The next two men had their right hands stuck in the crotch of the one in front and their left crammed in their own. The trailing man had his left hand stuck through his own crotch but with no one trailing, had his open palm wagging back and forth, the tail.

When they finally stumbled up in front of the tower, Childers began to bellow, "What the Sam hell is goin' on here? You better get your asses to attention you pitiful sons-a-bitches, you're a goddamn embarrassment!"

"Sir; can't sir!" the lead soldier answered without looking up. The group, again in tandem, shuffled awkwardly around so Childers could see that their hands were all lashed tightly together in their crotches.

"What do you mean you can't? What is this?" asked Clancy still quite animated.

"It's called the Elephant Walk, sir. You know..." Jeb demonstrated as he laid his head on his swinging arm imitating an elephant as if it was a game of Charades.

"Elephant walk my ass!" Childers shouted, as he booted the leading man on the rump in a rage knocking the whole string down in a heap. Then, hands on his hips and shaking his head, he said, "Aw, shit! You assholes get untangled and get out of my sight!" Turning to Jeb, he added as if it just occurred to him, "Where the hell is Clancy, there's only four here?"

"Sir, Mr. Clancy decided to hang out in the trees for awhile," replied Jeb rather nonchalantly.

"What?" Childers said incredulously, "Show me! Take me to the prick." Turning to his cohort, he added, "Come on Timmons and stop your goddamn giggling, you bastard."

Timmons had been unsuccessfully trying to contain himself during this farcical exhibition and not add to Childers' rage, but now, as they marched behind Jeb toward the woods to find Clancy, he continued to giggle like a teenage girl with a new boyfriend. The more Childers glared at him, the worse it got.

About fifty yards into the woods, the trio emerged into a small clearing. Both Childers and Timmons just stood there for several seconds in total disbelief at the pitiful sight presented them. At the far edge of the clearing, hanging upside down by a rope from a huge branch was Childers' best warrior, the scurrilous Mr. Clancy. Except for his boots, he was totally naked with his hands bound tightly behind his back. Because of his constant struggling, his stark white, tan-less body was slowly swinging and rotating at the end of the rope, his battered face red wet with blood and the back of his head dripping red paint.

The emotional extremes were truly palpable. Timmons was still trying to control his hysteria, especially with the absurd spectacle of Clancy hanging like a side of beef. Childers was nervously shifting from one leg to the other vacillating between embarrassment and anger. Clancy was foaming at the mouth with a rage and a hate for Jeb as deep as the ocean, and Jeb was bouncing around bubbly and cheery and pleased to death with himself for creating such a humorous scene, especially at the expense of such a vile creature as Clancy.

Childers finally began to fish in his pocket for his money wad as he turned to Timmons. "OK, Shithead, what's the damage?"

"Well, let's see here," mused Timmons, "a hundred dollars per man equals five hundred plus the five-hundred dollar bonus for getting them all, less the four hundred you won this morning leaves a nice round figure of six-hundred dollars. To tell you the truth though, I would have paid just to see this!"

Timmons continued to chuckle as Childers thrust out a fist full of 100's as he muttered, "Here's your goddamn money. Now, shut the fuck up!" Then, shaking his head and turning toward Jeb, he continued, "OK Grissom, you heartless bastard, just cut the miserable son-of-a-bitch down."

Jeb loosened the slipknot where the rope was anchored at the base of the tree and lowered Clancy slowly to the ground. As he came to a rest on his back looking up at Jeb, Clancy, almost in a whisper so neither of the Black Hats could hear, said, "Grissom, someday you'll pay for this you son-of-a-bitch. It doesn't end here!"

Jeb knew Clancy was enraged, but never considered the possible long-term ramifications of shaming a man already consumed with hate. Jeb looked him in the eye and, for the first time, believed he was staring into the eyes of pure evil. The realization of what he had done slowly drifted into his consciousness. He had made an enemy, probably for life.

CHAPTER THREE

The nightmare of Vietnam changed lives, some good, some bad, but no one came home unaffected. Reaction to the horrors of war speaks more to the depth of one's character than any other human event. Dealing with death on a daily basis demands the development of coping skills that shake the very foundation of who you are and dictates who you will become. In war, fear permeates your very existence, becomes the one constant in your life, the one thing shared by all. The commonality of emotion is the bond of soldiers, that which ties them together.

As with all aspects of life, the successful, those that survive relatively intact, learn to overcome their fears and to use them to their advantage. Some cannot and self-destruct either mentally, physically or both. The tragedy and the real carnage of war is the walking wounded that remain, those that, in many cases, thought they had survived but did not.

Awash in the sea of blood, Jeb too changed. Calloused, cold, emotionless, calculating, angry, brutal, defensive all described his increasingly complex psyche. After several months of almost daily encounters with the Viet Cong in Chu Chi, Jeb had gradually evolved into a virtual fighting machine. He was feared by his enemies and revered by his fellow Rangers. He became more and more withdrawn, more and more of a loner to the point where he was often a patrol of one. Even though the main thrust of his unit was reconnaissance, Jeb's main thrust was "search and destroy." Instead of avoiding contact, he invited it. When he was on patrol, he was on the hunt and nobody wanted to join him. Most of his teammates felt he had a death wish and was at high risk of losing his humanity.

The Viet Cong came to know Jeb as well. He was easily recognizable in his camo cowboy hat that he wore whenever he could get away with it. The hat, he believed, was his lucky charm and reminded him of home, of his beloved Montana. It was an old felt hat that had belonged to Jeb's father and, when he had to camouflage it with spray paint, it broke his heart. The Spanish-speaking members of Jeb's unit nicknamed him "Lobo Solitario," or the "Lone Wolf" and the label stuck.

In late 1966, in an effort to rein Jeb in a bit, his commanding officer enrolled him in the new MACV (Military Assistance Command - Vietnam) LRP (Long Range Patrol) "Recondo School" in Nha Trang. He hoped the training would curb Jeb's propensity for enemy contact and give him additional skills to improve his value as a recon specialist.

Recondo School consisted of 280 hours of classroom and field instruction in a variety of subject matter key to productivity and longevity behind enemy lines. It covered enemy weapons, advanced first-aid techniques, orienteering, survival and a plethora of specialized knowledge gained from the school of hard knocks and specific to Vietnam. Army Special Forces had been running clandestine, long-range patrols into Laos since early 1964 under operation "Leaping Lena" which was later replaced by project "Delta." The classes went into great detail with endless minutia such as how ants won't remake a trail after someone has stepped on it, but will loop around the footprint in somewhat of an outline. Jeb fancied himself as an experienced tracker but this was new to him. He made a mental note to have Toby add this little gem of wisdom to "Tracking 101."

As a veteran hunter, Jeb knew that silence in the field was the key to survival but he was nevertheless surprised at the extremes taught in the school. Weapons and equipment were modified to eliminate the slightest noise, even so far as removing rifle slings and taping down the swivels. Hand signals were used for communication in the field and a code was developed for getting messages out without speaking by merely keying the talk button on the radios.

In addition to not being heard, not being seen was equally important. The standard attire for jungle warfare was Army-issue camouflage fatigues but students were taught how to greatly enhance their invisibility by creating their own "Ghillie Suits." The suits were really net-like serapes made from thick jute twine adorned with bits of clothe and smaller pieces of twine often augmented with actual foliage. The suits literally moved in the wind much like the surrounding foliage and obscured body outline and minor movement making the combatant difficult or impossible to see. Originally developed by Scottish gamekeepers as a portable hunting blind, they had become a staple with long-range snipers since they could be easily modified to match almost any environment.

The school at Nha Trang lasted three weeks but the ranks were thinned by thirty-percent after the first week. Jeb's class of sixty dropped to a much more manageable forty which, he decided, was probably the intent of the grueling pace and tremendous physical demands imposed in that first week. The real training came in the second two weeks and it was also very intense but much less demanding physically.

At the conclusion of the training at Nha Trang, Jeb was allowed a few days in Saigon for a little R&R. But, having been reinvigorated by the schooling and rather than participate in the typical drunken debauchery practiced by war-weary soldiers unwinding in the many brothels and strip joints, Jeb set out to find a gunsmith. He was on a mission to add one more item to his bag of tricks, one more improvement to his stealth capabilities. Jeb wanted a silencer for his rifle and also his side arm.

When Jeb arrived in Vietnam, he was carrying an M16 standard-issue, .223-caliber, semi-automatic rifle. He hated the thing because it was somewhat indiscriminate in operation. Rather than aimed, it was designed to spray bullets in the general direction of the enemy. The military's rationale for this kind of weapon was based on a study indicating that humans in general and soldiers in particular, without intense training are deeply averse to firing a deadly weapon directly and purposefully at another human being. They determined that very few troops are mentally prepared and will not, in fact, direct aimed fire at the enemy. Nevertheless, there was still a school of thought that believed good marksmanship with judicious control could win battles while conserving ammunition.

In Jeb's mind, back in the Montana wilderness, he was nothing more than a sniper without a cause. At home he had cherished his Winchester 30.06 and was quite proficient at hitting his targets at long range with one shot. After a few months in the field, he was able to exchange his M16 for the Army's new sniper rifle designated the M40. It was, in civilian life, a Remington Model 700, .308-caliber big-bore rifle specially modified by the Army and equipped with a Redfield 3X-9X variable power rangefinder scope. It was deadly accurate to well over 300 yards in the hands of a skilled marksman. The problem was, once the trigger was pulled, all hopes of concealment and stealth were gone -- the roar was deafening!

The same was true for Jeb's sidearm that was an Army-issue, .45 caliber pistol designated as the M1911. The M1911 was a single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, recoil-operated handgun chambered for the .45-caliber ACP (automatic Colt pistol) cartridge. It was designed by John Browning and was the standard-issue sidearm for the US Armed Forces from its inception in 1911 to 1985, and is still carried by some U.S. forces.

After a frustrating day visiting makeshift, hole-in-the-wall machine shops in the back-alleys of Saigon, Jeb was finally referred to a man working in the motor pool at Tan Son Nhut Air Base. John Curry was the son of a gunsmith in rural Arkansas and had enlisted in the Air Force to avoid the draft. Jeb made arrangements, through his contact, to meet John before his shift early the next day.

In the morning, Jeb caught a cab and arrived at the appointed spot at the appointed time on base near the Commissary. He was surprised at the diminutive stature of the airman that eventually approached his bench. John was barely 5'6" tall with coke-bottle glasses and a silly-looking sliver of a goatee trickling down his rather prominent chin.

"Are you Jeb Grissom", John asked as he shuffled up.

John's voice surprised Jeb again. Out of this miniature man came a deep, booming baritone rather than the high-pitched squeaks Jeb was expecting. "Yes," Jeb quickly replied somewhat ashamed of his stereotypical presupposition, "And you must be Curry?"

"I am Sir and it's a pleasure to meet you," John boomed.

The two shook hands and sat side-by-side on the bench.

"Well, what can I do you for?" John began the conversation.

"I understand you were a gunsmith in a former life?"

"Yes sir, I worked in my dad's gun shop since I started walking on my hind legs. What do you need?"

"Well, I'm a long range reconnaissance guy and I need silencers for this rifle," Jeb picked up the rifle case which had been leaning on the bench, "and my 45. Can you do it?"

"So you're a 'LRRP' (pronounced 'lurp')! I've heard the chopper pilots talking about you crazy bastards. They say there's only two kinds; those that are dead and those that are about to be."

Jeb chuckled and continued to wait for an answer.

"Let me see that boomstick," John stuck out his hand. Jeb laid the gun case over his lap, pulled out the Remington and handed it to him. John took the rifle, checked the chamber to insure it was unloaded, worked the action several times, then flipped it end-for-end and looked down the barrel.

"Man, this is a beautiful firearm, a truly nice piece of work!" John continued without looking up, "Where'd you get it?"

"It's Army-issue, brand new! I traded in my M16 for it."

"No kidding! Hell-of-a deal! That M16 is a piece of shit as far as I'm concerned!"

"So, can you silence the damn thing or not?"

"Oh sure, it's not a problem! I've got everything I need in the shop but I'll have to do it after hours."

"And, what about the 45, can you do it too?"

"Sure, that's no problem either."

"OK then, how much will it cost me and when can you have it done?"

John slowly scratched his goatee and stared in the distance for a minute, apparently deep in thought. He took the gun case from Jeb and carefully re-inserted the rifle. Finally, "Well, the Air Force is graciously providing the materials and the shop at no charge so all we have to worry about is my time. I'll have'em ready for you tomorrow morning."

"No shit!"

"If you can be back here at 0900," John continued, "We'll go over to the shooting range and I'll give you a shakedown cruise. I'm anxious to see how this beauty shoots, anyway. Now, give me that pistol. I gotta get to work."

Both men stood and John clumsily adjusted his load to shake hands again. "Thanks a lot," Jeb yelled as John walked away, "You're the man!" John nodded his head in response and kept walking. Jeb just stood there for a minute shaking his head in disbelief at his good fortune.

An excited Jeb Grissom was not so patiently pacing back and forth, waiting for John the next morning. He thought about how he immediately and instinctively trusted this little man and absently wondered why. He had not even considered that John might disappoint him or take the weapons and not even show up. Before he drifted too far into the metaphysical, he was snapped back to earth by a jeep skidding to a halt in front of him and John's cheery greeting, "Hey man, you made it. Hop in and we'll head over to the range."

Jeb climbed in the copilot's seat and off they went. "Well, how'd it go?" he asked immediately and impatiently.

"You tell me," John replied as he awkwardly reached in the back seat, grabbed a shiny cylindrical object and handed it to Jeb. As Jeb studied the object, John continued, "Once I figured out how I wanted to do it, it only took me a couple of hours to machine and assemble the pieces. The hard part was installing the baffles but I found a trick for that too. To tell you the truth, I haven't enjoyed myself that much in quite awhile. It was real therapy and I couldn't, in clear conscience, take any money from you for it. Just consider it my contribution to prolonging your life a few more minutes while, at the same time, enriching my own a little."

Jeb, as he gently fondled his new toy, was stunned; speechless at this man's selfless generosity to a perfect stranger. In the matter of a couple of meetings, he felt like he had known John since childhood, that they were lifelong friends. And, evidently, the feeling was mutual. Jeb was touched and finally managed to voice a sincere, "John, thank you. I'll never forget this."

"You probably won't live long enough to forget it!" John replied as he pulled into the parking lot at the shooting range and shut off the motor. "Well, let's go see if my creations are gonna work."

On the shooting range, which they had to themselves, John and Jeb took turns firing each weapon and John's overly simple silencers worked flawlessly. The deafening roar was reduced to an unidentifiable spitting sound similar to the discharge of a pellet gun. As they worked together sighting in the Remington, John pointed out that the silencer would reduce the muzzle velocity a little but the scope adjustments they were making would more than compensate and accuracy would not be compromised. Jeb was ecstatic with their results and praised John repeatedly.

When they finished at the range, John drove Jeb to the main gate to catch the bus to Saigon, they said their goodbyes and he was gone. Their paths would never cross again.

* * *

Immediately on his return from Saigon to his recon unit in Chu Chi, Jeb discovered his commander's plan. To his surprise, he was immediately and unceremoniously promoted to Corporal and assigned to train a handpicked team of five Rangers such that the 25th Infantry Division would have its very own LRRP unit. Jeb was uncomfortable in the role of instructor but as with every other aspect of his short Army career he attacked his new challenge with vigor. He was pleasantly surprised to learn that the five men on his team, almost to a man, were the ones he would have picked himself. For whatever reason, all were serious soldiers and ferocious warriors. Since all were seasoned combat veterans, Jeb's new job turned out to be surprisingly easy. He and his men worked dawn to dusk for a mere two weeks and became a precision, cohesive unit, each man trusting the other literally with his life.

The last day of training, Jeb decided to have a little ceremony. He had ordered patches for his special unit that he had designated the "Moonlight Raiders," but they didn't make it in time and he had to settle for armbands hand sewn in a local village. He passed out the armbands and they all sipped on a bottle of whiskey he had brought back from Saigon.

The next morning, they were briefed on their first combat mission that was to begin that night. They were to meet with a Capt. Bill Bowles at 0700 and at 0645 they all met up and headed to the officer's mess tent.

"Good morning gentlemen," the Captain began, "This meeting never took place and this unit does not now, nor has it ever existed. Your missions will have never happened and you will never be acknowledged, decorated or applauded, regardless of your exploits. That being said, you are our most secret weapon. Your first mission is of vital importance to the survival of this division in the coming days and weeks. Command is planning a major offensive into the "Iron Triangle" in a couple of months and we need major Intel. It's your job to secure that Intel and the success of the coming offensive depends on it."

The "Iron Triangle" was the nickname for an area of real estate comprising approximately 60 square miles starting a mere 12 miles north of Saigon. It was roughly bounded by the Saigon River to the west, the Song Thi Thinh River to the east, and the Cambodian border to the north. This area was a major Communist staging ground that, by 1966, the South Vietnamese military forces dared not enter. It was regarded as a dagger pointed at the heart of Saigon. General Westmoreland, commander of the allied forces, agreed and it was decided that "Operation Cedar Falls" would be launched in early January to eradicate the enemy and hold that ground.

Granted, 60 square miles doesn't sound like much. If there was a wildfire in the great American west of approximately the same acreage, it would be considered a small one. But, the terrain was foreboding, undulating mountainous forest with a dense jungle canopy covering most of it. To the Viet Cong, it was a safehaven and they were well entrenched and equally well fortified. There were over 200 miles of tunnels and hundreds of underground bunkers such that the enemy could easily vanish in the face of attack.

The US Army was at a distinct disadvantage even though they had far superior firepower. There were practically no accurate maps of the area, topographical or otherwise. The enemy seemed to know the US Army's plans before they did and were always well prepared with artillery, land mines, booby traps and ambushes. They would attack and then vanish using refined guerilla warfare tactics. And, they were not reluctant recruits but battle-hardened veteran warriors fighting for a cause.

In addition to a determined enemy, they also had to deal with hundreds of varieties of poisonous snakes, spiders, scorpions, Red Fire Ants, Black Army Ants, tree leaches, water and paddy leaches, parasites, Malaria, Dysentery, and Heat Stroke. All things considered, the Iron Triangle was an extremely inhospitable place and Jeb's newly formed LRRP team was about to attempt to infiltrate this hellhole.

Early that evening, Jeb and his team disappeared into the jungle. Their objective was to crisscross the Iron Triangle from top to bottom gathering information on troop strength, troop movements, supply lines, armaments, defenses, etc and to, as accurately as possible, map the terrain including high ground, impassible areas and potential LZ's (landing zones). They were assigned this task with the additional admonishment to never, ever engage the enemy, to remain absolutely undetected.

The team moved mostly at night and it was very slow going, often, depending on the terrain, no more than half a mile. In the daytime, they would take turns with the naps, but if anyone started to snore, he was immediately gagged. Sleep was a luxury that could cost you your life. There was no talking during the day and very little movement. The team was alone together. The twenty-power spotting scope was always manned surveying openings in the trees, surrounding hilltops, river crossings, etc. When entrenched at night, they used a powerful new night-vision scope called the "Starlight" to study enemy encampments and troop movements.

For two weeks, Jeb's team silently moved through the jungle avoiding enemy contact while shadowing his every move. One morning, as the team settled in for the day, Jeb decided to do some scouting. Not wanting to admit that he was a little disoriented, he needed to find some higher ground and get his bearings. It was a break in their self-imposed protocol, moving during the daylight hours, but Jeb felt that one man, heavily camouflaged and moving slowly, could accomplish the job without much difficulty.

It took Jeb until almost noon, longer than he had planned, to get to a position of vantage and he settled in for a few hours with the spotting scope. He estimated he had traveled about a mile from camp and determined he should head back about 1500 hours (three PM) to get to camp by dark. As he surveyed the terrain, making notes of the various landmarks, it reminded him of the many hours he had spent in Montana "scoping" the mountainsides just above the tree line looking for "Mr. Big." Over the years, "Mr. Big" became the name for that one monster mossy-horned mule deer that would put young Jeb in the coveted Boone and Crocket record book. He was the one illusive trophy that every serious hunter dreams of, the one he can visualize himself endlessly stalking and finally bagging.

Suddenly, Jeb was jolted out of his dreamlike state by the unmistakable sound of mortar rounds exploding in the direction of his team followed by continuous bursts from Russian AR-15's, also unmistakable. Jeb strained to hear the equally distinctive rat-a-tat-tat of an M16 signifying his men were in a firefight but there was none. He grabbed his gear and began to make his way back moving as fast as he could while still maintaining some semblance of stealth. It seemed to take forever but he couldn't risk being detected for then he would be of no use at all to his men.

As Jeb neared the location of his team, the sounds of enemy weapons fire stopped as quickly as they had started. It was over and the silence was deafening. He carefully maneuvered through the jungle undergrowth until he had a view of what had been the team's campsite. All he could see were the heads of Viet Cong soldiers and counted more than twenty. One stopped and ceremoniously fired his pistol at the ground then laughed heartily. Jeb's heart sank. He knew instantly one of his wounded brethren had just been executed.

Even though he had watched the enemy regroup and move on down the trail, Jeb hunkered down and stayed the night concealed in the thick foliage not a hundred yards from where tragedy had befallen his comrades. "What could possibly have happened?" he kept asking himself. "What grievous error could they have possibly made? How could they have been slaughtered like that? I shouldn't have broken ranks, should never have left them alone. I broke protocol, abandoned my men, and now they're all dead. What have I done?"

Jeb wept on and off through the night consumed with grief and shame. In the early morning light, that eerie time when you can just begin to see, he moved cautiously in a circle around the campsite establishing a perimeter and making sure the VC were not using his fallen comrades as bait. After clearing the area to his satisfaction, Jeb moved into the camp.

Scattered all around him lay his brothers. One by one he collected their dog tags and inspected their bodies for some clue as to what might have happened. All appeared to have been killed by shrapnel excepting the one that was shot in the back of the head but he too had been severely wounded by the mortar blasts.

Evidently, Jeb surmised, they had somehow been detected and fallen victim to a surprise mortar attack. It appeared they never knew what hit them. Five brave men gone in the blink of an eye. Jeb was not a religious man but he bowed his head and prayed for their souls. He thought about asking for forgiveness for what he perceived as his blunders, errors in judgment and poor leadership but decided that he was not worthy, that his mistakes were just too egregious. He sat cross-legged with his head in his arms and completely covered by his "Ghillie" for hours. Even on the death of his parents, he had not experienced the heart-wrenching sorrow that engulfed him. His confidence shattered, he contemplated what to do.

When Jeb finally threw back his "Ghillie," it was obvious some kind of change had taken place, a metamorphosis. Somewhere in the abyss of his mind he had reconciled his feelings, come to a resolve. His face no longer carried that twinge of fear, the darting eyes, the nervous twitch in the corner of the mouth, the perpetual scowl. There was no sorrow, no look of pain on his face. His eyes were narrowed and menacing, his jaw set. And there was no emotion. The transformation was compelling and complete. The fear and the sorrow had been replaced by a controlled rage oozing from some place deep inside, an ancient, primal, animal, guttural drive to exact revenge on the world for his pain. He was completely and forever Godless.

Jeb thought about burying his buddies but decided the activity might draw some attention and he would be distracted. He had vowed to himself never to be distracted or surprised again, ever! He gathered his gear, shouldered his pack and his rifle, and disappeared into the night, not in retreat but in relentless pursuit of the assailants. He tracked his prey with malice aforethought and evil intent. He meant to exact payment in kind from the perpetrators of this heinous crime. In his new consciousness, he held each of these men personally responsible for, not only the death of his men, but also his personal mental anguish. With their demise, all would be right with his world. There would be balance restored, peace in the land.

In less than 24 hours, Jeb had overtaken the Viet Cong patrol. He shadowed them for another two days learning their routines, when and how they camped, how many guards and the rotation sequence. He was in so close at times that he knew some of them by name. On the third night, Jeb was ready. The Viet Cong were creatures of habit and their routine never changed. Jeb took that to the bank as did the many LRRP teams to follow. The habitual nature of their regimen would cost the Viet Cong many lives during the course of the war.

The next morning, the smell of death filled the air but the enemy camp was surprisingly undisturbed. With the exception of the lone sentry, Jeb's first victim who was face down in the latrine several yards from the camp, literally all of the men were tucked neatly in their bedrolls. It was serene and peaceful as the dense jungle began to awaken to the sounds of the early morning creatures. Light was barely making its way through the canopy to pierce the eerie mist of the night that clung to the jungle floor.

Jeb was sitting on the ground next to one of the many, legs and arms folded Indian style, waiting patiently for the man to awaken. Eventually, the man began to stir, sat up rubbing his eyes and, as they began to focus, was jarred into consciousness by the shocking image of the lone warrior sitting next to him. He froze. Looking at the barrel of Jeb's .45 a few inches from the end of his nose was like looking down the barrel of a cannon.

After a brief stare-down, the man began cautious glances at his fellow soldiers wondering why they had not risen in unison to smite this evil intruder. Finally, Jeb spoke, "Well bud, you ain't gettin' any help from that bunch. Go ahead, take a look." Jeb waived his pistol in the direction of the bedrolls and nodded up and down. "See for yourself. Fact is you're in deep shit!" The terrified soldier tentatively moved from one body to the next, faster and faster as Jeb moved right along with him, pistol still drawn, talking all the while. "Listen you slant-eyed murderin' son-of-a-bitch, this is what's gonna happen to you and the rest of your war-mongering buddies, too. You tell those chicken-shit assholes I'm comin'! You hear me," Jeb was screaming down at the now cowering man, "You tell 'em Jeb Grissom is comin' for 'em, by God, and there'll be hell to pay!"

As Jeb was screaming, the soldier franticly continued his body check finding the same result at each bedroll. The side of each dead soldier's head was a bloody mess. Jeb had cut off the man's ear, rather unceremoniously. Jeb knew the poor soul didn't understand a word he was saying but felt that he would get the point anyway. He wanted him to go back to his regiment and describe the incident in vivid detail, make them afraid of the invisible devil, as he perceived himself, Lobo Solitario!

The Vietnamese are small, very small. In fact, the entire Southeast Asian population consists of very small people, miniatures, dwarfs. There was not a Sumo in the bunch. This little toy soldier, 140 pounds at the most, was lying on his back in utter terror looking up at what appeared to be a giant apparition, a mythological figure. At six-foot-two and 190 pounds, with camo paint from ear to ear and his cowboy hat, Jeb was truly a colossus to this poor wretch.

For the next month, life would not be the same in the Iron Triangle. Jeb Grissom had "gone native," off the grid and was virtually lost to command. There was evil in the jungle the Viet Cong believed as their ranks were daily depleted by an invisible foe. He came in the night and took their souls one-by-one without a sound. He dropped them in their tracks from long range with his silent .308; one shot, one kill. He showed no mercy. The Viet Cong soldiers lived in fear and lost many hours of sleep. Jeb quickly became notorious, jungle lore in the enemy camps. The Viet Cong called him "Ma", the ghost, as his rampage continued.

Jeb returned to his base camp at Chu Chi only once after he lost his men. He arrived in the middle of the night and appeared in Capt. Bowles quarters, scaring him half to death.

"I lost my men. Here are their dog tags and here's a map I've been working on. I have to go now but I'll be back in a few weeks."

As Jeb turned to go, Bowles collected himself and stammered, "Wait just a goddamn minute, soldier, I need a full report. You've been MIA for three fucking weeks. You can't just stroll in here, give me some dog tags and leave. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Jeb stopped, turned around, glared at the Capt. for a few seconds, removed a small bag from a D-ring on his pack and threw it at him. "Here's your report!" Then, he vanished.

In the bag was an ear from 38 enemy soldiers, kills confirmed!

CHAPTER FOUR

Jeb wreaked havoc with enemy operations in the Iron triangle for another month. He celebrated Christmas of 1966 sitting on a concealed perch overlooking one of the major trails counting enemy troops. Knowing Operation Cedar Falls was about to begin, Jeb eventually worked his way northwest into Cambodia and Laos spreading his treachery up and down a long stretch of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. His escapades made him not only infamous with the Viet Cong but also quite well known by members of military intelligence. To the enemy soldiers, "Ma" (The Ghost) became a mythical warrior, part folklore and part fairytale. To them, he was an evil spirit that could not be seen or heard, that flew on night wings through the jungle killing swiftly and indiscriminately.

Later, on February 22, 1966, Operation Junction City began in an area west of the Saigon River running to the Cambodian border. Like Operation Cedar Falls, it was designed to eradicate the area of enemy forces and render it indefensible. Jeb moved southwest down the Ho Chi Minh Trail to monitor enemy flight across the border and to call in airstrikes.

On May 14, 1966, a lone soldier stumbled into the recently established Special Forces camp at Prek Klok. He was a miserable looking wretch with a full beard, sunken red eyes and covered in filth. When he collapsed in the middle of the compound disoriented from the effects of Malaria and smelling like a sewer from the equally debilitating effects of Dysentery, he was very near death. The Rangers had him immediately airlifted to the hospital at Tan Son Nhut Air Base. By the time he arrived, Jeb had slipped into a coma and the staff worked feverishly to keep him alive and get him cleaned up. As soon as his condition was stable, he was flown back to the States.

* * *

Jeb regained consciousness two weeks later and found himself in the sterile environment of Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, DC. The Doctors determined that he had been wounded in one way or another at least ten times in the previous year and that all of his wounds had been treated, including sutures, by Jeb himself. They were amazed since some of the wounds were quite serious.

Adding the number of human ears found in a bag on him at the Special Forces camp to the ones the ones he had thrown at Capt. Bowles, the Army calculated that Jeb had 67 confirmed kills and probably as many more unconfirmed. Considering he was just a kid and had only been afield for less than six months, it was quite an amazing feat. In addition, the accuracy and resulting mayhem of the bombing and artillery strikes he personally directed undoubtedly caused the demise of several hundred more enemy combatants. The Army also acknowledged that the maps he generated and his recon information saved countless American lives.

Jeb's exploits could never be made public. The Army was squarely on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, he was the worst of soldiers, disregarding specific orders, operating totally independently, answering to no one. For all practical purposes, he had been AWOL (absent without leave) for the last five months. On the other hand, he was the best of the best, the most valuable intelligence asset, the most skilled forward observer and the most lethal warrior. Yet, the Army could never admit that they had an asset, sanctioned or not, operating in Cambodia and Laos at that time so they did nothing, just as Capt. Bowles had promised.

Later in the Vietnam War, a sniper named Carlos Hathcock would gain considerable recognition for a total of 93 confirmed kills and was highly decorated for his efforts. But, it was Jeb Grissom who paved the way. Carlos made his mark over a period of years, Jeb in only five months. Carlos was a long-range shooter, a true marksman with his kills confirmed by spotters who were almost always with him. Jeb accomplished most of his mayhem alone with a knife nose-to-nose with his enemy. Carlos was pragmatic. Jeb was driven. Carlos was nicknamed "Long Trang" (meaning White Feather for a plume stuck in his hatband) by the Viet Cong and they eventually put a $30,000 bounty on his head. Nonetheless, stories of "Ma" (the Ghost) would permeate tales around the campfires by Vietnamese soldiers for generations to come.

* * *

A week after Jeb arrived at Walter Reed, he opened his eyes one morning to find his old friend Toby standing at the foot of his bed. He was not startled, nor was he surprised. He was programmed not to be. Neither did Toby's sudden appearance waken him for he did not sleep. In the jungle, he had conditioned himself to catnap, a few minutes here, a few more there. When asleep, you're vulnerable, at risk, and Jeb was rarely at risk.

"Well, son, are ya still alive?" Toby moved around to the side of the bed and took Jeb's hand in both of his. "I have big worries 'bout you."

"I'll be fine, old friend, just fine." But, he was not fine and he knew it. He was broken, a man who recognized what he had become and was terrified that he might never get back, never wake up from this awful dream, never be human again. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Jeb was truly afraid. Not the kind of fear that spurs you on to greatness, but that debilitating, gut-wrenching agony that makes you question whether you can go on at all.

"I brought something to cheer ya up," Toby said as he walked to the door, "Old Indian remedy, powerful medicine." Toby stepped aside at the door and motioned to another to enter.

Soon, Jenny Rogers was standing in the doorway. "Hi, Jeb, may I come in?"

"I wait in lobby," Toby said over Jenny's shoulder.

"Oh yes, please do." Jeb struggled to prop himself up as Jenny stepped forward and stood very politely at the foot of the bed. They gazed at each other without saying a word.

"Does he still love me?" Jenny wondered. "Does he even remember me? What should I say? Should I say anything?"

Jeb's mind too was racing. "My god, she's even more beautiful than I remember. I wonder if we can still make a life together. I'm afraid I'll just ruin her life, drag her down with me. What if I can't get better, what if the dreams haunt me forever? I want to be normal again. I want to go home!"

Eventually, both started to speak at once and both stopped immediately, then again. Finally, Jeb held up his hand signaling for Jenny to wait, "Jen, I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

"Like what? You look wonderful to me!"

"Oh, come on, I look like I've been through a meat grinder and, worse yet, I feel like it too!

Jenny slowly moved to the side of the hospital bed, lifted Jeb's rough hand in hers and stroked it softly. She was speechless, staring into his beautiful, yet troubled, eyes. She wondered again, "Should I have come, did I make a mistake?" Taking a chance, she leaned over and placed a tender kiss on his lips.

Jeb let out a low moan as a tear slid slowly down his cheek. He turned his head away wishing he could hold her and tell her how much he had missed her and that he loved her. At a loss for the right words, Jeb turned back towards her, squeezed her hand and smiled. He had so much to tell her but was afraid he would scare her away, and the thought of that terrified him. Jeb said, "Pull over that chair and just sit with me." As Jenny walked to the chair he thought, "She's still drop-dead gorgeous."

They sat for an eternity, just looking into each other's eyes. Finally, Jeb spoke, "I'm sorry I didn't write more often, but I kind'a went off the deep end."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No!" he yelled.

She jumped back in the chair, startled by his reply.

Embarrassed by his emotional response, Jeb managed to quickly say, "I'm sorry," with a slight croak in his voice, "maybe later when I'm rested and can digest what all I've been through. I just don't want to upset or frighten you."

Jenny relaxed and squeezed his hand again. He looked so sad to her. She just wanted him to know that she would be there for him until the end of time. "It's OK. We can talk about it another time when you're feeling stronger or when you're ready. I just want you back home."

This was music to his ears, "Home," he thought.

As she looked at him, Jeb slowly closed his eyes. He felt safe for the first time in over a year and quietly drifted into sleep. Thirty minutes later Jeb was thrashing in the bed as if he was fighting, arms flailing about, feet kicking under the sheets, yelling profanities at an invisible foe. Jenny reeled at the spectacle she was witnessing.

The nurse ran into the room carrying a syringe, checked his I.V. and injected medication into the line. Jeb immediately began to calm, sedated.

"What's wrong with him?" Jenny asked.

The nurse, Lieutenant Ellen Pence, looked up and smiled that calm, reassuring smile that good nurses use to impart a feeling of trust and compassion. "What's your name, dear?" She asked sweetly as she walked around the end of the bed, grabbed another chair and dragged it next to Jenny.

"Jenny Rogers. I'm Jeb's fiancé."

"Well, Jenny, my name is Ellen." She stuck out her hand.

"I'm pleased to meet you." Jenny shook her hand politely. "What was all that thrashing and yelling? It was really scary."

"Jenny, Jeb has suffered through more than you'll probably ever know; horrific, unimaginable things. He's not now, nor will he ever be, the same boy you knew."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, a few days after Jeb arrived here, I got a call from an old friend, an officer in Jeb's former battalion asking me to take special care of him, that he was an exceptional soldier that had been through hell."

"What kind of hell?"

"I'll leave it to Jeb to share those details with you but don't be surprised if he never speaks of his time in Vietnam. You'll be able to pick up enough after witnessing the many episodes such as you just saw and that will surely come."

"Why won't he be able tell me about it? I thought talking about bad things was supposed to make them better?"

"There are lots of reasons and they're different with every vet. In general, there's the shame of having survived when many of your fellow soldiers did not. Also, they tend to fight the same battles, see the same horrors, over and over again in their dreams."

"Will he be OK? What can I do to help him get better?"

"Nothing now, but the time will come. Just be there, be patient and listen. He has to fight his own demons and, if he is ever to have a normal life, it's a battle he must win! I will tell you this; never underestimate the healing power of your love for him. So, just hang on tight and be there for him."

"OK, I will."

Ellen smiled that same omniscient smile and gave Jenny one of those little friendship hugs. "Here's my card. If you ever just need to talk, call me. When Jeb's able, he'll be transferred to Fort Lewis, WA. They have a wonderful hospital there for treating guys like Jeb. They'll help him get past the dreams as quickly as possible."

"Thank you so much, Ellen."

By this time, Jeb's breathing had settled into an even pattern. Jenny pulled the chair closer and intertwined her fingers with his. She put her head back trying to understand everything the nurse had said. Feeling a little overwhelmed, she began reflecting about their high school days together.

Jeb was a great football player and, for the first time, Jenny wondered whether she loved him because of who he was rather than for the glamour of having a football star as a boyfriend. It was a tough question with no easy answer and something she hadn't thought about before. "Would I love him less if he hadn't been a star highly respected by all?" she thought."What if he didn't own a ranch? If that's the case, what do I really want?" she mused. "Ellen said that he will never be the same again. Can I live with that? How different will he be? Am I wasting my time?" The very thoughts made Jenny feel ashamed, questioning her motivation. "Am I that shallow? No," she decided, "I love Jeb because I believe that, in his heart, he is kind and gentle while, at the same time, he's a man's man, someone who makes me feel safe, a man I can be proud of. I miss him so much, I ache when he's gone and I long for his return. It must be love. It has to be!"

* * *

Fort Lewis was a sprawling complex, a virtual city. After a month, Jeb was feeling almost normal. He worked during the week doing menial clerical stuff for the officers in the motor pool and spent almost every weekend at a place he had rented in Friday Harbor in the Puget Sound. It had been named Robin's Roost by the owners and had a decorative plaque over the door to that effect.

The Roost, as he called it, offered Jeb the solitude he desperately needed but that was both good and bad. It was good in that he could get away from the constant talk around the barracks about the war and the relentless questions about his time in-country. The people stateside, although glad to have managed to avoid it, had an insatiable appetite for any firsthand, insider information they could get regarding the war. Nobody believed anything the Pentagon had to say. Nevertheless, they got little out of Jeb as he was sworn to secrecy regarding the exploits of the LRRP's in general and his own activities in particular.

In addition to his normal routine, Jeb met once a week with a shrink at the hospital. John Wilke didn't look military in his casual civilian dress, nor did he talk the typical military jargon even though the rank preceding his name on the door was Lieutenant Commander. If he was masquerading as an officer, he was a dismal failure. In fact, he could as easily have been some backcountry family therapist on loan to the Army and maybe he was, Jeb couldn't tell. He was unassuming in demeanor, soft-spoken and with a country charm that made for comfortable, relaxed conversation. Jeb, as always and for no particular reason, was on guard anyway and chose his words carefully. He initially viewed him as a threat. A threat to what, he didn't really know, but a threat nevertheless. But, after a few visits, he really couldn't help but like the man and actually kind of enjoyed the, in his mind, meaningless repartee.

On one particular visit though, Wilke was not his normal, jovial self and Jeb could sense it the minute he walked in. As the nurse opened the door and let Jeb into the office, Wilke was standing behind his desk reading a file folder and shaking his head slowly. As Jeb was taking his seat, Wilke looked up and stared at Jeb a minute as he slowly closed the folder. Then, ever so carefully, as if it was breakable, he placed the folder on the desk. Tapping his fingertips lightly on the closed folder, Jeb could see he was struggling to collect his thoughts.

"Well, Jeb, the jig's up!" Wilke said as he moved around the desk and took a seat across from him. Jeb started to respond but Wilke shushed him immediately with a raised, open hand. "You've been blowing so much smoke up my ass over the past few weeks, I feel like the goddamn Hindenburg! It's time for some agonizin' re-appraisal."

"What do you mean?"

"Son, I just got my hands on your file, which incidentally, took a virtual Act of Congress and I've been studying it all morning. Your experience in Vietnam was far from ordinary as you led me to believe and also, you are far from an ordinary man, as you also would have me believe. You're living a lie and, if we don't talk about it, that lie will eat at your soul until it kills you!"

"Aw, it ain't that bad. I'm just fine!"

"OK then, I'll tell you what you haven't been telling me!" Wilke stood up and began pacing around. Finally, turning and pointing at Jeb, he began. "Doc, I can't sleep. I doze off for a few minutes and awake with a start. It's as if I'm back in the jungle. When I am able to sleep for any length of time, the awful dreams begin. Sometimes they're a repeat, the same scenes replayed night after night and sometimes they're different, someone chasing me, me chasing someone. When I'm awake, I'm always on alert, on guard, ready for the unexpected, the inevitable. I often feel that my life here is a dream and the reality is the jungle and I'm terrified that all of a sudden I'll open my eyes and there I'll be, right back in it!" Wilke paused a second then, "Well, how am I doing so far?"

Jeb gave Wilke a scowling sideways look and just shrugged.

Wilke launched right back in to it, "Doc, I feel like I'm always waiting for the other foot to fall, for something to happen. I wonder if I can ever get back to a normal life, if I can ever like myself again. I don't want to be thought of as a killer. I don't want anyone to know what I was and what I've done. I'm afraid, ashamed and proud all at once. I'm so damned confused. Can you help me?"

During Wilke's monolog, Jeb's demeanor slowly changed. Sitting forward in his chair, he was almost in the fetal position with his legs together and his elbows and forearms resting lightly on his thighs, his hands clasped and his head down. It did not go unnoticed by Wilke. He knew he had touched a nerve and made his point.

"Well son, I can tell by the look of you, I wasn't far from the mark. I've dealt with your kind before and, trust me, all is not lost."

Jeb, feeling violated, as if someone had just looked at his soul from the inside out, mustered his last bit of bluster and muttered, "What do you mean, 'My kind'?"

"Jeb, my sense is that you had issues long before the Army and those, coupled with a horrendous experience viewing the worst of yourself and your fellow man, has destined you for a cataclysmic meltdown that could come at any time. Our job, and I mean mine and yours, is to avert that calamity at all costs and give you a chance at a normal life. Are you willing to make that investment, that commitment?"

Jeb responded tentatively, "Yes."

* * *

In the ensuing months, Jeb met with Wilke on a regular basis and often the sessions were highly intense and emotionally charged as Wilke took Jeb to the depths of his very existence and back. Together, they dealt one-by-one with everything from the sudden loss of his parents to the total loss of his sanity in the jungles of Southeast Asia. The emotions ran high and covered the entire range from hilarity when Jeb related the story of the Elephant Walk to tears and sorrow when they discussed the loss of his team. The reality of Jeb's experiences was a matter of record but the truth was in the telling. And, in the telling, the healing process was begun. Jeb slowly began to regain his humanity.

On one occasion, toward the end of a particularly emotional session, Wilke calmly stood up and said, "Ya know what, Jeb, we've made a lot of progress toward getting you ready to rejoin the human race. My work here is nearly done, but yours will never be done."

"What do you mean, Doc? I'm beginning to feel pretty normal now, I think I'm gonna be OK."

"Jeb, you are not a normal guy nor will you ever be. What you went through in Vietnam will never leave you, always lurking just below the surface. One day, something will happen, a startling sound, a violent event, a smell, it could be anything and you'll be right back there, right back in the jungle. You'll hear the mortars, men screaming, artillery, everything and you'll see it as if you are back there. Over time, you will learn the triggers and avoid them as best you can. What you can never allow to happen is for your memories to become your reality. That insanity will ruin whatever life you've been able to realize. You can never forget where you've been, but you must also never forget who you are."

The occasional weekend visits from Jenny became increasingly special and, in Wilke's view, an integral part of that healing process. On her first visit, Jenny picked up Jeb at the base and they proceeded on to Robin's Roost arriving at dusk. In the waning light, the view of Friday Harbor with the boat lights popping on one-by-one was stunning. Jeb poured them a glass of wine and they stood marveling at the spectacle until there was nothing but lights in the void of nightfall.

Neither had mentioned the sleeping arrangements, both afraid to broach the subject but thinking about nothing else. Jeb wanted Jenny to keep her virginity until their wedding night because he thought it was important to her. Jenny, on the other hand, thought it was important to Jeb. Neither wanted to be the villain and suggest a breach of trust or a weakness of the flesh. There was plenty of silent communication, body language, tender kisses and spontaneous hugs.

Finally, when the hour was late and the camouflaged yawns were beginning, Jeb whispered to Jenny, "I think it's time for bed."

"Me too," was the tentative response as she sunk her head deeper into his chest and tightened her grip.

Speaking as if he were already the head of a household and had made a decision for the entire family, Jeb said, "Well, you take the bedroom and I'll camp out on the couch."

"No!" It was the first hint of a defiant tone Jeb had ever heard from this timid little girl.

"What do ya mean no?"

"I mean no one sleeps on the couch tonight. I didn't drive all this way to see the man I love and sleep alone! Now go ahead and use the bathroom first and I'll be along in a minute." She promptly stood up, collected their wine glasses and headed to the kitchen, her mind made up.

Jeb was stunned, very pleasantly surprised but nevertheless stunned. As directed, he headed into the bedroom thinking he had just discovered a side of Jenny he didn't know existed. Jeb chewed on that thought a bit and finally grinned from ear-to-ear. Some men fear a powerful woman but, to Jeb, it felt good, a relief in fact that he had a real partner in life and not a dependent.

By the time Jenny emerged from the bathroom, Jeb had painted an idyllic picture on the canvas of his mind of their future life together loving and living and raising a family. He liked what he saw and was comforted in the thought. Jenny turned off the bathroom light and slipped into bed, re-entwining with her lover. The night was magical and they savored the pleasures of the flesh late into the morning.

As time wore on, Jenny's sweet innocence, natural beauty and reassuring nature began to affect Jeb in ways he could scarcely understand. He began to plumb the emotional abyss into which much of what had defined his humanity had slipped. He learned to laugh again. Not the contrived, controlled laugh he used as a courtesy, but the spontaneous, basal, hearty laugh that comes without calling and roars to the surface unprovoked, like lava from a volcano. He learned to cry again, to cry without shame or apology. Most importantly, Jeb learned to love again, the sum of all emotions.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jeb completed the remainder of his four-year military obligation at Fort Lewis and was unceremoniously discharged from the Army on September 1, 1968. Jenny took him home.

It was the start of the fall season in the Rockies and the Aspen were beginning to turn. At the Grissom ranch, the hillsides were a patchwork bouquet of crimson and yellow sprinkled among the stands of dark green pine. The days were warm and the nights crisp. In Jeb's mind, it was the best time of year to experience the splendor of the mountains. Almost every afternoon like clockwork, there was a thunderstorm that cleared the air and put a shine on nature's handiwork. At Robin's Roost, he had grown fond of the pungent salt air but the heavy pine scent of the Rockies let him know he had truly come home. And, there was work to do.

In anticipation of Jeb's return, Toby had slowly been increasing the size of the herd to over two-hundred head. Aunt Clarice still took care of the books but because of her continuing poor health, trusted Toby to make all the major decisions regarding ranch operations. In an effort to preserve feed on the ranch for late fall, he had negotiated a grazing lease in the adjacent National Forest. The lease required that the cattle be completely out of the forest by mid-October so the end of September was roundup time.

The fall roundup was a community event anticipated by all. With the exception of a few full-time ranch hands, everyone worked for nothing and the roundup moved from ranch to ranch and herd to herd. The men and actually quite a few women would saddle up and ride into the high-country long before sunup. The support crew would truck supplies into Johnson's Meadow, in Jeb's case, and set up a base camp. Navigable roads in the Rocky Mountains were plentiful, carry-overs from the boom times for the logging and mining industries. Some were well maintained by the Forest Service and some were merely ruts in the grass, "two-tracks" the locals called them as opposed to "single-tracks" or trails. The road to Johnson's Meadow was twenty miles of four-wheel-drive on the best of days and nearly impassible in foul weather. Local lore had it that the meadow was named after Jeremiah Johnson, the legendary mountain man, who supposedly frequented the area during his years of wandering the Rockies. The many stories of Johnson's nomadic and solitary existence truly documented the misery of a tortured man. To a certain extent but in a different era, young Jeb was headed down that same trail of tears.

Jeb was anticipating re-connecting with several of his old high school buds, at least those that hadn't moved on seeking fame and fortune, and especially his best friend "Tuck" Tucker. Tuck was Jeb's kind of man, soft-spoken and polite yet tough as nails. They had been friends since childhood and Jeb was anxious to re-invigorate that camaraderie.

On a frosty morning in late September, people began arriving at the Grissom ranch well before dawn. In the barn, the Ladies Roundup Auxiliary, as they delighted in calling themselves, had a buffet ranch breakfast going for all the participants and it was a glorious spread. Jeb stood at the door, coffee mug in hand, to welcome and thank his neighbors for coming while Toby directed the parking of a variety of trucks and trailers, and the unloading of saddle horses. The ranch was abuzz with activity in the pre-dawn hour.

A lone cowboy approached the barn door and Jeb, who could not see faces well in the flickering light from the lantern, recognized this man immediately by his lanky frame and his easy gait. No words were spoken as the two men stood facing each other for a few seconds silently exchanging years of un-written letters with their eyes. Eventually Tuck stepped forward and hugged his old friend unashamedly. Speaking quietly in Jeb's ear, Tuck said, "Welcome home, brother. I know you been down a hard road. I recon we'll talk later." Then he stepped back, nodded that nod that means whatever is needed at the time, and strode on into the barn.

It was a surprisingly emotional moment for Jeb. In spite of the Lobo Solitario persona that he had nurtured in Vietnam to insulate himself from the pain of losing a friend, for the first time he realized he deeply missed that connection, that feeling of brotherhood. The unconditional love of a good woman is certainly an essential, stabilizing ingredient in the lives of men but the respect, encouragement, and camaraderie that only a good friend can provide, Jeb decided, was equally important and that, with the possible exception of wives and lovers, men prefer the company of men.

As the early dawn light began slowly to illuminate the dewy fall landscape of the ranch, twenty riders started the long climb into the high country to consolidate the herd. Jeb and Tuck rode side-by-side most of the morning and for the most part engaged in trivial, reminiscent, light-hearted chitchat punctuated by the occasional chuckle as they recounted the hilarity of their youth. Jeb knew that Tuck was dying of curiosity but was intuitive enough to know that the emotional wounds were still too raw, too sensitive to the touch. In time and little by little, he would share it all with his old friend, his confidant, but not now.

By the end of the third day, the bulk of the Grissom cattle were in temporary holding pens in Johnson's Meadow. The next morning, they began to drive them on down the mountain to the sanctuary of the ranch.

After the roundup, Jenny and her best friend and future Bride's Maid Jean, busied themselves planning a wedding. As with all idealistic young country girls, Jenny was an incurable romantic and was determined to be a June bride. If Jeb had his way, they'd just go to the Justice of the Peace and be done with it. His tongue-in-cheek compromise was, "OK, you do the wedding thing and just tell me when to suit up and show up."

The girls decided on a somewhat traditional approach to the big event. They reasoned that, since neither Jenny nor Jeb was particularly religious nor were their families, they could have the whole shebang at the ranch. The marriage ceremony would be in the rose garden conducted by the local preacher-man followed by a big reception with a Country and Western band and a BBQ banquet in the barn to safely avoid those pesky afternoon thundershowers. The band was a safe choice since Country and Western appealed to all ages. There was little intrusion by the Beatles into the airwaves of rural Montana.

The pre-marital living arrangements were also traditional for an engaged young couple in a small conservative, Christian community so, with Jenny's parents in town and Aunt Clarice still living at the ranch, moving in together would have to wait. Nevertheless, as with all young people in love, Jeb and Jenny found creative ways to satisfy their ever-present carnal desires always taking care to avoid an embarrassing and socially unacceptable pregnancy.

* * *

On a bright, sunny day the following June, life at the Grissom ranch was a hubbub of activity. Starting early, Jenny, Jean and the rest her girlfriends were busy decorating what seemed to Jeb like the entire ranch. Flowers, balloons and crêpe paper festooned every tree, post and rail. The trellis arch in the garden, where the "I do's" was to happen, needed little as it was awash in multi-colored roses. The rest of the garden area was also a veritable sea of color. Jenny had been quite busy planting and nurturing since the first sign of spring.

Jeb's job was to get the folding chairs from the church in town, all they had, and several of the long folding tables. Tuck met him there and helped him load and Toby was at the ranch to help with the unloading and setup.

Jeb had agonized over who would be his Best Man, his old friend Tuck or his surrogate father, Toby. Jeb viewed his relationship with Toby, who had unselfishly cared for Aunt Clarice and the ranch while Jeb was gone for nothing more than room and board, as a debt unpaid. For Toby, Jeb's was the only family he'd ever really had and the thought of abandoning ship never crossed his mind. They viewed each other as blood and Tuck knew that. There was really no decision at all.

As they unloaded the chairs, Toby's subtle and sarcastic wit kept bubbling to the surface with off-the-cuff comments that had Jeb in stitches. With his boots crossed and while leaning on one of the chairs like a laborer resting on his shovel, he casually offered, "Ya know paleface, for a first wife, this one'll be just fine!" And later, "Today your squaw gonna look as good as she ever gonna look. From here on, ain't nowhere to go but down!"

Jenny had hired a catering company out of Helena to provide the meal and they arrived about ten in the morning pulling a huge, rolling BBQ, which they promptly loaded with wood and set ablaze. She had invited what seemed like the entire population of Grifton and it was probably pretty close to that. A couple of hundred people began arriving around one in the afternoon for the two-o'clock ceremony. Some of the cowboys scheduled their arrival to miss the pomp but to be right on time for the BBQ and subsequent party.

The ceremony started promptly at two-o'clock and went off without a hitch. There was a breeze but the predictable afternoon thundershower hung on the surrounding mountaintops as if waiting for Jenny's okay to come on in.

For Jeb, the pre-dinner socializing was tedious. He was uncomfortable making small talk but knew he had to play his part in this waltz of the peacocks. He began one new conversation with, "Hello and, before you ask, we're going to stay right here on the ranch and really haven't formulated any long-range plans yet. Jenny's not yet pregnant with the first of maybe two or three kids. I don't intend to write a book and will probably not run for office. Did I miss anything?" Jenny got the message, took Jeb by the arm and led him away saying politely, "Nice talking to you. I think it's time for dinner."

The buffet-style dinner took awhile to serve and people were in various stages of consumption when Toby got up and tapped his wine glass with a fork. Nobody stopped eating but most were kind enough to stop talking. Clearing his throat, Toby laboriously began to speak, "Howdy. I'm next best man, Toby. If I was best man, Jeb would be toasting to me and I would have pretty girl and new pony. All I get now is new coat and orders to speak. Nice coat but I no speak!" Toby raised his hand and pointed down the long head table, "Tuck, you speak for Toby. I no good. You say good things." He then promptly sat back down, folded his arms and waited defiantly.

Tuck ever so slowly wiped the BBQ sauce from his chin, carefully placed the napkin on his plate, grabbed his drink, scooted his chair back and stood to face the crowd. It was obvious he was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers and not quite sure how to begin or proceed. He was a deep, whisky baritone and people in the back had no trouble hearing him as he tentatively began, "Folks, like Toby, I'm no speaker neither but here goes, nonetheless. We done gathered here to bear witness to the marriage of Jeb and Jenny and celebrate their courage to start on such a, hopefully, long journey navigatin' the uncertainties of life together. What pleases me most is that these two are not only crazy in love, but also, and more importantly, best friends. I ain't no expert but I believe that there's the key to a long and happy marriage. So, this here's to Jeb and Jenny." Tuck fumbled in his pockets for a minute eventually retrieving a crumpled paper, which he unfolded as he continued, "I wrote down here what all I was goin' ta say if I had to so, here goes." He drew himself up, cleared his throat, raised his glass and began to speak glancing intermittently at his jottings, "Here's to Jeb and Jenny. May your trail through the forest of life be so well marked that, regardless of the weather, you will always find your way. May your faith in each other give you strength even on your darkest day. And, may you know in your hearts that these here friends that love you will never stray." After pausing a second, Tuck finished with, "So, here's to the bride and groom!" He and Jeb nodded at one another and took a big swig. The crowd applauded.

The rest of the party was a big success and the newlyweds danced into the wee hours. A good time was had by all.

* * *

Aunt Clarice's physical condition had been deteriorating over the winter and Toby and Jeb moved her into a home-operated care facility in town. Shortly after the wedding, which she seemed to enjoy immensely, she passed away suddenly but peacefully one night. Jeb was sorry he had not loved her more.

The remainder of their first winter married passed without incident. One morning in early spring, Jenny announced that she wasn't feeling so good and, in fact, had been sick every morning that week. Jeb, knowing full well the obvious implications of the statement, feigned ignorance and childishly played along, "Whatever it is, I hope I don't get it. Those cattle need my full attention now and we can't afford to lose any, ya know."

"What I have isn't contagious you idiot! You couldn't catch it if you tried!"

"Idiot? Oh, I know, it's one of those female diseases of some kind, right?"

"It's not a disease, damn it, it's a condition!"

Jeb leaned back in his chair lacing his fingers behind his head with a little smirk on his face, "So, you're suffering from a condition that's reserved for females and only causes you discomfort in the morning. What a puzzlement!"

Jenny got up and came at Jeb around the table as though she were going to attack, "Jeb Grissom, you're insufferable!" Before delivering the fatal blow, she softened up and eased down onto his lap. "Now give the mother of your child some sugar before you head out that door," she cooed as she melted in his arms.

* * *

Jenny's pregnancy went relatively easily. The morning sickness passed and there were no other problems outside of the normal whining about becoming fat and unattractive. Jeb learned to say repeatedly and with the sincerity of a saint, "Honey, you're as beautiful to me now as the first time we met!" He accompanied Jenny to a few parenting classes at the church after not so veiled threats about having to sleep in the barn and, even though he would never admit it, actually found them quite interesting. He had never thought about raising a kid as a science and still wasn't convinced it was that difficult.

At precisely four o'clock in the morning on the first of October, Jenny gently roused Jeb and said softly, "It's time!" She had been having mild contractions every twenty minutes or so since midnight but they were getting stronger. By the time she woke Jeb, she had already called the doctor and made arrangements to meet at the hospital.

It took Jeb less than five minutes to get dressed and get the truck pulled around to the front of the house. As he was jumping out of the truck, he could hear Jenny screaming. He raced into the house to find here lying on the living room floor next to her overnight bag in agony. Her water had broken and her contractions were coming in erratic intervals. When the contraction subsided, Jeb scooped her up, bag and all, and headed for the front door. By this time, with all the commotion, Toby had arisen and was waiting by the truck with all the doors wide open on the big crew cab. Jeb gently, but quickly, laid Jenny in the back seat and jumped in the driver's seat. "Get in, Toby!" he shouted and they headed for town. A trip that normally takes thirty to forty minutes took Jeb about twenty but Jenny still had time for three more increasingly violent contractions. Toby leaned back between the seats and held her hand the whole time comforting and coaching in a soft, reassuring tone that seemed out of character to Jeb, a side of the old Indian he had not seen before.

Jeb zoomed up to the emergency entrance at the hospital and slammed on the brakes. But for Toby, Jenny would have ended up under the front seat. As he slammed the truck into park, another contraction started and Jenny seemed in great distress. Jeb didn't wait. He snatched her up in his arms again and headed for the door. Toby ran and held the door and Jeb charged in. "Where's the damn delivery room? My wife's having a baby and something's not right! Where the hell is everyone?" At first, there was one lone nurse seated behind a counter but, with Jeb's tirade, white coats began to materialize out of every doorway, one orderly pushing a gurney as fast as he could.

In a matter of minutes, Jenny was in the delivery room with the doctor and a gaggle of nurses. There was an uneasy air of seriousness and urgency that made Jeb nervous as he and Toby were escorted to a nearby waiting room. Toby sat quietly while Jeb paced continuously for what seemed like hours.

Eventually, the door opened and the doctor walked in. He was not smiling. Jeb immediately blurted, "Doc, what's happening, is Jenny OK? Is the baby all right?

With no change of expression, the doctor put his hand on Jeb's shoulder and said, "Jeb, calm down. The baby's great, a handsome, healthy baby boy, but Jenny's not doing so well."

"What do you mean, what's the matter?"

"We think she had an aneurysm which ruptured during delivery. The bearing-down evidently caused massive bleeding in the brain. When she fell unconscious, I immediately called Bozeman and consulted with the neuro-surgeon on duty. She'll be transferred there as soon...," The doctor was interrupted when the nurse came in and motioned for him to come. He promptly turned, saying over his shoulder, "Jeb, excuse me a second. I'll be right back." Jeb sat down without saying a word and put his face in his hands. Toby sat motionless, emotionless, as was his way.

When the doctor returned, Jeb lowered his hands and raised his head. The doctor looked at Jeb with a pained expression and said, "Jeb, Jenny's gone. I'm terribly sorry."

"What do you mean, she's gone? This is a hospital not a goddamn battlefield. You're supposed to save people, not kill 'em!"

"Jeb, an aneurysm is a weakening of a blood vessel in the brain. We don't know why they happen, genetics most likely. Jenny had a time bomb in her head. The stress of this birth was just too much and it exploded; massive, uncontrollable bleeding completely disrupting all brain activity. It won't make you feel any better but you should know that, as soon as your son was born, death was almost immediate and painless. I'm sorry."

The room fell quiet as everyone waited for Jeb's next outburst. It never came. After a minute, Jeb slowly rose to his feet, "His name is Seth, Seth Adam Grissom!"

* * *

After Jenny's funeral, Jeb fought depression while busying himself learning to tend for a newborn. Fortunately, he had help as their close friend Jean stepped in immediately to lighten his load, share his grief and be his new friend and confidant. She was at the ranch as often as she could be always laying everything out before she left, diapers, baby food, milk and the like, and always with a note of carefully written instructions. "Grandpa" Toby stepped up his game also, keeping the ranch running smoothly, and cooking for him and Jeb when Jean was not around.

By the end of the first year, Jeb was well on his way to becoming an accomplished Mom. Seth was his constant companion. He was either sleeping in the car seat in the truck or bouncing along in the baby backpack making it look like Jeb had a hunchback and a second head that constantly peered over his shoulder cooing and unconsciously learning every nuance of his dad's, and now his, new world. They had become inseparable.

Jeb's relationship with Jean was tentative at first, neither wanting to nurture a feeling of guilt in the other or themselves. Jeb still grieved for the loss of his beloved Jenny, but was beginning to have real feelings for Jean. And, Jean wrestled with the guilt of knowing that she had always had an interest in Jeb. She felt like a cheap opportunist swooping in on unsuspecting prey. So, a relationship of guarded affection and mutual respect slowly emerged in appearance as a friendship of convenience. Over time, that would change.

* * *

By the time Seth was eight years old, Jeb and Jean's relationship had matured into a comfortable boyfriend/girlfriend arrangement, sort of. Jeb was the main force in Seth's life, but Jean was the only mother he had ever known. Whenever she came to the ranch, which was of course frequently, she slept in the master bedroom with Jeb. And Seth had his own room at Jean's place in town where he went often. To Seth, this was a perfectly normal situation, and he never gave it a second thought. Neither did the community, it had evolved so slowly.

The fourth of July celebration in Grifton, MT included a Junior Rodeo and Seth was so excited to be entered in the "Mutton Bustin'" competition, which was bareback riding on sheep for the little ones. Toby had gone so far as to borrow a couple of sheep from a neighbor and trained Seth to ride them in the corral behind the old barn.

As the time neared for Seth's big ride, Toby, Jean and Jeb sat excitedly in the bleachers. The arena was typical for most of the small towns in the west. There were chutes at one end, gathering pens at the other and bleachers on both sides. The announcer's stand was constructed in the middle of and above the main bleachers with an unobstructed view of the entire arena. A big sign spanned the announcer's booth reading, "24th ANNUAL GRIFTON, MT. JUNIOR RODEO."

Jean was comfortable seated between Toby and Jeb. She felt safe and loved and that this was truly her family. She never talked about marriage with Jeb feeling that, if and when he was ready, he would broach the subject himself. Right now, what they had together was good enough for her and it worked.

"Oh, Jeb, this is so exciting," Jean cooed at one point, "He really loves this stuff."

Jeb turned slowly toward Jean and said, "Ya know, Jean, Me and Seth couldn't have made it without you. You've been a true blessing and I thank you."

"Aw, go on. You're the best single dad I know. Look around! Look how many moms are sitting alone, cheering away, with no fathers in sight; just too busy to see their kid's big events in life. You're a great dad, with or without my help. Why..."

The crackle of the PA system interrupted, "And now, for the first round of the Mutton Bustin' finals out of chute number one, we have a home-grown eight-year-old named Seth Grissom! So, give it up for this aspiring young Rodeo star!"

Jeb, Jean and Toby all stood up, cheered and applauded vigorously. There was no question who this kid belonged to. The chute gate flew open and out came a wild-eyed, curly-horned ram charging through the arena hell-bent for nowhere with an equally wild-eyed young cowboy not so firmly affixed to its back and holding on for dear life. Before the end of the ride, Seth began to slip around the side of the animal. As he was falling, his left leg tripped the ram and they both rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust.

Seth screamed in pain, his leg broken just above the ankle. In the blink of an eye, Jeb was down the bleachers, over the six-foot fence and sprinting across the arena. As he ran toward his injured son, he was no longer in Grifton, MT. He was back in Vietnam running to the aid of a wounded comrade. The sights, the sounds, the smells were all there, as real to Jeb as life itself. He skidded to a halt next to Seth and took up a defensive position awaiting the oncoming enemy. The figures in front of him were not Rodeo clowns, local cowboys and paramedics coming to help but Viet Cong soldiers closing in for the kill. Jeb wheeled around again and again waiting for his first victim, Seth now sobbing all the while. The evil in Jeb's eyes kept everyone at bay.

Finally, the ring of bodies opened and Toby stepped in. "Jeb! It's Toby. Get a grip, son! You're home! This boy need help. The doctor is here."

Jeb stared at Toby, his mind struggling to separate fact from fiction, reality from fantasy. Seth cried out again and finally Jeb shook his head, dropped to the boy's side and softly stroked his brow while waving the waiting attendants in to help. Jeb was back, back from the world of the damned.

Jeb's momentary fracture in his fragile reality was not an isolated incident. It had happened before and Jeb knew that more of these awful episodes were sure to follow. Nevertheless, he was learning to cope, to fend off the demons tugging at his sanity. He also learned that the animal in him was never far below the surface, still raging, still screaming to get out.

* * *

In the years that followed, Seth grew into a fine young man and was every bit the athlete his dad had been. Before he graduated from high school, he toyed with the idea of pursuing a career in professional rodeo as he was doing quite well on the local circuit. His events were saddle bronc's, bareback and roping. He wanted to give the bulls a try but Jeb put his foot down with, "You'll not be gettin' on a two-thousand pound animal that hates your guts, uses his horns for spears, spins like a top and can jump an eight-foot fence from a standing start, no sir!"

On one of his rodeo trips to Missoula, Seth met a girl. Her name was Cindy Talbot and he was immediately smitten. Over the course of his senior year in high school, he would sneak down to Missoula whenever he could. Cindy was an intelligent, attractive young lady but mired in intolerable circumstances. Her mother, whom she lived with, was a hopeless alcoholic and she never knew her father. The family was the epitome of disfunctionality that was becoming, in the eighties, more and more the norm. He was reluctant to tell his dad he had found the girl of his dreams even though he was positive this was the one! He determined he would wait until just the right time.

After graduating high school in June of 1989, Seth worked the ranch with his dad and Toby, and rodeoed hard at every opportunity. His whirlwind romance with Cindy continued through the summer. During the long winter months, Seth had time to go through what Toby liked to call "serious, agonizin' reappraisal." He looked at a successful career in rodeo as a long shot at best and if he was injured, he would be faced with having no other viable skills and no other career opportunities. He had been around the sport long enough and met enough PRCA (Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association) members to know that the glamour of the professional rodeo circuit would be short lived and supporting a family next to impossible. The ranch could provide for Toby and his dad but not an additional family. Ever the pragmatist, much like his dad, he decided the best thing to do was to join the Army, put in his two years, learn a trade and qualify for the GI Bill.

When Seth finally decided to divulge his plans to his dad, Jeb was understandably upset, although he couldn't really argue with the logic. Jeb felt the world was going to hell in a hand basket and that war was becoming commonplace, some new conflict or police action nearly every year. He made Seth promise to stay the hell out of the Infantry.

"Dad, I'm thinking I can get some valuable training in electronics or computers or something like that. No offense, but I've seen what your time in the Army did to you and have no desire to follow in your footsteps, I promise."

"Well, OK then, go see the recruiter in Helena and cut your best deal. Be sure to get it in writing and pay no attention to the rosy pictures the recruiters paint about a life of leisure in the Army, that's all a bunch of bullshit!

Seth's trip to the recruiter was fraught with second thoughts and misgivings but the guy was truly a super salesman and the two struck a deal in no time. It helped that the Army was all-volunteer at the time and crying for good, young men with a brain in their head. Seth's tests demonstrated an aptitude for things electronic so he got everything he wanted except a signing bonus.

Jeb was uneasy about his only son's decision to join the military but felt that, since he really couldn't stop it, this was as good a time as any. There were no conflicts, police actions or outright wars anywhere that required the services of any other than the very elite of fighting forces such as the Army Rangers, Green Berets, Delta Force or the Navy Seals. An enlisted electronics geek shouldn't draw much attention and certainly no enemy fire. Nevertheless, there was trouble brewing in not only the Middle East but also other god-forsaken spots around the globe and Jeb was still worried. He was right to be worried.

CHAPTER SIX

Always shunning emotional events and situations, Toby said his goodbye's at the ranch. Jeb and Seth got in the truck and headed for town, first to Jean's place. As they pulled in the driveway, the front door opened and out came Jean whose pension for punctuality was almost a curse. Seth stepped out and held the door so Jean could slide in between her men. Before that though, he had to endure the obligatory hug and smack on the lips, finished with a hand on the cheek and a mouthed, "I love you." It was a ritual from which Jean never varied and both Seth and Jeb begrudgingly accepted it as just another part of the package.

As Jean snuggled in between the two, Jeb headed to the Greyhound Bus stop at Sally's Café on Main Street. Seth and Jean chatted away but Jeb's mind was lost in reminiscence about his own fateful bus ride those seemingly not-so-many years ago. Jeb didn't like those vivid images and slipped back into fearing for the welfare of his boy. All of the rationalizations of why this was a good thing and how it would be nothing like his own experience kept flashing through his brain but the fact remained he was losing his boy, his pal, his huntin' buddy, his companion for the past nineteen years. He knew this day would come. He knew Seth would have to carve out his own path through life but he didn't think it would come so damn soon.

Cindy, on the other hand, was frantic! She loved Seth with a passion but couldn't understand why he had insisted on keeping their romance secret. He kept saying he would tell his dad when the time was right but she still wondered why. He did say, though, that he loved her more than anything and that he wanted to make her his wife. It was one-step short of a formal proposal but good enough for Cindy. Seth was the nicest, most polite man she had ever met and she was willing to concede a little romance and wooing just to keep that candle of hope aflame. Sure, he was a ticket to a better life but she had made a promise to herself not to marry just to break out of, what she perceived as, a life as poor white trash. So, she would wait and see what happened, see what this boy was to be, heartthrob or heartache.

At Sally's, everyone piled out of the truck and Jeb grabbed his duffel from the back. The bus was already stopped across the street and the driver was in the café emptying his tank and refilling his Thermos. Seth set his duffel on the sidewalk and held out his arms to Jean. She responded with the biggest hug she could manage and, as they intertwined, whispered in Seth's ear, "Did you tell your dad about your big plans?"

"No and don't say a word! I'll do things proper when I'm on my first leave," Seth whispered back.

Jeb watched and wondered, "Handshake or hug?" Seth was a man now and Jeb felt he had to respect that, especially here in town. So there he stood, looking like he had to go to the bathroom, waiting for a sign. Seth turned to face his dad, "Well, Pop, wish me luck." Without thinking, Jeb stuck out his hand and said, "Good luck, son and don't volunteer for anything!"

As they shook hands, "I know Dad and I'll keep my head down and my powder dry, too! Well, see you in a few months, I guess." Jeb nodded with a smile, Seth grabbed his duffel and headed across the street to the bus. When he reached the far side, he stopped, put his bag down, turned around and strode back across the street walking tall and with purpose in his step. Without hesitating, he threw his arms around his father and hugged him for all he was worth. Jeb was immediately overcome with emotion as he embraced his beloved boy. Neither man said a word not knowing then that they would never have a chance to speak again.

* * *

Three months had passed since Seth's departure and the Rockies were slipping into winter. The Aspen were bare and the first snow was harder and wetter than usual, changing the pastoral setting of the ranch radically and quickly. It was mid-day in December and Jeb had just finished with lunch and the noontime news about the pending conflict in the gulf. He was worried that, in the event of a major conflict, Seth might be drawn in or even do something really stupid like volunteer. He re-filled his coffee and walked out on the porch to see who he had heard driving up. Standing at the deck rail, Jeb watched a black sedan enter the ranch through the open gate and proceed toward the house. The car stopped in front of the steps and an Army officer in a neatly pressed uniform got out. He snapped to attention facing Jeb and slowly, deliberately saluted.

The color slowly drained from Jeb's face and his legs became rubbery, refusing to hold him steady. He grabbed the rail post for support, almost breathless. The officer came up on the porch with a white manila envelope in his hand. He again snapped to attention in front of Jeb and held out the envelope. Seeing the anguish on his face, he could tell Jeb already knew. He had a standard, "We regret to inform you..." speech to deliver but elected not to put Jeb through that. He simply said, "I'm terribly sorry, Sir," and placed the envelope carefully on the deck rail. With an abrupt about-face, the nervous young man retraced his steps back to the black sedan, saluted one last time, got in and drove away leaving Jeb clinging to the post, knowing his life was changed again forever.

Later that afternoon, Toby rode up to find Jeb sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, holding the envelope and staring into space. After tethering his mount to the hitching rail, Toby walked up on the deck and, from Jeb's expression, knew immediately that something was wrong. "Jeb, what's the matter?" Without responding, Jeb handed the letter to him and Toby began to read, "Dear Mr. Grissom, The US Army regrets to inform you that on December 20, 1989, your son, Seth A. Grissom, was killed in a tragic training accident while on an exercise at Fort Ord, CA." The letter from the commanding officer went on to tell the circumstances of the mishap but Toby read no farther, slowly dropping his hand and his head.

* * *

Toby pulled up in front of Jean's place around four o'clock later that afternoon. As he sat in the cab of the truck trying to muster the courage to make the walk to her door and struggled to find the right words to say when he got there, Toby saw Jean emerge from the house to see who had arrived. When she spotted Toby, she gave a big smile and a wave for him to come in. Toby slowly got out of the truck and began the agonizing trudge up the walk to the still open front door. As he entered the living room, Jean emerged from the kitchen where she had been baking, wiping her hands with a towel. Once again, expressions and not words did the talking. Jean saw immediately that something was wrong, saw the sorrow in Toby's eyes. "Toby, what is it, what's happened? Is it Jeb?"

"Not Jeb," Toby choked as he handed her the letter. Jean took the letter and melted into the chair next to her as she began to read.

After reading the first sentence, she screamed a long bloodcurdling, "No!" as she clutched the letter to her chest and began to cry uncontrollably. Toby did not know what to do. He stood motionless as Jean convulsed with grief. When her crying finally changed to sobs, Toby put his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Get your coat. Jeb need you."

"Jeb!" Jean said as she jumped up speaking in confused rapid-fire, "Oh my god, poor Jeb! Yes, I must go to him! Go start the truck! I'll get my coat!"

* * *

Toby pulled up in front of the ranch house and Jean was out the door and running up the steps, still sobbing, before the engine stopped. Night had fallen and the old ranch house was bathed in black. Jean burst through the front door calling out for Jeb as she flipped the living room lights on. There was no response. Frantic, she turned and ran back out the front door turning on the porch lights as she went and hollering at Toby, "Toby, Jeb's not here! He's not here!"

Toby, standing at the top of the steps, pointed at the rocker. There was Jeb, sitting in the dark, still staring into nothingness, just as Toby had left him several hours prior. Jean approached the motionless man who looked more like a sculpture than a living, breathing person. She knelt down and grasped his hand. "Jeb, honey, I'm here," she practically whispered. There was no response, none, not a sound, not a nod, not even a blink. Jeb was virtually catatonic as if the Grim Reaper had struck down two souls with one blow.

Toby helped Jean get Jeb into the house and into his easy chair where he remained for almost two weeks staring at the fire. After insuring that Jean had everything she needed, Toby went to the barn, saddled his horse and disappeared into the high country. More white man now than Indian, he nevertheless clung to his memories of tribal ritual and, deep in the forest, he built a funeral pyre, chanted away in some native tongue that came from deep within his Indian soul and mourned the loss of his surrogate son. It was his way to make his world right, to say goodbye and to release those emotions that he kept hidden from the outside world. Toby cried for the loss of Seth and he cried for Jeb and then he was done.

* * *

The notice of the tragic death of Pfc Seth A. Grissom didn't reach the local papers until two weeks after the actual event and several days after the private funeral services in Grifton. A small piece appeared in the "Missoulian" newspaper that, in a rare semi-sober moment, caught the eye of Cindy's mother. An angry, bitter woman, mother Talbot was not one for diplomacy, tact or any other courtesies of the civilized world but rather was abrupt and abusive even in dealing with her own daughter. It's one of those mysteries of the universe how people like her can bear and rear children that are exactly the opposite, which was certainly the case.

Cindy was sitting at the kitchen table reading Seth's last letter for the umpteenth time when her mother staggered in and tossed the newspaper down on the table in front of her, pointing to the bit on Seth's demise. "Well, now you're in quite the fix, ain't you? Your sugar daddy done went and got hisself kilt and left you with a little bastard to raise up. Well, I ain't havin' no dirty goddamn diapers smellin' up the place and a bawlin' baby ruinin' my peace and quiet neither, no maam! You get your dumb ass over ta Planned Parenthood and get rid of that kid 'fore it's too late."

Cindy, not really listening to her mother's tirade, had picked up the paper in disbelief and read about the death of her beloved. Since she had been receiving letters from him regularly and those letters had stopped abruptly when he was killed, she had been frantic, expecting the worst but certainly not this. Her mother kept telling her that, "Absence makes the heart go wonder," and that Seth probably had moved on to some California surfer girl and forgotten all about her. But, she knew in her heart that that was not the case. His letters had never changed in tone or manner and his references to their future together were frequent. She gasped as she read and immediately broke down, crying and sobbing uncontrollably.

Mother Talbot continued on with her insensitive rant unabated by Cindy's anguish, "Hey, wait a minute. On second thought, contact that boy's daddy and tell him about his bastard grandbaby. If he's a big-time rancher, as you say, he'll probably take you in, least 'til the kid is hatched. He's probably got plenty of..."

Cindy interrupted abruptly, "No, never! What if he decides to take my baby, I mean Seth's and my baby! He could do that, you know!"

"Aw, he couldn't do that and if he did, so what!"

"Yes, he could!" Cindy continued, "He is a big-time rancher and we're just poor white trash. Momma, I'm gonna move away, far away and have this baby and raise him to be just like his daddy. Seth sent me some money awhile back. It's what he would have wanted, I'm sure!"

* * *

After Seth's funeral, Jean steeled herself against the unbearable sorrow and kept busy tending Jeb. Eventually though, the agonizing pain of losing Seth coupled with the stress of having to watch her man slowly wither away in silence, finally drove her to the breaking point. As she was talking to the ever-unresponsive Jeb one evening, telling him of the day's events and the trip to town, she stopped, hung her head for a moment and then stood up and erupted in an unbridled rage, a venomous, vitriolic, volcanic, out-of-body, vocal event akin to an exorcism.

"Jeb Grissom, you egotistical, self-centered, self-serving, son-of-a-bitch, talk to me! You better speak to me this very minute or, so help me, I'll blow your pitiful ass right out of that chair!" Jean whirled around and grabbed the shotgun from its place of prominence over the mantel, pulled both hammers back one-by-one, raised it to her shoulder and aimed it directly at Jeb's chest. "If you think you can just sit there swallowing your grief while the rest of us suffer your silence, then you got another think comin', mister! You might as well be dead as the way you are. You insufferable, inconsiderate bastard, I think I'm ready to just put you out of yours and my misery! Seth may be gone," she finally screamed at the top of her lungs, "but, I'm still here!"

Jean hung her head and cried. When she finally began to regain her composure and looked up, Jeb was staring right at her with tears rolling down his cheeks. He had not looked directly at her since the beginning of this awful tragedy. He put his hands on the arms of the chair, slowly rose to his feet, stepped forward, carefully grasped the barrel of the shotgun with one hand and gently wrapped his other around his wounded lover. After several minutes rocking her back and forth, he whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Jean melted. Jeb was back, she thought, but he wasn't really and never would be completely.

* * *

Jeb and Jean hammered out a mutually intolerable relationship and fell into a predictable, if not mundane existence. For the next twenty years, nothing much changed. Jeb would work the ranch during the week and drink himself to sleep every night. After awhile, his weekly routine included going into town on Friday, picking up his mail at the Post Office, on to Whiskers, a local beer joint, and ending up at Jean's in a stupor later in the evening. The weekend was their time together and Jeb would head back out to the ranch Sunday evening. Watching Jeb wasting away killed Jean and she took every opportunity to goad him into rejoining the human race. Nevertheless, he steadfastly maintained his solitary lifestyle, along with Toby of course, and continued to languish on the edge of life, wallowing in self-pity.

* * *

When Cindy's plane landed at LAX at nine o'clock at night, she was tired and terrified but determined. A steady rain was falling and she had never felt so alone, so helpless or so afraid. She found the baggage claim, picked up her one suitcase, walked out of the terminal to the curb, and hailed a cab.

Cindy had planned everything down to the smallest detail. She had made reservations in a cheap hotel in Long Beach about twenty miles south of LAX and instructed the cabby to take her there. She had contacted an unwed-mothers organization called God's Helping Hand and made an appointment for the next day. Through her research, she had determined that, if you needed public assistance, LA was the place and furthermore, that this facility was the best.

God's Helping Hand was a non-denominational Christian organization founded by Reverend Al Hawkins in 1983. With a small complex of buildings in Long Beach, it was touted as one of the best, no-nonsense extended pregnancy care facilities in the state. Cindy was not into the save-your-soul, yeah God nature of the program, but looked at it more as a means to an end. After Seth's death and, like Jeb, whatever faith she had in a benevolent Supreme Being had been lost in the tragic course of events. She was not mired in self-pity but rather a woman on a mission, full of resolve and determination.

Safely nestled in her hotel room, she took a long, hot shower, jammied up and sat down to plan her speech for the next day.

* * *

The next morning, Cindy was up early, put on her makeup, a nice dress and headed over to the facility for her meeting. After a short cab ride, she found the door marked "Office" and entered. She gave her name to the receptionist who immediately found it on her list, smiled and said, "We've been expecting you. Please come with me." Cindy followed her down a hallway and into a large office with "Reverend Al Hawkins" on the door. To Cindy's surprise, the man already on his feet and waiting behind the desk was relatively young, maybe in his late thirties, and rather handsome.

"Good morning. My name is Mr. Hawkins and you are?" he said as he extended his hand across the desk.

"I'm Cindy Talbot," was her quick nervous reply as she shook his hand, "and I'm pleased to meet you, sir."

"Likewise, I'm sure. Please have a seat."

Cindy sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Mr. Hawkins had a somewhat puzzled look on his face as he eased back into his chair. Cindy was not his typical unwed, pregnant teenager. She was well spoken and well mannered, nicely dressed and even exuded an air of confidence uncommon among the disenfranchised residents he normally housed. She was not an emotional wreck nor did she have a look of helplessness. Indeed, Cindy Talbot looked and acted like a young woman with her life in order.

"Well, Cindy, why are you here?" he asked.

"I'm here because I'm pregnant, penniless, alone and afraid. My fiancé was killed in the service and I ran away from an abusive home life. I desperately need a safe place where I can have this baby and get a fresh start. Before and after the baby is born, I can work hard for my keep and I promise never to whine or complain. If you take me in, sir, you will not be disappointed."

In her preparation, Cindy had supposed every conceivable question that might be asked of her and developed thoughtful, unrevealing, generic answers designed to win the poser's heart and mind. She memorized her answers as best she could and Mr. Hawkins' first question opened the door. Her response was flawless.

Hawkins sat in quiet meditation tapping his lips with his finger. This was not his first rodeo and he was not so easily duped. Over a span of ten years, he had been tried by the best. He was sure this lengthy response was somewhat less than genuine and certainly prepared but he was also taken by her presence. Regardless, God's Helping Hand turns away no one.

"Have you filled out an application?"

"Yes, sir, I have." Cindy pulled the completed document from her purse and handed it to Hawkins.

As Hawkins reviewed the information, he wondered as he always did how much was real and how much was pure contrivance.

"Does your mother know you're here?"

"She has no idea where I am and could care less. All she had to say when I left was, 'Good riddance!'"

"Well OK then," Hawkins went on, "Emily will show you your room and give you a tour of our facilities. You can sit with me at lunch and I'll answer any questions you might have. Is that agreeable with you?" Cindy, a little stunned at the quick decision, nodded approval. "Welcome to God's Helping Hand," Hawkins concluded as he stood and offered his hand once again.

Cindy stood, shook his hand and said, "Thank you so much, sir," then turned and left with Emily.

Over the next several months, Cindy became a veritable wonderment to the staff and to Hawkins. She was tireless in her efforts to pay her own way. At twenty, she was older than most of the other girls whose ages ranged from fourteen to eighteen and was certainly more worldly and mature. She not only tended to their many needs but also counseled, nurtured, comforted and reassured. She never preached or lectured but encouraged even the most hapless to take charge of their lives making no excuses or apologies. Her mantra became, "Life happens! Get a grip and move on!"

* * *

On July 10, 1990 at one o'clock in the morning, Cindy gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

"Do you have a name for this beautiful boy, young lady?" the nurse asked.

"Yes I do," responded an exhausted Cindy, "His name is Seth Adam Talbot!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

After Seth, Jr. was born, Hawkins had become so enamored with Cindy he offered her a paid position in the facility. It surprised him when she accepted the position but immediately moved to a place in Long Beach, not far away. Cindy had been hoarding the remaining cash that Seth had sent her before he died, about eight-hundred dollars. On the trip down from Montana, she had it sewn into her underpants and, once in the facility, had taped it in an envelope to the bottom of a dresser drawer. Her new home was a small guest cottage on an estate of sorts and she traded weekly house cleaning for a break in the rent. She could walk the distance to work if she wanted but public transportation was abundant and efficient. After awhile, Cindy became quite proficient at deciphering the confusing bus schedules and adept at getting around without a car.

About the time Seth was four years old and ready for pre-school, Cindy was forced to make some life changes. The husband of the estate owners where she lived had died after a brief illness and the widow was selling the place and moving closer to her children. The job at God's Helping Hand was fulfilling but at the same time depressing and she felt she was ready for a new challenge. Four years at minimum wage was long enough, she reasoned. Also, she would really have to make more money with the new expenses of preschool, daycare, a new place to live, and she had to get a car.

Cindy was maturing into a competent and confident woman. With a glowing letter of recommendation from Mr. Hawkins, she soon had a job in nearby Downey as receptionist/secretary for an insurance firm at almost double what she had been making at the Helping Hand. She rented a small house and bought a used car. She killed two birds with one stone by enrolling Seth in a combination preschool and daycare center.

By the time Seth started high school, Cindy was fast becoming a successful businesswoman having been promoted to Office Manager after only a few years. With some helpful owner financing, she managed to buy the little house they had rented and even toyed once with the idea of buying a new car. In the end, her frugal nature wouldn't let her succumb to temptation and she continued going from clunker to clunker.

She never dwelt on the past except for the fond memories of her fallen hero. In death, he had become larger than life. She told so many wonderful stories to Seth Jr. about his dad that she now could not any longer separate fact from fiction. He had become the perfect almost husband, the perfect almost father and the perfect lover. Cindy had dated from time to time but no one could compete with the God-like image she had created in her mind and none lasted.

In rearing Seth, Cindy made serious errors not uncommon to single-parent mothers. She could not differentiate between being Seth's buddy and being his mom. She learned too late that being a child's pal means never learning to say no, never knowing how to establish boundaries and how important boundaries are for pre-teens and teens. Consequently, Seth ran wild. He became a child of the streets. He had the mental horsepower to excel in school but his priority had become his friends and his pastime "hanging out." When he finally and barely graduated from high school, his circle of friends had deteriorated to those of a like mind. He made his money peddling drugs and no one could convince him he was on a dead end road, a path to nowhere. Sooner or later he would have to pay dearly for the life he'd chosen.

One year out of high school, Seth had matured into a real going nowhere, tough-guy wannabe, punk-rock street bum with no ambition, no skills and no cares. At age 20, he still lived at home comfortable in the knowledge that his mother would never throw him out. Other than the occasional sarcastic comment, she said little about his outlandish appearance and it was free rent.

In an effort to be different and standout, he inadvertently became typical of the socially undesirable that clung to the underbelly of a vibrant, progressive west-coast society. His longish spiked hairdo was dyed bright, fluorescent, glow-in-the-dark pink. Several pounds of fake gold necklaces lay uncomfortably on his hairless white chest exposed by his constantly open shirt. For special occasions, he even wore a little black eye makeup and black nail polish. To people in the mainstream of life, he was a freak's freak with zero social, redeeming value.

* * *

Cindy arrived home early one afternoon to find her darling baby boy, a miscreant to those not so emotionally invested, lounging on the couch in front of the television with headphones on, drinking a beer and devouring a bag of potato chips. Empty cans were haphazardly strewn around the living room floor. As she closed the front door and headed for the kitchen, she stopped to survey the mess in the home she had meticulously cleaned the day before. Not feeling a sense of impending doom, Seth, with his eyes still glued to the television, casually ventured, "Hi mom, did you happen to pick up any more beer?"

Cindy stared at Seth for a minute with a look of contempt on her face then walked around behind the couch, reached out and yanked off the headphones. A startled Seth jumped up and spun around to face his would-be assailant. "Mom, what the hell are you doing?" he finally stammered.

"Come into the kitchen right now! We have to talk." Cindy admonished in as stern a voice as she could manage.

"OK, OK. Chill out."

Cindy marched into the kitchen, put the bag of groceries on the counter, turned around and leaned back against the counter with her hands on her hips. Seth followed with a beer in his hand and a smirk on his face. Cindy pointed to the chair at the dinette. "Sit!" she ordered. As Seth complied, Cindy began to mellow a bit. "Seth, honey, you can't continue the way you're going. As the counselor said, if you don't decide to make something of your life, you'll end up dead or in jail. Don't you have any ambition at all? Get a job or go back to school, something. Get a life! You've got the brains for it. God knows, you're a helluva lot smarter than me. I can't keep working my butt off to support us with no help from you!"

Seth, said nothing, continued munching an apple he'd gotten from the fruit bowl in the center of the table, exhibiting total indifference to his mother's heart-felt plea.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Cindy continued, "Damn it Seth! Answer me!"

"Sure, mom, I'll start looking for a job tomorrow," Seth responded as a feeble attempt to placate.

"What happened with the job at McDonald's you interviewed for, anyway?"

"Oh, the jerk said if I left my jewelry at home, got a haircut and a white shirt, I could start Friday."

"Well that's terrific, honey," Cindy gushed, obviously pleased, "I know it's not much but it's a start. I've heard if you stay with it a few years, that they're always looking for new store managers and the pay at that level is really good."

"Yeah, yeah, I told him to take his stinking six-dollar-an-hour job and shove it. Why should I have to change my looks just to please him? Would it make me any better at flippin' burgers? Do you really think I could sell more fries? I seriously doubt it! I wouldn't work for a jerk like that anyway."

Cindy threw her head back, inhaling deeply while taking a second to channel her anger. Subsequently, she took a step toward the table and began to unload, calmly at first. "You arrogant little punk, you want to know why you change your appearance? I'll tell you why you change your appearance! You change your appearance because that jerk, as you call him, has something you want. And, when someone has something you want, you do whatever you have to do to get it. If he says cut your hair, you cut your hair!" Cindy leaned closer and raised the volume a bit. "If he says lose the jewelry, you lose the jewelry." Once again, Cindy turned up the volume. "If he says eat a plate of shit," by then she was screaming, practically foaming at the mouth, "you eat a plate of shit!"

Seth, never having heard a swear word other than the occasional hell or damn come out of that mouth, was stunned and actually a little amused although he tried to conceal it. "Mom, you're not going postal on me are you?"

"Damn you, Seth Talbot! Damn you!" Cindy shouted as she stormed out of the room.

In the back of his mind where it could be easily ignored, Seth knew that dealing drugs was a dangerous and dirty business. But, as with most young men, the concept of a life-changing event ever happening to him rarely entered his consciousness nor did it deter him from what sane people would consider irrational behavior. The teenage years are truly a time of, hopefully, temporary insanity and, for some, it can stretch well into young adulthood. Most have an epiphany or a significant emotional event such as a near miss with the authorities or the loss of a friend that convinces them to change direction. Seth was about to have a significant emotional event that would change his life forever.

* * *

Seth and his buddy, Billy Schaal, were walking purposefully through the streets of east LA. Billy and Seth had been friends since grammar school. Their relationship was tenuous at best but it worked for them. Billy was somewhat of a mouse and left the decision-making and leadership role to Seth who could at least pull off the illusion of being a tough guy on occasion. Billy too had little supervision or direction and was much like Seth in appearance and inclination. In this not uncommon relationship, Seth was definitely the caretaker.

As they rounded a corner, Seth broke the silence, "I'm tellin' ya, dude, this just doesn't feel right. I don't like the way this turd has been jackin' us around. He either has the shit today or we find somebody else."

"OK, man," cautioned Billy, "just keep it cool, he'll have it. But let's just do the deal and split, no bullshit name-calling or anything. This is just payment and delivery."

As the two young men turned down an alleyway leading to a small parking lot behind a small strip mall, a black limousine came into view. Leaning against the rear quarter-panel of the limo with his arms folded and a menacing look on his face was Nick Lotini, Jr. their drug connection and the son of a local drug lord. Nick, who went by Nicky, was a little older than Seth and Billy but not by much, he was in his mid-twenties and reputedly quite the ladies' man. Raised in a privileged lifestyle, he was typical of those young men who had never wanted for anything and were constantly told they were a head above the common man, something special. Morally bankrupt, he treated people indignantly, disrespectfully and felt it was okay to do so. In his teen years, he had his own personal martial arts instructor and had become quite adept at enacting violence and inflicting pain on those that crossed him. As with all bullies, Nicky mistook obedience for respect. He was a dapper dresser. With Armani suits and Gucci shoes, he flaunted his Italian decent and this day was no different, he was dressed to the nines.

Nicky was accompanied by his driver and bodyguard, Tito D'Gracia, a large, ominous man who sat resolutely behind the wheel of the limo. Hired by Nicky's father, Tito was a dependable dunce who never took offense and was therefore a perfect match for this young, verbally and physically abusive despot.

When Seth and Billy approached, Nicky promptly began with the insults. "Hello, boys, love your outfits. You goddamn street punks always look like you just crawled out from under a rock. Maybe you can make enough money selling this blow to get some decent duds and really go stylin'".

Ignoring the expected, Billy, a step ahead of Seth, responded, "Let's just get this over with, Lotini, and we'll be on our way."

"What's your hurry, you little zero?" Nicky pretended to just then notice Seth, wearing an unpleasant look on his face, standing nervously behind Billy. "And what about you, pretty boy? What's your problem?" Seth chose to remain silent and Nicky continued. "How's that good lookin' mama of yours, anyway? She ready for a well-hung Italian stallion yet?"

With malice aforethought and reckless abandon, Nicky had broken the code of the streets. He insulted the boy's mother and anyone who tolerates that is immediately considered a wimp. Seth had no choice but to rise to the occasion. Sounding like a line from an old movie, he blurted, "One more word about my mother, asshole, and it'll be your last. Let's just do the deal!"

Nicky reveled in the predictable response and pressed on, enjoying the moment and the anguish of his target. "You know, I'm sure I saw her working the streets the other night. I need an older bitch in my stable so have her give me a call. I'll give the slut some class and make her feel young again."

Nicky's slanderous words hit their mark and Seth was left with few options. He lunged forward, grabbed Nicky by the lapels of his expensive suit and inadvertently stepped into his trap. Nicky, who loved demonstrating his prowess in the martial arts, immediately broke Seth's hold, stepped back and launched a spinning roundhouse kick to side of his head. Seth hit the ground hard and lay there dazed from the powerful blow. Billy was beside himself and, with a look of anguish on his face, shuffled a few feet forward.

"Sure, zero, come and get yours," Nicky growled.

Billy hesitated and then foolishly slid his hand in his coat as if reaching for a weapon, which he of course did not have, "Let him alone, Lotini, and we'll just go. We don't want any ..."

At that instant, there was the horrific roar from a large bore handgun accompanied by a muzzle blast and a cloud of smoke emanating from the open window of the limo. Nicky's bodyguard, perceiving a threat to his charge, had taken what he deemed in his semi-demented mind as appropriate action. Hit in the chest by a .45 caliber slug, Billy's body was catapulted several yards back by the impact and lay in a quickly expanding pool of blood. He was dead before he hit the ground.

"Oh, dear me, there's one less zero to worry about," mused Nicky. "Well, now we have another problem." Training his eyes on Seth who was struggling to get to his feet. "You're a witness and we can't have that. Your mother's really gonna hate me now. Oh, well."

Nicky slowly reached inside his suit coat for the Glock 17 tucked inconspicuously under his arm in a shoulder holster. Without thinking and consequently, without warning, Seth charged Nicky like a raging bull and surprised him with a clumsy sort of grappling body block taking both to the ground, Seth on top. On impact, Seth heard and felt a somewhat muffled but still loud gunshot. Nicky's body went limp and he lay on his back on the pavement, eyes fixed wide open.

Tito the klutz had been struggling to get untangled from the seatbelt and out of the vehicle to referee the impending bout unaware that Junior had accidentally been shot. The gunshot had coincided with the slamming of the car door. When Seth got up and Nicky did not, Tito rushed to Nicky's side and frantically looked for any signs of life. As Tito attempted to revive him, Seth staggered back a few steps then turned and ran like the wind.

* * *

The limo pulled into the long, circular driveway of Nick Lotini, Sr. The home was modest as far as mansions go but a mansion nevertheless with all the trappings of wealth. The senior Lotini was a generation away from the old country but still adhered to the traditional Italian mafia style of dealing with adversity. He was a true "Don" and involved in a variety of illegal endeavors spanning the breadth and the width of the LA basin. And, he was no stranger to the LAPD as a suspect in multiple unsolved murders.

Tito parked the limo at the base of stairs leading to the entry portico. He gently lifted the body of Nicky out of the back seat and began the slow, painful ascension with the lifeless body of the Lotini family heir apparent. When he approached the ornate double, hand-carved doors, they opened slowly without knocking. When he ventured through the doors and entered the foyer, Lotini's assistant, Sergio Lucia was standing there.

Sergio was Nick Lotini's nephew and as such, a trusted family member. Nick had known him since he was a child and, when he was old enough, brought him into the family business. Sergio was a good soldier never questioning the morality of the tasks he was given and never speaking unless spoken to. At age 38, he had worked his way up in the ranks and became Nick's most trusted bodyguard, enforcer and personal assistant. Rarely was he out of the company of Nick but, because of the enumerable privileges of rank, he never complained.

Sergio looked closely at the lifeless body and showed no emotion as he verified the situation by checking for a pulse. No words were spoken between him and Tito. Finally, he turned and yelled, "Mr. Lotini, you better come in here, Nicky's been shot!" In the study, Lotini put the paper down, got up and walked quickly into the foyer and up to Tito. He looked down at his only son and asked, "Is he dead?"

Tito chokingly stammered, "Yes, sir, he is."

Nick turned slightly and looked at Sergio who nodded a solemn affirmation. He turned back and gently smoothed Nicky's mussed hair with a caressing hand. After an agonizing minute, he stepped back and pointed to the guest room across the foyer opposite the study, "Take him in there and place him on the bed." Tito did as he was instructed and, after placing Nicky's body on the bed, gently arranged him in sweet repose. Then, he quietly backed out of the room as though not to wake a sleeping baby, gently closed the door and turned to face Lotini.

Nick nodded at the study, started to walk and calmly said, "Come and tell me what happened." Tito followed obediently.

In the study, Nick went to the bar and poured himself a straight shot of brandy in a small snifter. With his back to the room, he swirled the bracing liquid, savored a sip and then turned to face Tito and Sergio. "Well," he asked, again with an eerie calm, "what happened?"

"So, we was meeting two of Nicky's street punks to do some business in Gottfried's parking lot, ya know, the regular place. When they finally walked up, this one guy musta had it in for Nicky. Without no warnin', he pulls out a gun and shoots." Tito embellished the truth a little, trying to position himself to be viewed by Nick as having made a valiant effort to save the boy and thereby avoid any retribution for his failure to perform his duties. But, the die was cast and his efforts were in vain.

"Where was you when all this happened?"

"I was still in the limo, else maybe I could a done somethin'."

Lotini changed from calm to irate as though a switch had been thrown and, at the top of his lungs, "Well, why didn't you do something? Why didn't you get my son to a hospital?"

Tito attempted to answer with a shaking, increasingly terrified voice as Lotini turned and walked to the desk across the room, "I, I tried but I could see right off Nicky was a goner."

Nick reached across the desk, opened a drawer and retrieved a small .38 Special handgun that he kept in the drawer "just in case." He slipped the palm-size weapon in his coat pocket, turned around and walked slowly back to the pitiful hulk who was now cowering on his knees on the floor sobbing.

"What is the name of this punk that kills my son?"

"All I know is his first name," stammered Tito, "It's Seth."

"I pay you to protect my only son and you bring me this! If someone had to die, it should a been you! That's what I pay you for! If there was gonna be trouble, you should not have been alone. You never should have let my son die, you pig!"

With that, Lotini spat on the doomed man at his feet, stepped back, pulled out the revolver and summarily shot him in the top of his bowed head. Then, turning to Sergio and motioning at the body with the pistol, he yelled, "Get this garbage outta here then round up Phillip, find out where this kid lives and blow him away. And," Nick paused a second, "bring me his ears to bury with my son!"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Lotini, right away." Without asking, Sergio quickly rolled Tito in the area rug as if it was commonplace and dragged him through the foyer and out the front door.

* * *

It didn't take Sergio long to garner Seth's last name and home address as he was very convincing when asking questions on the street. After picking up Phillip, another well-dressed thug, Sergio pulled up quietly and parked the plate-less, unassuming sedan under an Elm tree across the street and just around a corner so they would have an unobstructed view of the Talbot house. It was mid-afternoon and no one was home yet. Sergio motioned for Phillip to go check out the house.

Phillip crossed the street and strode up to the front door, knocking vigorously. With his fancy suit and clean cut look, if noticed, he would be perceived as a process server or an accountant or some other equally innocuous person and certainly not a hit man. After receiving no answer, he tried the door handle and to his surprise, it was unlocked. He entered slowly, cautious by nature and jaded by the nature of his business. When he determined beyond a doubt that there was no one there, he quickly planted a couple of wireless microphones, one in the living room and one in the kitchen. The modern day street-level underworld embraced new technology as best they could and as long as it served their purpose but if any thinking or problem solving was required, they were out of luck.

Back in the car with Sergio, Phillip turned on the receiver and the two of them got comfortable and waited for someone to arrive, hopefully their prey.

It wasn't long before Cindy pulled into the driveway in her vintage 1984 Subaru hatchback clunker and began unloading groceries from the back. With a bag under each arm, she walked up to the front door, managed to free one hand to pull the latch, kicked open the door and staggered in under the load. She made it to the kitchen and plopped the bags down on the kitchen table.

In the front of Sergio's sedan, the sounds of these various activities were coming through loud and clear, the door slam, the footsteps, the bags hitting the table, and Cindy's deep exhale on accomplishing her mission. After a short period of silence, they began to hear Cindy putting her groceries away and humming a soft melody. When she started to speak, it gave the two a start, thinking at first that they had not heard Seth sneak in but then realizing immediately that she was speaking to the cat.

"Mon Ami, my little sweet, where are you? I have a special treat for you." There was a short pause as if she was expecting an answer and then she continued, "Oh, there you are. Tell me how you feel about these Chicken-flavored tidbits."

Straining, Sergio and Phillip could hear the cat dish hit the floor.

"Oh, yummy, huh? Where do you suppose that son of mine is? You'd think since he's not working that this kitchen would be spotless, wouldn't you? Ha, ha."

In the alley behind the house, Seth walked briskly and nervously toward the back door. He was tousled, sweaty and panting, having kept to the backstreets and shadows as he cautiously retreated to what he thought was the temporary sanctuary of home. He quickly entered the back door to the kitchen, turned and locked it behind him.

Seth had startled his mother but she quickly recovered and said, "Hi, honey, how was your day?"

"Hi, mom," Seth managed as he hurried on through the kitchen, down the hallway and disappeared into his bedroom where he threw a suitcase he had retrieved from the closet on the bed and began frantically packing. The terse response and the concerned look on Seth's face alarmed Cindy and she immediately went down the hall after him.

Meanwhile, Sergio and Phillip had heard enough to free them from the monotony of their stakeout. They both exited the vehicle and went to the back where Sergio opened the trunk. Reckless by nature, these two veterans were nevertheless savvy enough to keep their weapons out of sight in the truck until they were ready to use them. As untrained assassins, they lacked the skill to plan and execute a complex, technical mission, but for an outright, coldblooded murder, these two were the perfect pair, fearless and heartless.

The two Russian-made AK47's they pulled from the truck were equally perfect weapons for the task at hand as their main advantage was withering proximity fire. No tedious setup or careful aiming was involved, just point and shoot. Similar to the Thompson submachine gun or "Tommy Gun" as it was called in the Roaring Twenties, the AK47 is the weapon of choice for many modern day gangsters. Sergio grabbed the weapons and handed one to Phillip. He reached in again, grabbed two extra banana clips and handed one of these also to Phillip. Sergio slammed the trunk and the two headed across the street to the house. As they walked toward the house, Sergio motioned for Phillip to go around the back.

When Cindy got to Seth's bedroom, she immediately asked, "What's the matter? What are you doing?"

"Mom, I've got a big problem and I've got to get out of here as fast as I can. It's not safe!"

"Not safe, what do you mean? Seth, honey, what happened?"

Frustrated, Seth responded with a rapid-fire recap of his disastrous encounter, "Mom, a guy tried to shoot me today and when I tried to stop him, his gun went off and he was killed accidentally and when his father finds out it was me, he's gonna send guys to kill me and that's why I gotta get outta here now!" As he was talking, he brushed past his mom and headed back into the kitchen.

Cindy, who was following closely behind, began to panic, "Seth, you've got to go to the police. You've got to tell them..."

As Seth was frantically throwing food into a shopping bag, he abruptly interrupted his mother, "No, Mom, the police can't help, not with these guys!"

When Seth swung back around to continue filling his food bag, he inadvertently knocked it over. A bright red apple with a mind of its own rolled off the table, across the floor and into the living room. As he hurriedly skirted the table and went to retrieve it, Sergio, who was peering in the front window hoping for a clear shot, saw him appear in the doorway. In the time it took Sergio to raise his weapon and fire through the glass, Seth had dropped down to retrieve the errant fruit.

Much of what befalls us in our time on this planet happens by pure chance, or luck to some, and it was that very thing that saved Seth from a tragic and messy demise. Cindy, who was standing in the line of fire back in the kitchen, was not so lucky. One round to the chest thrust her across the kitchen and she slumped to the floor against the cabinets in a pool of blood. To the experienced ear, the rattling roar of an AK47 is distinctive and easily identifiable. To Seth, cowering under a shower of glass and debris thrown about by the impact of 30 caliber rounds tearing apart the interior walls and furniture, it was merely deafening and absolutely terrifying.

Typical of the small tract houses built in the fifties, the Talbot house had a thick, sturdy stucco exterior perfect for a seismically active environment and also great protection from an armed assault. Sergio and Phillip were relegated to methodically moving from window to window around the house filling each room with lead.

After the initial volley, Seth wriggled on his belly like a snake as fast as he could across the living room, down the hall, into his room and straight to the closet. He quickly slid open the sliding by-pass door, pushed aside the mound of clothes and things he'd hidden during his last room cleaning chore and pulled up the hatch cover to the crawl space access. Before descending into the musty darkness with the spiders and rodents, he pulled the closet door shut and arranged for some of the clothes to fall on the hatch cover as he carefully closed it.

When Sergio and Phillip were satisfied that anyone inside was either dead, wounded or paralyzed with fear, they kicked in the doors front and back and entered the house to finish the job. As they were completing a room-by-room search, the faint blare of sirens began to permeate the eerie silence.

Sergio turned to Phillip, "We better get outta here. The little bastard musta slipped out somehow. He's stuck on the street now. We'll find him easy."

Seth, lying quietly in the darkness heard the two thugs leave and heaved a big sigh of relief. Suddenly and for the first time, he remembered his mother and it dawned on him that he never heard a sound from her, not one. "Oh, my God," he whispered to himself as he frantically scrambled to the access hole, threw open the cover, and raced through the small house to the kitchen.

In the kitchen was a gruesome scene with his mother lying in a now very large pool of blood. The sight took his breath away and he was instantly weak in the knees. Leaning on the doorjamb, he slid to the floor sobbing uncontrollably and crawled to his mother's side. While trying vainly to wipe the blood from her face, he chokingly said, "Mom, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for anything bad to happen to you. I should have stopped them. I should have done something. Wake up, please wake up and tell me what to do."

Cindy's life was seemingly slipping away. Closer to eternity than the present, she squeezed his hand and struggled to open her eyes. With what appeared to Seth to be her last breath, Cindy managed to say, "Seth, honey, it's not your fault. Go find your grandfather, Jeb Grissom. Take the picture on my dresser. Look on the back. I love you." As her eyes slid shut again, the sirens began to arrive out front.

Seth was torn. He wanted desperately to stay with his mother even though he was sure she was gone. But, he also knew he would probably be blamed for Nicky's death and was equally sure the police were not his friend. He made his decision in an instant, ran for his mother's bedroom, grabbed the picture, ran back to his own room and quickly disappeared down his rabbit hole.

The police, arriving in force, could see immediately that whatever happened was over and they entered the house immediately. From the darkness, Seth could hear the going's on in the house above just as before. It quickly filled with people seemingly all talking at once. To Seth, the whole thing, the whole day, seemed like a bad dream from which he would surely awaken. He closed his eyes and wished with all his might that this was the case and that he was actually in his own bed sleeping off the effects of some mind-altering drug. But of course nothing could change the calamity of events that comprised that awful day.

After a while, the house was quiet again. Hours passed before Seth could find the courage to crawl out of his solitary refuge. The house was dark and, since the fog had rolled in with the darkness, it was cold, too. After grabbing a small flashlight from the nightstand, he went straight to the kitchen. He was startled for some reason by the fact that his mother's body was gone but the floor was still covered in her blood with a faint, jagged outline of her form.

He stared at the bloody floor for a minute, teary-eyed. Remembering the photo he was clutching, he lifted it and lighted it with the beam of the flashlight illuminating the picture of a handsome young soldier. He clumsily fumbled with the flashlight and the frame trying to free the print for further inspection. Suddenly, the frame hit the floor shattering and the job was done. Seth picked it up, turned it over and read the neatly printed words on the back, "Seth Grissom, 1991, Grifton, MT."

Seth was shown the photo many times during his youth but had no inkling that it would hold the key to his salvation, a place to hide, a place to heal and a new beginning. He gathered some food items, anything that was open-and-eat, threw them in a grocery bag, walked cautiously into the front room and set the bag by the door. He went back into his room, got his sports-bag which was his idea of a suitcase, and returned to the front door. With one last, emotional look around the house that had been the only home he had ever known, he slipped out the door and over to his mother's old Subaru. Quickly raising the hatchback, he threw in his bag and the groceries, jumped in the driver's seat and was soon on his way.

Seth had a driver's license, which was deemed a rite of passage and a sign of manhood by his peers, but his actual driving experience was rather limited. Nevertheless, he had driven his Mom's car enough so he could shift the gears and get it headed down the highway. He had left in such a hurry that he had no cell phone and no laptop, no electronics whatsoever and he felt naked, disconnected.

Stopping at the first "7-11" he came to, Seth bought a map of the Western United States. In the little convenience store parking lot, he unfolded the map and began to plan a route. "How stupid of me," he thought, "I should have gotten on Mapquest before I left the house. I could have had a map and directions in a heartbeat, no problem. Shit!" The little town of Grifton did not appear in the state of Montana anywhere and Seth was getting quite frustrated. He decided to just head to Montana, find a cyber-café along the way somewhere and get a printout of the actual directions.

Seth's generation had not known life without cell phones, laptops, GPS, MP3's and all the other electronic gadgets available to kids reaching young adulthood in the new century. But, he was about to enter a world lost in time and he would truly be a stranger in a strange land.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Being on the run, afraid and alone is bad enough, but when that fear and loneliness permeates your very soul, a depth of depression sets in that can bring anyone to their knees. The ability of family and friends to buoy the human spirit is amazingly powerful and, at that moment, Seth had neither.

He determined from his map that all he had to do was get on and stay on I15, head north and sooner or later, he would hit Montana. It was a little after midnight when he got on the highway and he drove the rest of the night and most of the next day. As he drove, the events of the previous day, the sight of his gravely wounded mother, on the kitchen floor, Billy lying on the ground and Junior's lifeless body, all the images, kept flashing through his mind.

Seth was getting tired and began to think about stopping. He had money, exactly $250 from the drug buy that never happened, and could have afforded a hotel but he had no traveling experience and no idea how to even check in. To avoid the embarrassment of naiveté and not wishing to draw unwanted attention, he decided to sleep in the car. Being a city boy, Seth's idea of roughing it was taking the bus instead of driving. He had no sleeping bag, no tent, no toilet paper and couldn't build a campfire if his life depended on it. Thank god for rest stops.

Most of the state of Utah is high desert but as you approach the Idaho border, there are rolling hills and a lot of farming. I15 follows the western front of the Wasatch mountain range north almost from the Arizona border to the Idaho border, over 400 miles, and the views of the mountains to the east from the valley floor are stunning the entire way. North of Salt Lake City, you skirt the Great Salt Lake and the views to the west are equally impressive. The rolling farmland continues through Idaho but, when you enter Montana past the sleepy little town of Dillon, the scenery begins changing to mountains, valleys, rivers and trees.

The breathtaking beauty of the trip through the western states was lost on Seth who was driven by fear and the constant threat of a breakdown with the vintage Subaru. Fortunately, if you change the oil every 3000 miles in those little rice-rockets, and Cindy was religious about that, they will run forever.

After eighteen hours of monotony, Seth could finally go no farther. He pulled into a rest stop in Divide, Montana, found a parking spot as far from the facilities as he could, reclined the front seat, locked the doors, laid his head back and was asleep in a matter of seconds.

Seth woke up mid-morning the next day to the sound of kids screaming with delight having been given their first respite from the cramped quarters of a mini-van. Birds were singing, the sky was azure-blue and people were enjoying their first stop on a trip to the next events in their lives. With this idyllic scene, it seemed that all was right with the world. "This is truly a new day, a fresh start," Seth thought as he sat on a grassy bank munching on an apple after his obligatory trip to the facilities. But slowly the stark realization that the longest day of his short life was not just an awful dream but was indeed a harsh reality, began to seep into his consciousness and the sadness, sorrow and anxiety began to re-emerge.

The appearance of a Montana Highway Patrol cruiser rolling slowly through the parking lot jolted Seth out of his meditative state. The lone officer scanned the throng for an unsuspecting sole fitting the profile of some hardened criminal, or maybe just a poor devil down on his luck slogging through the misdemeanor-plagued minefields inherent in the world of the disenfranchised.

In this place full of normalcy, Seth's bizarre appearance made him a likely target and the officer quickly zeroed in on the freak from LA. The cruiser slowed to a crawl as he glared at the obvious misfit perched on the bank. Seth struggled to conceal the increasing panic he was feeling and the almost overwhelming desire to cut-and-run. Barely able to breathe, he calmly smiled and waved to the scowling patrolman as if nothing was amiss. The officer stopped by the Subaru for an agonizing couple of minutes presumably running the plates. When the search was completed with no results, the disappointed officer gave Seth one last menacing look and drove off. When the cruiser was out of sight, Seth threw his arms in the air, fell back on the grass and inhaled deeply, soothing his aching lungs and sighing with relief. The threat was gone and he had a strange feeling of vindication.

In a matter of seconds, he was once again behind the wheel of his trusty transport pursuing his quest. After 25 miles, he took the first exit into Butte, the only town on his route that appeared to be large enough to have a cyber café where he could access the internet for accurate directions to, hopefully, his sanctuary.

After two gas stations and a 7-11, he was finally directed to the town library as the only public place to get back into the twenty-first century. Relieved and with a couple of turns, Seth found the library, parked the Subaru and headed up the front steps. The building housing the library had the appearance of a southern plantation with a wrap-around porch, decorative columns, tall double-hung wood windows and a huge, hand-carved front door. The porch was populated with several small tea tables with a couple of wicker chairs at each. Seth quickly parked himself at one, opened his laptop and hoped for the best.

Thankfully, the Butte Public Library had not completely made it into the twenty-first century and their wireless signal was not blocked with hacker-resistant firewalls or secret codes. Seth quickly checked his e-mail and there was nothing but spam, which was not unusual, as his generation had developed a fondness for texting with a series of anagrams as a substitute for real English. Then, before he was busted for stealing cyber-waves, he summoned up Mapquest and in a flash got directions from Butte to Grifton. Forgetting he didn't have a printer, he quickly ran to the car keeping the porch table in sight of course, grabbed a yellow pad from the back seat, and ran back. He scribbled down the directions and made a rough copy of the map. Approximately 175 miles or around four hours and Seth wound be face-to-face with a new chapter in his search for sanctuary and ultimately, salvation.

* * *

The road kept getting narrower and the terrain more mountainous as Seth neared his destination. It was around four in the afternoon on a Friday when Seth pulled into the sleepy mountain town of Grifton. Stopping by the city limits sign, on the south end of town, he was sure he could see the other city limits sign not 300 yards down the street. Just ahead was a small wooden billboard that proudly announced, "Welcome to Grifton, Montana, Gateway to the Flathead Mountains."

As Seth slowly cruised down Main Street, he noted two sporting goods stores, one evidently for fishing and one for hunting; a small creasy spoon called Sally's Café; a hardware and tack store; a saloon called Whiskers; Hayworth's General Store, which appeared to sell groceries and some clothing; the Teton County Sherriff Office and a small US Post Office. There was also a gas station at the far end of town with a couple of, what appeared to Seth to be, antique pumps. Over the two garage doors was a sign that said, "Mechanic on Duty." Being a city boy, Seth had never seen anything except self-serve gas stations almost always with a convenience store. If you needed work done, you went to an auto repair place usually down some alley and off the beaten path.

The stares from the few locals on the street as Seth cruised by, made him nervous and feeling very much out of his element. He turned around by the gas station, drove back up what he felt was Main Street, Nowhere, USA and parked in front of Sally's Café.

As he entered the small coffee shop, he could feel the looks of revulsion and distain on the faces of the customers scattered around the tables. Undaunted, he strode up to the counter and plopped down on a stool by the cash register. Shortly, the proprietor, Sally Collin, emerged from the kitchen and came towards Seth behind the counter. Having long ago abandoned fighting the good fight, Sally was not dainty, nor was she socially burdened with any civility. If a man wanted Sally, and few did, it was on her terms.

"What'll ya have, bub?" she said as she placed her hands on the counter in a rather spread-eagled fashion and with a nasty look on her face.

"A cup of coffee, please," Seth responded as nonchalantly as he could while staring into those evil, bloodshot eyes.

"If you got the money, boy, let's see it," Sally demanded.

Seth slowly stood up straddling the stool, fished a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and slammed it on the counter. Sally reared back, spun around, grabbed the coffee pot and a cup and turned back around.

Glancing at Seth and shaking her head as she poured the coffee, Sally muttered, "Boy, you gotta lot of balls comin' in here lookin' like that." She banged the full coffee mug on the counter and slid it over to Seth.

Seth did not respond but sat quietly and sipped his coffee. Soon, he noticed a pay phone on the wall in the corner. He had never seen one for real but recognized it from old movies on television. Hanging by a chain from the phone was a phone book. Seth walked over to the phone, picked up the book and found the only Grissom there, J. Grissom. He dug up some change and dialed the number but there was no answer. He hung it up and went back to his seat at the counter.

When Sally came by to refresh his coffee, he asked as politely as he could, determined to win her over, "Maam, may I ask you a question, please?"

"Shoot," she barked in response as she put the coffee pot back on the burner.

"Well, can you tell me how to find rural route two?"

Sally turned back wiping her hands on a towel as she spoke, "What the hell you think I am, boy, a friggin' mailman? Once you get out of town, half the roads don't even have names. Who ya lookin' fer, anyways?"

"A man named Jeb Grissom. Do you know him?"

"Know him, hell, everyone knows Grissom! What you want with that crusty ole bastard?"

"Well, actually, it's a personal matter," Seth muttered almost apologetically.

"Oh, well excuse me for breathin'!"

Seth hadn't realized he had been offensive and quickly recovered with, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I'm just like really desperate to find him."

Thinking and staring a minute, Sally finally answered, "OK, I'll tell you how to find him if you'll get your punk-rock ass outta here when I'm done. You're bad for business. But, let me give you a word of advice first. Folks 'round here don't take too kindly to people like you and Jeb's one of the worst. If you don't want your skinny little ass kicked right up between your shoulder blades, you better stay clear of these cowboys and especially Grissom! Today's Friday and Jeb comes in to get his mail every Friday afternoon. Afterwards, he heads over to Whiskers for a few hundred beers. He generally spends the night in his truck in the parking lot or parked all cocky-wobble on somebody's front lawn. So, now get your sorry ass outta here!"

"Thank you very much. You're very kind," Seth said as he stood up and headed for the door. Having tried to win Sally's heart by showering her with sugar and having that not work at all, Seth retreated as gracefully as possible. Thinking of one last important question, Seth paused at the door for a moment. "What does he look like?"

"He looks like a cowboy, an old one. Now, scram!"

Seth left the café, jumped in the Subaru and drove down to Whiskers.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sergio and Phillip had returned to the Lotini mansion with the news that they had been unsuccessful and, in fact, had not only created a big event for the evening news, but also accidentally killed the boy's innocent mother. After calmly listening to the report by the two of their blown mission, Nick slammed his hands on the desktop and shouted abruptly, "You incompetent assholes!" And, he mumbled as he snatched up the phone, "If I can't fix this, I'll shoot the two of youse myself. Now, the little bastard is on the run and who knows where he'll go, probably some relative out of town."

Nick held the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he fumbled through his Rolodex and found a number. With one hand on the Rolodex, he painstakingly dialed the number with his other. As the phone began to ring, he grabbed it with his right hand and fumbled for his cigar in the ashtray with the other.

After several rings, there was finally an answer, "Hello, Rossetti here. How can I help you?" It was Milo Rossetti of the Los Angeles Police Department who, being of Italian decent himself, had many times in the past assisted Mr. Lotini with valuable information on various police activities. The arrangement was quite lucrative for Rossetti but he knew all too well what the man was capable of and how unpredictable he was. He had started down this path of crime innocently enough just helping an old friend of the family when he was a rookie. As it does with these things, one favor led to another and then another. Now, fifteen years later, he was inexorably in Lotini's pocket and there was no escape, even if he wanted to.

"Milo, this is Nick Lotini and I got a favor to ask of youse. There is this punk named Seth Talbot that I need to find."

"Jeez, Nick, are you involved in that mess? Every law enforcement agency in the state is looking for that kid as a material witness. If you're a part of this, you by God better cover your tracks."

"No, no, I had nuttin' to do with that," Nick quickly responded between puffs on his cigar. "He's just a friend of my son and I think he may need some financial help. Just get me whatever information you can and call me right back, OK?"

Rossetti was getting nervous. This whole mess was a political hot potato and he was not in the loop. It was being investigated by a special violent crimes taskforce and he had to be very careful about asking too many questions. After poking around a bit, a few phone calls and some computer work, he called Lotini back.

When Nick answered, he began, "Nick, this is Milo. Now, don't interrupt me as I don't have much time. The only thing I found with anything about the family was a baby book the detectives uncovered somewhere in the house. It listed the father as a guy named Seth Grissom. Evidently, he was killed in the military but the grandfather still lives in someplace called Grifton in Montana. As far as I can tell, the old man is the kid's only living relative and he might be headed up there, we just don't know. Nick, that's all I got for now."

"OK, OK Milo, you done good. This I won't forget." Nick hung up the phone and turned to Sergio and Phillip who had been waiting patiently. "OK, you two take the Lear, go to Montana, find this boy and take care of him. I'll check with my contacts and have a couple of local boys who know the area meet you. And, for Christ's sake, be neat this time!"

* * *

When Seth pulled into Whiskers, he wasn't really sure what to do. The building was right out of the old west with curtained double-hung windows, board-and-bat rough-sawn siding and a six-foot wide wooden deck with tables across the front. The deck was covered with a cedar shingled shed roof and was enclosed with an ornate peeled log handrail. The entry was appropriately fashioned with the same louvered swinging doors that John Wayne pushed his way through a hundred times in old Hollywood oaters.

Parked in a row in front of the deck and almost blocking the stairs were four big Harleys. The bikers and their biker-bitches were all seated at one of the tables laughing, joking and drinking beer.

As Seth approached the stairs, the motley crew at the table fell silent and all glared at the strange-looking boy heading for the door. He nervously nodded in their direction and pushed open the swinging doors.

The bar interior had numerous circular tables and chairs surrounding a dance floor. With the many species of the heads of dead animals adorning the walls, the large, mirrored ball hanging over the dance floor looked strangely out of place. The long bar stretched the length of the back wall with too many barstools fashioned out of old steel tractor seats welded to a pole and bolted to the floor. The bar top was full of western memorabilia such as belt buckles, coins and old tintype pictures preserved under a thick layer of clear fiberglass resin. The mirrored back bar was framed with hand-carved half columns and a length of multi-colored Christmas lights loosely draped across the top and down the sides. But for the back bar lights, the only other illumination in the place was the light penetrating the white, lacey drapes that were tied back in the middle with a large, red bow on the big double-hung windows.

Seth paused for a moment on entering to get his bearings and, just as he was about to walk over to the bar, the bartender, almost shouting as if he were speaking to a large audience, said, "If you ain't got a valid driver's license, a draft card, a social security card and a current health card, you can just turn right around and get your commie ass outta here!"

The bar had fallen silent on his entrance just like at the café and Seth, once again, was staggered by the almost palpable animosity that filled the air. He was consumed with mixed emotions first wanting desperately to run and hide and then being filled with rage about being judged solely on his appearance. He was frozen in place.

"Don't give me that deer-in-the-headlights lights look, you freak. Just get the hell outta here," the bartender continued as he moved around the end of the bar and started toward Seth, now!"

"Whoa, man," Seth stammered holding up his hands almost as a sign of surrender, "I'm just looking for a guy named Jeb Grissom and, if he ain't here, I'm gone."

"Well he ain't and you better thank God he ain't! He'd probably shoot your skinny ass on sight the way you look. Now git before I have to come over there and help you out the door."

Seth and the bartender exchanged evil looks for a few seconds before Seth turned and headed out the door. As he crossed the deck, he glanced at the bikers and then scurried down the stairs and across the parking lot to his car.

It was the shoulder season in the mountains, the mud months. The summer tourist season was over and the winter sports season not yet begun. Thundershowers came through every afternoon like clockwork, dumping a torrent for a few minutes, then leaving as quickly as they had come. The rural dirt roads would turn to snot, many impassible, but return to a dry hard-pack in a couple of hours.

Not having a ski resort of any size nearby, Grifton's winter business consisted mainly of the few hearty snowmobilers and cross-country skiers that would venture up to a mountain cabin for a night or two of adventure. Unlike the Wind River mountain range, a snowmobiler's Mecca, the Flathead National Forest had few groomed trails.

Seth waited in the Subaru watching the entrance to the bar for almost an hour before a lone, aging cowboy pulled up in an old beater of a truck, parked and headed for the steps. He jumped out of the car and ran up to the man. "Excuse me, sir, are you Jeb Grissom?"

Jeb stared at the boy for a time, eyeballing him from top to bottom. Soon, not saying a word, he shook his head, turned and started for the steps again.

Seth ran around in front of him and blurted, "If you're Jeb Grissom, I really need to talk to you!"

Jeb stared at the boy a bit more and then rather matter-of-factly said, "Get outta my way boy. I mean it," as he pushed Seth aside and continued on.

To Jeb's back and obviously out of frustration Seth practically yelled, "But, if you're Jeb Grissom," he paused a second not knowing whether to say it out loud or not, "then you're my grandpa!"

Seth could tell that Jeb was upset by his declaration as he stopped and slowly turned to face him. Seemingly choosing his words carefully, Jeb spoke with conviction, "Son, I want to know the name of the heartless son-of-a-bitch that put you up to this. Is the prick watching us with binoculars right now and having a big laugh at yours and my expense? I'll kill the cocksucker!"

"No sir, nobody put me up to this. It's the truth and I can prove it."

"Listen boy, I have no grandkids! You are sadly, pitifully mistaken. And, if I did have a grandson, he certainly wouldn't look like something out of a freak show like you. My son wouldn't have allowed it! Now, get outta here and don't come back. I don't ever want to see you again."

Jeb had no way of knowing how thoughtless and crushing his words were to the lonely, terrified young man in front of him. Seth stood silent, arms at his side with a stricken look on his face. He had never before been bothered by what he felt were insensitive looks and snide comments of people he met. In his former world, it was rather the object of the exercise, to be outlandish, to get noticed, to make a statement with your altered persona. But here, it was different. He didn't want to stand out, to be called a freak. He wanted to fit in, to be accepted for who he was inside and particularly to be accepted by this man.

Jeb turned again and walked to the stairs. Seth was motionless and speechless. As Jeb scaled the steps to the deck, one of the bikers, a particularly violent member of the group, finished his argument with his girlfriend with an abrupt backhand across her face. She came staggering back, falling into Jeb's arms. He stood her up, pulled out his kerchief and dabbed the blood from her lip. Very calmly he inquired, "Are you all right, maam?" The battered girl nodded slowly as Jeb gently brushed her hair away from the blood.

"Hey, man, get the hell away from her or I'll take you apart!"

Jeb, again very gently, moved the whimpering girl to the side and turned to face the oncoming threat as the biker began striding toward him with an evil and obvious intent. It had been almost forty years since Jeb had to deal with an attacker in hand-to-hand combat. But, in the face of eminent danger, he didn't have time to consider the age of his weapons, the pains in his joints, the disfunctionality of his once lethal body, nor would he have, even if given the chance. It was not in Jeb's nature to dwell in the metaphysical or waste time worrying about things he could not change. He was now a "reactionist" with exceptional skill at using an enemy's strength against him.

In the blink of an eye, Jeb was back in the jungles of Vietnam and the charging, leather-clad bull was not an ignorant, angry biker but a rabid, wild-eyed, machete-wielding NVA marauder. In his altered mental state, Jeb was not constrained by the here-and-now or any of the realities of his current situation. He was, in an instant, no longer a sixty-five year old cowboy with a bad attitude but a young, strong, deadly and driven warrior.

Three steps away, Jeb's antagonist began to throw a punch, a real haymaker that was intended to end the conflict with one blow. Jeb merely stepped aside, parried the punch and, using his opponent's own momentum, helped him over the handrail with a little push on the back. Flipping over the rail, the big man landed on his back on the first in the line of Harleys and they all went down like dominos, one after the other.

The remaining three Neanderthals, who up until then had been enjoying the entertainment, became instantly enraged by the realization that their most prized possessions may have just been damaged by this rampaging relic and jumped to their feet. Nothing they had seen led them to believe they were dealing with anything more than a stupid and lucky old man with a death wish. Constrained by the narrow width of the deck and the furniture, they were forced to attack one-by-one. Little did they know that it wouldn't have mattered, they were doomed regardless.

Seth watched from the parking lot in amazement as Jeb dispatched each assailant in turn. He was methodical and merciless while exacting his punishment. The resultant scene was a bloody array of broken bodies, broken furniture, wailing women and deflated egos.

Inside the bar, with the noise from the crash of the cascading motorcycles, the bartender's only comment was, "Well, I guess Jeb's here. Nobody leave until I give the 'all clear'." He walked to the swinging doors, put a hand on top of each one and peered cautiously over the top to watch the fun and hopefully keep it outside. When it was over, he walked casually back to the bar commenting to himself, "Well, that didn't take long."

Jeb, having regained his composure, tipped his hat to the ladies who were now screaming profanities at him as they tried to wake their sleeping drivers and slipped through the swinging doors to take his regular seat at the bar.

Seth went back to his car shaking his head. His mind was swimming in a dizzying array of confusing information. "What would he do now?" he thought. "Where would he go?" Depression and fear were once again his only companions.

CHAPTER NINE

The morning of the third day after Seth had fled for his life, the fog was thick in Burbank, CA. Sergio and Phillip were at the airport early and the Learjet was fueled, ready and waiting. It was a relatively quick hop to Montana, but Lotini's goons had never been in the Rocky Mountain west and were quite apprehensive about the trip. They were both city boys and wanted this episode of their lives to be done with as quickly as possible. They loaded a couple of small suitcases, gun cases and a clothes bag in the cargo bay and climbed aboard. In short order, they were on their way to Montana. The pilot had already filed a flight plan for their destination, Kalispell. They had no idea that their timing was perfect.

* * *

After Jeb's encounter with Seth at Whiskers the previous evening, Jean emerged from her cottage early to enjoy the crisp, fall morning. Sipping her coffee on the front porch, her aging yellow Lab at her side, she noticed Jeb's old truck parked catawampus in her relatively small parking area. She smiled to herself knowing her man was home safely, always a worry on his big night out.

Jean's cottage was a quaint little wannabe Victorian on the outskirts of town. It had pale blue shiplap siding with white trim, shudders framing each of the antique double-hung windows and a little gingerbread in the top of the gables. But for the gingerbread, it could as easily have been classified as an "American Farmhouse." The moss-covered Cedar shakes were a maintenance headache but gave the building a certain country charm. The fireplace was built when stonemasons were true artisans and Jean's was quite unique. An ancient Cottonwood tree in the front yard provided a wonderful canopy shading the sunny side of the roof and most of the small front yard during the hot summer days.

Jean was an accomplished gardener and kept the abundant vegetation well groomed. The brightly colored roses along the front of the deck added a beautiful touch of color to the house and a short, blooming hedge defined the sides of the cobblestone walkway that wove its way in a rather circuitous fashion through the front yard and down to the parking area. The yard was enclosed with the requisite white picket fence visible through more roses planted intermittently along the perimeter.

After basking in the moment, Jean and Turk ambled down the walk and out to the truck. She opened the rider's side door to expose a deep-sleeping old reveler stretched across the seat with his hat perched precariously on the side of his head. She motioned for the dog to get in the truck, "Well, Turk, wake the old slob up as only you can and bring him into the house. Sic' em!" Then she headed back to the house and left Turk to his task.

Reluctant to take the leap, the big lab tugged and tugged at Jeb's boot growling all the while but to no avail. Finally, looking back and forth from the house to the truck in obvious frustration, he took aim and jumped into the truck on top of the apparent corpse. After nosing the hat out of the way, he began licking Jeb's face. Soon, the old sot began to stir.

"OK, OK! Get off me you big lug!" growled Jeb. He pushed the dog out of the truck and sat up, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. Turk sat patiently next to the truck waiting for his charge to get it together, barking encouragement.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'. Stop that damn racket, will ya?" Jeb slowly untangled himself from the seat of the truck and began to stumble up to the porch with Turk continuing his encouragement the entire way.

Jeb and the dog entered the house and went straight into the kitchen where Jean was busy fixing breakfast. As Jeb eased into a chair at the table, he growled, "Mornin'." Turk curled up in the corner.

Jean sarcastically but pleasantly replied, "Well, good morning, Mr. Grissom, so nice to see you again. Guess it must be Saturday." Jeb, it seemed to Jean, had two tones of voice, a nasty growl and a pleasant growl that was still nevertheless a growl. Using the latter, Jeb responded, "How ya been, Jean?"

Jean was fixing Jeb's breakfast and puttering around the kitchen as she continued, "Fine as frog's fur, Jeb, you know me. How's everything out at the ranch?"

"It's OK, I guess. You know, nothin' ever changes. I suppose it's about time to head up for those damn cattle, get 'em outta the high country. Ya know if cows were any smarter than a chicken, they'd have the sense to come down on their own. Hell, if I was any smarter, I'd find another way to make a living."

"Sure, you would," Jean interjected under her breath.

"Well, maybe with Llamas. I heard at Whiskers last night that old Jensen went and sold every last one of his Herefords and picked up twenty or so head of them Llama critters. Claims there's a helluva market for, not only the babies, but also the damn fur, if you can believe it! They shear 'em just like sheep. Says he's gonna use 'em as pack animals come huntin' season."

"Is he still guiding? He was too old to get on a horse ten years ago! Why don't you do some guiding again this year, Jeb? It'll do you good, get your blood flowin' again. You could be in as good a shape as you ever was if you'd quit drinkin' so much and get some real exercise. It'd be a damn sight better than..."

"Jeez, lady, don't start with me!" Jeb interrupted. "I only see ya once a week and I'm still hen-pecked!"

"Damn it, Jeb, you're dyin'!" Jean had gotten suddenly serious, "You're just takin' up space on this good earth and not contributin' nothin' to nobody. Go get the cattle, hell! You haven't been on a roundup in twenty years, not since Seth was killed. Give it up, Jeb Grissom, for God's sake! Twenty years of grievin' is long enough!"

Jean rarely raised her voice and when she did, she was a formidable presence. Jeb knew instinctively when it was time to back down and that this was one of those times.

"I know, honey, I know. I just can't seem to put it behind me, especially when things happen like what happened at Whiskers yesterday."

"Oh, what happened?"

"Well, as I was goin' in the place," Jeb began, "this punk kid came runnin' up to me. I mean this guy was a real sleezeball, ya know, with the punk hairdo, the earrings an' all. At any rate, he says that if I was Jeb Grissom, then I was his grandpa."

Engrossed in his story, Jeb didn't notice that Jean had turned ashen, aghast at his words and slumped back against the counter as he continued.

"I told him there was no way I could have a grandson, and if I did, he sure as hell wouldn't look like some goddamn circus clown. But ya see, Jean, if things..." Jeb stopped mid-sentence when he looked up to see Jean, face in her hands, quietly sobbing. "Whatever is the matter now, woman?"

Jean slowly put down her hands revealing a pained expression as she struggled for words, "I'm OK, I'm OK. Just stay there while I go get something I should a given you years ago."

Jean quickly disappeared into another room. A few seconds later, she re-appeared clutching a letter. Staring at the envelope, she sank into the chair opposite Jeb.

"Well, what is it, Jean, tell me?" Jeb said after an awkward moment of silence.

Jean looked up at Jeb and began her incredible story. "Do you remember when Seth was a senior and he went to rope in that big rodeo in Missoula?"

"You bet! He took first place in calf ropin' and third in steer wrestlin'. What about it?"

"Well, he met a gal there named Cindy Talbot. He would stop by after school and spend hours tellin' me 'bout how he planned to marry this girl and how much he loved her and askin' advice on how best to tell you."

"No, he never said nothin' about her. Go on."

"He'd tell you," Jean continued, "that he was goin' to a ropin' round-robin somewhere and head on down to Missoula every chance he got that year. Finally, he told me they'd decided to wait to do anything about marriage 'til after he got his commission. After he went into the service, all his letters were about the Army and everything and I almost forgot about the girl 'til this letter arrived."

Jeaned paused a second holding up the envelope and trying to gage Jeb's temperament before continuing.

"Jeb, remember what a Zombie you were that first year or so after the funeral and how I practically had to do everything? I'd answer your mail, pay your bills, and buy your food. You didn't leave the house for over eight months!"

"I know, honey, finish your story," Jeb said gently.

"Well, shortly after the funeral, you received this letter from a Janice Talbot in Missoula. In your current state, I knew you couldn't deal with it so I did."

Jean handed the envelope to Jeb who carefully opened it and removed the contents. He unfolded the letter, stared at it a few seconds and handed it back saying, "Jean, I ain't got my specs with me. You go ahead."

Clearing her throat and getting comfortable, Jean began to read. "Dear Mr. Grissom. Sorry about your son getting hisself killed. Terable thing. My daughter Cindy and your boy was lovers as you probly allready nowed. Well what you don't know is that my Cindy went and got herself nocked up by your boy on his last leve from the Army. I ain't putting no presure on you or anything but I just thawt you might want to do rite by my dawter cause she could sure use some your help. Sincerely, Cindy's Mamma."

"Oh, my God!" was all Jeb could manage.

"Not long after I read the letter, I drove to Missoula to meet this girl. I went to the mother's house. She claimed to be an out-of-work waitress but, judging from the look of her, I'd say she was more an out-of-work alcoholic than anything. I told her I wanted to speak with her daughter and she started to cry."

"Keep goin'," Jeb prodded.

"According to her, when Cindy found out about this letter, she ran away thinking, for some reason, you'd take the baby from her. I talked to the mother about six months later, and she had heard nothing from the girl. Soon after, she died suddenly." Jean paused, swallowed hard and then continued, "I guess I should have told you, Jeb. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking, keeping it a secret like that. As time went on, it was just easier to keep the secret than tell it. I thought maybe the story wasn't even true and the old gal was just lookin for money."

Jeb stood up, turned slowly and walked to the front window without saying a word. After what seemed like an eternity to Jean, she blurted, "Jeb, say something, please!"

At that, Jeb turned and said rather matter-of-factly, "Go to town, find the boy and bring him back here. He may run from me after our first meetin'. I have no idea where he'll be, probably sleeping in his car somewhere. As I recollect, he got out of an old, red, hatchback import of some kind."

* * *

Jean drove up and down Main Street several times getting more discouraged with each pass. She pulled into the not-yet-open gas station one last time to turn around and decided instead to take a look around the side. There, tucked inconspicuously among the cars and trucks awaiting repair, was a dusty, reddish-looking Subaru. Jean cautiously walked over and peered through, first the front, then the rear window where there was a body curled up in a blanket. "This has to be Seth," she thought, "just has to be!" She banged on the window with her fist and stepped back to let the boy get untangled.

Seth stirred into a state of semi-consciousness, groggy and disoriented. As the mental fog began to clear, he looked out the window to see Jean, arms folded, staring in. He quickly gained his composure, rolled down the window and very discourteously asked, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"My name is Jean and Jeb Grissom sent me to get you. Get dressed now and let's go. I'll feed you at the house."

"Bullshit! He doesn't want to see me again, he made that very clear, and I sure as hell don't want to see him!"

"Well, if you are who you say you are, I knew your dad very well. Do you want to come and talk about it or not?"

Seth stared back at Jean for a minute trying desperately to read her, to determine her real intent. Finally, "Ok, let me get my shit together and I'll follow you."

Jean walked back around the building and got in her truck. She maneuvered to where she could see the Subaru in the rear view mirror and waited patiently for Seth to get organized. She had to smile as Seth relieved himself on the tire of the adjacent vehicle like some stray dog marking his territory not knowing he was being watched. It was all Jean could do to keep from honking the horn so she could watch him try to turn it off, tuck it in and keep it out of sight while frantically struggling with his britches. If she had known him a little better, it was certainly in her nature to have a little fun at someone else's expense.

Soon, the Subaru pulled up behind Jean, she waved and headed for the house, Seth in tow. In a few minutes, Jean turned off the gravel country road into her drive, parked in the parking area by Jeb, got out and, folding her arms, leaned against the truck waiting for Seth to catch up. It hadn't taken Seth long after they left the pavement to learn that following too closely on a dusty gravel road makes it eminently difficult to breathe. In the still morning air, it was even worse.

Eventually, Seth, following the dust trail, pulled into the drive and Jean motioned for him to park on the other side of Jeb. As Seth was walking up to Jean, she smiled and pointed to the piece of shirttail sticking out of his pants zipper. This time, she just couldn't pass it up. Seth, without missing a step, turned around and, while walking backward, quickly fixed the problem. Then, he executed another smooth pirouette and kept right on coming. Jean giggled a little, motioned for Seth to follow and proceeded up the walk to the front door that she opened and held for her guest. She led Seth to the kitchen and neither noticed Jeb, a silent witness, standing at the front window.

* * *

Sergio and Phillip's ride to Kalispell was over much too quickly to their liking. Nevertheless, they landed mid-morning and outside the terminal were met by an attendant who had delivered their Lincoln rental car. He was holding a sign that said "Lotini." Neither man was really smart enough to be offended by the misnomer so they promptly threw their gear in the open trunk just as if they were somebody.

The young man noticed the gun cases and cheerily asked, "Gonna do some hunting?"

"That's none of your goddamn business! Now, where the hell is Grifton?" Sergio snapped as he handed the stunned young man a five-dollar bill.

Upset by the rude response and stuttering a little, the attendant replied, "Here, I'll show you," as he reached through the car window and retrieved a map off the front seat. He quickly unfolded the map and spread it across the hood of the car. "OK, let's see. It's right here, about 60 miles north. Just get on Highway 93 right outside the airport and head north. There's a sign for the cutoff to Grifton about 30 miles up. You can't miss it."

Once on the road, Sergio turned to Phillip, "We should be in Grifton by ten o'clock. If we're lucky, this business will be over quickly and we can get the hell out of these damn mountains."

* * *

"Bacon and eggs OK with you?" Jean asked Seth as she wiped out the big cast iron skillet and prepared to cook another serving.

"Yeah, that sounds great! I'm starving."

Jeb walked in the kitchen rather abruptly and sat down directly across from Seth. There was no avoiding his constant gaze and it made the young man nervous again, just when he was warming to Jean's soft banter and pleasant demeanor.

"Well, young man, tell us your story," Jean said as she busied herself with Seth's breakfast.

Angered by the penetrating stare, Seth replied, nodding at Jeb, "I don't think he wants to hear it."

"Boy," Jeb began in the angry growl, "let's get a couple a things straight right from the gitgo. I don't like you and you don't like me, that's for sure. But, if you are my grandson, well, I guess I ought to know it, so get on with your story now and no more smart mouth!"

"OK, OK. My name is Seth Talbot. My mother's name was Cindy Talbot. My father's name was Seth Grissom, and my grandfather's name is Jeb Grissom!" Seth risked a little sneer at Jeb that he ignored. "I never met my dad. Mom said he was killed in the service before I was born. I was born in Long Beach, CA and, until the day before yesterday, never left. Oh and here's a picture of my dad." Seth pulled the picture, a little worse for wear, from his pocket and handed it to Jeb. "And, his name's on the back."

Jeb took the picture and stared at it a moment. Jean walked over with a dishtowel and peered over his shoulder.

"Hell, this could be anybody!" was Jeb's unexpected response.

"No, Jeb, I think that is Seth. Wait a minute." Jean disappeared into the bedroom, returning quickly with a picture in a frame. She held it up next to the other and they were identical.

"I guess Seth must have had two copies and sent one to me and one to his girlfriend," Jean said softly.

"Yeah, that was my mom! I wouldn't have even come here," Seth began tearing up, "but I'm in trouble and I need some help and my Mom's dead and, and it's my fault!"

"OK, son, try to keep it together and start from the beginning. What happened?" Jeb spoke gently in a tone that surprised both Seth and Jean.

Seth spent the next hour replaying the chronology of events leading to his arrival in Grifton. He went into every detail as if it was as important for him to tell it as it was for Jean and Jeb to hear it. He finished at ten o'clock not knowing that his pursuers were getting very close.

* * *

Sergio and Phillip arrived at the Pine Cone Inn, a quaint little group of log cabins on the outskirts of Grifton. Phillip went in the office to get them registered. The assumption was that they'd probably have to spend the night but Sergio hoped not. In a few minutes Phillip re-emerged and headed toward one of the cabins. Sergio followed in the Lincoln and parked in front while Phillip opened the front door and stepped inside. As they were getting unloaded and settling in, Sergio's cell phone rang. After a brief conversation, Sergio turned to Phillip. "That was Lotini. He said a couple of local boys from Helena will be here in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, let's take a walk and have a look-see."

In their suits and patent leathers, the two were just as out of place as Seth, though not as repulsive. At the top of Main Street, the first thing they saw with any promise was Sally's place. Sergio spoke as if to no one in particular, "Let's get a cup and maybe a little information at that cafe over there," and started that direction with Phillip in tow.

Unbeknownst to Lotini's enforcers, the young Teton County Sheriff, J.T. Tucker, was watching their every move from a chair on the boardwalk in front of his office. Grifton was indeed a tourist town in the summer months and strangers were not uncommon. Nevertheless, these two men not only looked out of place, but to J.T., they elicited a feeling of uneasiness just by their swagger and their manner. They carried an air of danger and J.T. watched closely as they entered the cafe.

Sergio and Phillip re-emerged from Sally's after a short time, continued down the boardwalk and entered the hardware store. Their mobster appearance was not helping in their search for information and the usually kind people of Grifton were uncharacteristically rude.

The minute they disappeared into the store, J.T. got up and went over to Sally's place. On entering, he went straight up to her at the counter and asked, "Sally, what did those two strangers want?"

With her clever wit and sharp tongue, Sally quickly replied, "What two strangers, J.T.? You're the only strange one here."

"Dammit, Sally, I'm serious, those two Dapper Dans that just left!"

"Well, strangest thing, this is the second time in two days someone's come in askin' about the same person, Jeb Grissom. Yesterday, a punk rocker, about eighteen or twenty years old, was in askin' how to find Jeb and now these two gorillas."

"What'd ya tell 'em?"

"I told the kid he could catch up with Jeb over ta Whiskers, but the two today, I didn't tell them nothin'. Actually, I told them his number was in the phonebook. Give him a call. They just glared and left."

"OK, was there anything else?"

"Well, the boy just asked about Jeb, of course, but the other two asked about Jeb and someone named Talbot," Sally was thinking, "Seth Talbot, that's it!"

"Hmm. OK, thanks honey." J.T. left and walked over to the office at the Pine Cone Inn where he wrote down the two men's names from the registry, John Smith and Jim Black. After jotting down the license number of their vehicle, he walked directly back to the Sheriff's office.

* * *

Seated at his small desk, J.T. had a sense of urgency based, really, on nothing more than intuition, a real bad feeling about these two seedy-looking characters. First, he called the rental car company at the Kalispell Airport where he discovered that the car was rented by a Nick Lotini out of Los Angeles. Next, he pulled an old address book from the desk drawer and thumbed through it searching for the name and number of an old friend of his father, a lieutenant in the Los Angeles Police Department. J.T. hoped the old boy hadn't retired yet as he dialed the number.

"Los Angeles Police Department, how may I direct your call?" said a very pleasant voice.

"Lieutenant Jim Packard, please."

"One moment, please."

J.T.'s father, Tuck Tucker, had met Packard, a tall man in his mid-sixties, over thirty years ago when he guided a fishing trip for a group of LAPD officers looking to get away from the rigors of the job and re-charge their batteries. They re-connected in several successive years and became good friends.

Packard had just entered his office as the phone was ringing so he reached across the desk, grabbed it and began talking as walked around the desk to take his chair. "Packard here, how can I help you?"

"Jim, this is J.T. Tucker in Montana. I'm Tuck's son."

"Well, I'll be damned! Last time I saw you, seems you were on crutches and about ten years old. How's that crotchety old Pa of yours?" Packard smiled as he flashed on the many peaceful hours he'd spent wetting a fly with Tuck.

"Well, Dad's just fit as a fiddle, ornery as hell and cursing his pending retirement every time he comes in. He's a part time Deputy for me now, you know."

"Sounds like the old fart. Say hello for me, will ya? Now, what can I do for you?"

"I need a little information. You ever run across the name Nick Lotini?"

"Are you kidding? Lotini is one of our bigger crime bosses down here, controls all the drug traffic in East LA. What's goin' on up there?"

J.T. summed it up as best he could with the meager information available. "Well, evidently he sent a couple of his boys up here on some business. Both of 'em look like bodybuilders. One is about six feet, black hair and a heavy black mustache. The other is taller, say six three or four, shorter black hair and ugly as sin."

"Oh, that'd be Sergio Lucia and Phillip Stantz. They're Lotini's enforcers and if they're up in your area, you can bet it's not for the fishing. Those are a couple of real bad boys so be very careful! We've linked them to at least six homicides in the last five years but have yet to make a case."

"Hmm," J.T. mused, "I wonder what the hell they're doing here. What about the name Seth Talbot?"

"Means nothing to me, let's see what the computer says." Packard punched a button on the phone to activate the speaker, spun around in his chair and touched the keyboard of the computer on the cadenza. After a second, he began to talk over his shoulder to J.T. and to himself. "Talbot, T-A-L-B-O-T comma Seth, OK, hang on a second here." Both men waited as the computer did its thing. "Well, here we go. Looks like we're talking about a nineteen-year-old kid that's been involved in all kinds of shit, mostly related to drugs, mostly possession but strictly small time with no outstanding warrants. Oh, wait a minute, what's this?"

"What's what?" J.T. chimed in.

"It appears this kid is wanted for questioning in relation to two different murders. Uh oh, the one is Nick Lotini, our crime bosses son."

"And, the other?" J.T. tried to hurry things along.

"The other is a boy named William Small. Hmm, I heard about this. Lotini thinks Talbot killed his son, even though our forensics boys say he was shot with his own gun, and has sent our two bad boys after him. Their first attempt down here obviously failed. J.T., I think your guests are on a manhunt and I wouldn't suggest anybody get in their way. As far as the LAPD is concerned, you can keep the whole damn bunch."

"Well, Jim," J.T. concluded, "you're a veritable storehouse of knowledge, just like Dad says. I appreciate your help on this. While you're still walkin' on both hind legs, why don't you drag your butt up here and do some fishin' with the old man and me?"

"Well, I'm retirin' in six months and I just might do that."

"OK, Jim thanks for the info and I'll let you know what happens with this deal. I'll talk to you later." J.T. hung up the phone, leaned back with his hands behind his head and tried to make sense of the situation.

* * *

Seth finished his story with, "...and so, here I am," and took his last gulp of milk. Jean and Jeb sat quietly, both allowing the incredible story to sink in. Jean was the first to speak. "Seth, honey, your mom's death was not your fault."

Seth started to get up and leave but Jeb motioned for him to stay seated. Seth, fully intimidated, slunk back down in his chair. Just then, the wall phone rang and Jean got up to answer it. "Hello." There was a pause and then, "Yes, he is. Just a minute, please." Holding the phone to her chest, Jean turned to Jeb. "Jeb, it's J.T. Tucker."

Jeb held out his hand and Jean stretched the cord half way across the kitchen and handed the phone to him.

"Yello, J.T., what can I do for ya?"

"Jeb, have you seen a boy named Seth Talbot?"

"Yep, he's here with us now."

"Jeb, I don't know what that boy is to you but he's bad news! A couple of professional shooters drove into town this mornin' lookin' for him. They already tried to kill him in LA and failed, and I'm afraid , if they find him now, and sooner or later they're gonna, you may get caught in the crossfire. I can't arrest 'em, Jeb, they haven't been charged with any crime. If I were you, I'd send the little punk down the road."

"OK, J.T., thanks for the heads up. I'll figure something out. Talk to you later." Jeb handed the phone back to Jean who walked over and hung it up.

Turning back to Jeb, Jean asked, "What is it, Jeb?"

Jeb was staring at Seth. "His story's true. There's a couple of hired guns in town right now lookin' for him."

With those words, Seth was panic-stricken and jumped to his feet. "Oh, jeez! Oh, shit! I, I totally gotta get outta here!"

"Sit down, boy," Jeb commanded.

"No, I gotta go! They're gonna kill me!"

"I said sit, now!"

Seth, whimpering, melted back into the chair as Jeb leaned forward resting his elbows on the table and in a softer tone said, "Son, nobody's gonna kill you, trust me." Then, turning toward Jean he continued, "Jean, I got some things to do here. Can you take this kid into the other room and see if you can change his looks a little? Make him blend in as much as you can." Jeb waited a second and then added, "Go on, now!"

After Jean and Seth left the kitchen, Jeb went to the phone and dialed the number at the ranch. Toby answered and without waiting for the customary salutations, Jeb started in. "Toby, listen closely. I haven't got time to explain so just do as I say. Me and another fella are goin' up into the Flatheads, probably for the winter. Load up the packhorses with all the supplies you can get on 'em. Put my saddle on Pete, the other on that big sorrel mare we got from Jeeter. After you're done there, go into the house and pull out my gear and some for the other guy. Go ahead and get into Seth's stuff. You know what we'll need. Get out my Seko and the 30.30. We'll need maybe a hundred rounds apiece. Also, get my .45 hangin next to my bed there and a box of shells for it too. I'll be out in a couple of hours. Now, get to it."

Toby held the phone out and stared at it a second as if he had just heard some strange pre-recorded message and was a little baffled by it. Nevertheless, he knew not to question Jeb when he was being serious. Shaking his head, he hung up the phone and headed out to the barn to get started on the list of directives.

Jean had left Seth in the master bedroom while she went into the second bedroom closest to retrieve some clothes. Seth Sr. spent so much time at Jean's place while going to school that he kept a small wardrobe there to preclude having to make the long drive to the ranch. Jean had never bothered to get rid of the stuff for sentimental reasons but more likely because it was too soon out of sight and out of mind. She came back into the master with an armload of things she thought might fit only to find Seth looking at the various pictures in a collage on the wall. As she was putting the clothes on the bed, Seth asked, "Who's in these pictures?"

Jean moved closer to Seth, "Well, let's see. Your dad's in most of 'em." As she began to point, "There he is in his rodeo getup and here he is horsing around with your grandpa." Turning away, "Come on, we'll look at those another time. Now, go jump in the shower and get that gunk out of your hair." Jean didn't wait for a response but turned and headed back into the kitchen where Jeb was just hanging up the phone from his one-sided conversation with Toby. Immediately she asked, "Well, what are you going to do?"

"I'm taking him up in the high country. It's the only place I know for sure I can protect him. I don't know why, though. I ain't even sure yet he's really my grandson. Hell, he don't even look like Seth."

"Of course not, you old fool, he looks like you! He's the spittin' image of Jeb Grissom fifty years ago!"

"Aw, crap! He ain't near handsome enough for that to be true!" Jeb chuckled a little at his quick wit.

"Yep, and I'll tell you somethin' else," continued Jean, ignoring Jeb's feeble attempt at humor. "You open that kid up and you're gonna find a good heart there, I can tell. So, you get him up in those mountains and you show him the Jeb Grissom I used to know. And, you teach him, he's definitely got some learnin' to do!" Over her shoulder as she started to return to the bedroom she added, "We'll be done in a few minutes."

Seth had finished the world's fastest shower, put on a pair of Levi's and was buttoning up a western flannel shirt from the stack on the bed when Jean tapped lightly on the bedroom door.

"Come in."

Jean entered the room, put her hands on her hips and surveyed Seth in his new costume head to foot. "Well, you look just fine except for that hair. Take your shirt off and come into the bathroom."

"But, I just got it..."

Jean just turned and waved her finger at him. Seth shook his head and began to comply. Jean went into the bathroom, foraged around under the sink a minute and emerged with a suspicious looking plastic bottle, a big comb and some scissors. "Here, stand right here in front of the sink and let me trim that mop a bit."

"Naw, it's cool, man. My hair's just fine!"

"Firstly, I am not a man. Secondly, unless you're tired of livin', we have to change your looks and, by God, that's what we're gonna do! Now, get your Mr. Cool Guy butt over here and stand still!" Once again, Seth recognized the wisdom of non-confrontation and stepped over to the sink.

Jean began to trim his hair and started to talk, more like lecture Seth regarding his impending trip with Jeb. "Now, listen to me. Your grandpa is a hard-headed, gruff, opinionated, ornery old codger, ain't no denyin' that. But, he wasn't always that way. The day your dad was killed, Jeb started dyin' and he's been dyin' a little every day since. Be that as it may, if you'll take the time to get past that that ornery exterior, you'll find a wonderful, big-hearted man. Now, Jeb's gonna take you into the mountains where he can look out for you. Ain't nobody knows more about them mountains and surviving in them better than your grandpa. So, maybe you can save each other." Jean finished her speech and her trim job simultaneously. "There, that ought to do it. Now, bend over the sink here."

This time Jean didn't wait for Seth to comply but grabbed him by the scuff of the neck and rudely forced his head into the sink. She poured the contents of the bottle over his head and messaged it in.

"What is that stuff," Seth complained, "it stinks?"

"It's hair coloring, we gotta get rid of that rainbow!"

"Aaugh!"

"Oh, stop, you'll be just fine. Now, let me rinse it and you're done." Jean toweled Seth's hair and combed it. "Go put your shirt on and we'll have a look."

With his hair shorter, a western shirt and pants with no holes in the knees, the transformation was complete. Seth admired himself in the mirror. "Well, that's not so bad."

"Bad, honey, you make one helluva handsome cowboy. Now, let's go show your grandpa."

When Jean arrived in the kitchen, Jeb was leaning against the counter with his coffee mug in his hand waiting not so patiently. Jean, as if introducing royalty, lifted her arm back toward the doorway and gave a little fanfare, "Ta Dah!" as Seth came in behind her.

Jeb, not easily impressed, merely growled, "Well, that's better. Now, find him a hat of some kind to hide that pretty face and let's get rollin'." Jeb gave a sly wink to Jean and nodded an indiscernible nod of approval.

Jean smiled, reached in the pantry, pulled a hat from a peg and pitched it to Seth. "Here, try this one." Seth caught the hat, massaged it around a little, put it on and the three walked outside to the vehicles.

When Jeb reached the truck, he turned to Seth and said, "Give Jean your keys," then to Jean, "Put that jalopy in the barn out of sight after we leave." Seth handed Jean his keys and Jean nodded her understanding to Jeb.

Jeb started to walk around and get in the truck but stopped. He walked back to Jean, gave her a kiss and wrapped her up with a big hug. As Jeb let go, Jean said, "Please, be careful!"

"I will." Jeb headed for the cockpit once again.

Jean stepped over to Seth, gave him a big hug and a kiss and whispered in his ear, her eyes wet with tears, "Bring that ol' man back to me, will ya?"

Seth nodded, got in the truck and he and Jeb headed for the ranch. Neither man knew it but they were about to embark on very dangerous journey that could cost them their lives. Not only were they being hunted by killers but also they would be heading into the Rocky Mountains in the dead of winter. Their adversaries would be relentless and unforgiving. In the months ahead, Jeb would have to learn to accommodate, to teach, to comfort and, most importantly, to trust. Seth would have to grow up fast. He would have to acquire knowledge about life and survival in a hostile environment, to learn the difference between me and us, and also to trust. Both men would be changed forever.

CHAPTER TEN

After their stroll down Main Street, Sergio and Phillip arrived back at the Cabin to find two cowboy types leaning against a pickup. The two men were definitely locals and definitely cowboys, dressed in Levi's, work shirts, with cowboy hats, and big rodeo belt buckles. When Sergio and Phillip were close enough, one of the cowboys hollered, "Are either of you called Sergio?"

Sergio nodded and he and Phillip walked over to the two men. "I'm Sergio, who are you?"

"I'm Bull Henry and this here's Jake." No one offered to shake hands and no pleasantries were exchanged. "A guy named John Walter, in Kalispell, sent us up at the request of somebody named Lotini, said you wanted some help locating a local rancher."

"Yeah, we're looking for a guy named Jeb Grissom."

"Hell, that's easy!" Bull chimed. "I know the Grissom place. It's about fifteen miles from here, up in the foothills of the Flatheads. It'll take about thirty minutes to get there. I picked up some cattle there once."

When things went too well, Sergio got nervous and this was no exception. "Hang on just a minute," he said as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, "I gotta clear things with the boss." As the phone began to ring, Sergio walked a distance away from the group to get a little privacy. Bull rolled a cigarette and watched Sergio's head bobbing up and down as he listened to the boss. Soon, Sergio flipped the phone closed and walked back to the group.

"Well," Bull asked as he lit his cigarette, "what'd he say? Are you satisfied?"

"Yeah, you're fine. Give Phillip and me a few minutes to get our shit together and we'll follow you out there." Phillip trailed Sergio into the cabin where they quickly assembled their weaponry, grabbed their coats and, in a few minutes, re-emerged and threw the rifle cases in the back seat. Both men had big-bore side arms in shoulder holsters under their coats. As they climbed in the Lincoln, Sergio hollered at Bull, "You lead, we'll follow! Let's go!"

* * *

Jeb and Seth pulled into the ranch just about the time Sergio and the boys were meeting at the Pine Cone Inn. They were ignorant of the fact that peril was only a short time behind them. Nevertheless, Jeb's intuition was kicking into gear and there was urgency to his step. He parked by the barn and as Seth was pulling his one bag from the back of the truck, Toby emerged from the barn adjusting a halter while he walked.

"Toby, this here's Seth Talbot. He's the guy I told you was goin' with me." Seth and Toby nodded a greeting at each other as Jeb continued, "We're goin' in the house. You finish up out here then come in." Jeb wheeled and headed toward the house. Seth caught up quickly and walked by his side.

Finally, Seth couldn't stand it any longer and began to speak, emboldened with a false bravado. "Man, this is totally freakin' me out. I'd like to know what the fuck you plan t..."

Before he could finish, a vicious backhand from the old man bloodied his mouth and knocked him flat on his back in the dirt. As he shook his head and slowly regained his senses, he finally noticed Jeb, hands on his hips, standing over him.

"Well, boy, guess this is as good a time as any to establish a peckin' order, so here it is. I'm the peck-OR and you're the peck-EE. If you want to challenge that order, stand up right now and give it your best shot." Jeb paused a second to give Seth a chance to stand up, knowing he wouldn't. "OK then, here's the rules. First, the kind of language you just used is unacceptable. You will never use it, or anything like it, again! Second, you do exactly as I say to do, exactly when I say to do it, no question! And lastly, you speak only when spoken to, unless you have something enlightening, intelligent, interesting or useful to say. If you follow these rules, we just might make it through the winter without either gettin' killed or killin' one another. Now, get your butt out of the dirt and come on into the house."

Seth was stunned, embarrassed, ashamed and angry all at once. But, more than that, he was consumed with fear and in his heart knew that this nasty old bastard was his only hope. He got to his feet, dusted himself off and followed Jeb at a safe distance to the house. Toby, who had been thoroughly entertained by the entire performance, shook his head and walked back into the barn.

As Seth entered the house, he heard Jeb holler from the back, "Boy, come in here!" Seth followed the sound and entered the bedroom where Jeb was foraging around in the closet. Jeb threw a handful of clothes to Seth, pointed to the bed and said, "Put 'em there for now." He then began searching the dresser drawers as he continued, "This was my son's room and this is his stuff. It's been undisturbed for twenty years." Jeb's tone softened a little as he added, "Guess I kept it for just such an occasion as this." Jeb kept digging and began to mumble, "Long Johns, Levi's, here's a belt, wool socks, and try these boots on." Without looking, Jeb tossed the boots to Seth who sat on the bed, pulled off his sneakers and slipped them on.

"They fit but I'd rather wear my sneakers."

"Can't, can't ride a horse in tennies. Now, shove that stuff in this duffel includin' these." Jeb kicked over a pair of Sorrels (waterproof, felt-lined snow boots). "And, replace that silly hat with one of them others." Jeb pointed to a hat rack on the wall.

After Jeb left the room, Seth noticed a picture of his dad on the wall. As quickly as he could, he changed clothes to duplicate the picture, same clothes, same hat, same everything.

* * *

Behind the barn, four packhorses were tethered to a long hitching rail. Each had a wooden packsaddle and two large panniers (large basket-like bags) hanging on either side. The gear Toby had assembled was packed high on each one and three were neatly wrapped and strapped in canvas tarps. Toby was finishing up the last pack when Jeb walked up. Without looking up, Toby asked, "You have trouble? Who is that boy?"

As he checked the packs, Jeb answered, "He claims he's my grandson, Seth's boy. Says Seth got his mother pregnant on his last leave from the Army. Who knows? At any rate, he got himself in some trouble and a couple of man hunters are here lookin' for him. Figure I'll take him into the backcountry. We'll winter, for the most part, up 'ta Crater Lake and maybe head north in the spring. You been up to the cabin lately?"

"Last month, restock then. It in good shape. You better take South Pass, storm coming, one day, maybe two." Toby could actually speak pretty good English and was quite well read. He just chose the role of the ignorant Indian with broken English for reasons known only to him. Possibly, he did it because it annoyed Jeb and he found a little humor in that.

"Oh yeah," retorted Jeb, "some of your Indian intuition?"

"No, Weather Channel!"

Jeb smiled. "Let's go get the rest of the gear from the house."

When Toby and Jeb went in the house, Seth was standing by the fireplace in the living room inspecting the antique, double-barreled shotgun mounted on the wall. When he turned to face them, Jeb and Toby were stunned by the resemblance of the boy to the father.

"Well, how do I look?"

"You look just fine," Jeb answered without further comment, "Now, get your gear and let's get goin'. Toby, you better give me a hand." Toby followed Jeb into the master bedroom where he seized the opportunity to impart a little sage advice.

"That boy looks a lot like our Seth with those clothes on, but he looks a lot more like you. He surely is a Grissom. Jeb, you and me been together a long time now."

"Yep, over fifty years, I reckon."

"You know, I don't say nothin' just to be talkin'?"

"Oh, bullshit, you chatter like a goddamn squirrel so just get it out!"

"Well, you done a good job raisin' Seth but you gotta know this boy ain't him and you can't be comparin' the two. This boy can never be our other Seth and he don't have to. But, if he's a Grissom, I bet inside there's a good man," Toby finished, but after a second decided he had to add, "and that's all I have ta say."

"Thank God!" was Jeb's sarcastic response. "Now, let's get goin'! Incidentally, if them two man hunters I mentioned show up, you tell 'em whatever they wanna know. Those two are dangerous so don't be no damn hero!"

Laden with gear, Jeb and Toby emerged from the house to find Seth waiting on the porch. The three struggled to the barn with everything under arm. They dropped the gear by the last packhorse and Toby began to finish his packing job. Jeb handed Seth a rifle in a scabbard and a pair of saddlebags, motioned for him to follow and headed to the other end of the rail where the saddle horses were tied.

"Well, boy, this one's yours." Jeb began insuring a tight cinch as he continued talking. "Throw them bags behind the saddle here and give me that scabbard. You right-handed or left-handed?"

"Right!" Seth replied and, while he handed Jeb the scabbard, added, "What's his name?"

Jeb began to strap the scabbard on the side of the saddle and hollered at Toby, who was busy affixing Jeb's rifle to his saddle, "Hey, Toby, this critter got a name?"

"Name Boots!"

"Well, there ya are. Her name is Boots."

Seth, who was petting the animal on the neck and getting a little nervous, decided that he better own up to his trepidation about the coming ride. "You know, I've never been on a horse in my life. You're gonna have to, like, teach me."

Jeb answered quickly, "Nope, that's Boots here's job. You just get on her, put your feet in the stirrups, your left hand on the saddle horn and your right hand on the reins. When we start out, don't fight it. As Toby says, 'Be one with animal!' In a day or two, you'll be fine. Now, watch me, then see if you can get on her." Jeb climbed aboard Pete, folded his hands across the saddle horn and prepared to watch the fun. To his surprise, Seth, albeit quite clumsily, made it into the saddle the first try. Without dismounting, Jeb leaned down and grabbed the lead rope to one of the pairs of packhorses. Toby had them linked together in twos. Toby took the lead for the other pair and led them over to Seth and Boots. As Toby handed Seth the lead, Jeb headed out across the meadow.

With a forlorn look on his face, Seth whispered loudly, "Toby, what do I do?"

"First, put these on. I can see your hands not ready for this." Toby handed Seth the work gloves from his back pocket and continued, "This is a good horse. She knows what she's doing. Let her be and she'll take good care of you. Now, you listen to your grandpa. No man knows more about the mountains than him, especially these mountains! Go where he goes and do what he does. Now, hold the reins out to guide the horse and give her a little kick in the ribs with your heels. Pull back on the reins to stop. That's it, so get going!"

"Thanks, Toby." Seth tentatively tapped Boots with his heels and the horse immediately followed after Pete without any direction from her rider. In an effort to catch up, Boots began to trot and, with both hands wrapped firmly around the saddle horn, it was all Seth could do to stay onboard. Halfway across the meadow, Jeb had stopped and was looking intently down the ranch road, focused on a couple of vehicles approaching in a cloud of dust. Jeb quickly retrieved his binoculars from the saddlebag and trained them on the cloud. It was a Lincoln follow by a pickup. As the vehicles skidded to a stop in front of the barn, Jeb and Seth hastily continued across the meadow toward the tree line and the trailhead on the far side.

Sergio and Phillip jumped from the Lincoln with pistols drawn as Toby came around the side of the barn. "Where are they, old man?" barked Sergio.

Toby just raised his arm and pointed across the meadow. The two would-be killers watched helplessly as their prey disappeared into the trees.

Sergio slowly lowered his weapon. "Son-of-a-bitch!"

"What are we gonna do now?" asked Phillip.

Sergio mused for a minute and, pointing to Bull and Jake who were now leaning against the side of the truck, responded, "Well, that's what these two hicks are for, I guess."

Sergio, followed by Phillip, walked over to the truck. Everyone ignored Toby who stood quietly and waited patiently. Sergio eyed the lead cowboy head to foot and then asked, "Mr. Henry, are you prepared to chase these guys down?"

"I 'spect we could finish 'em for ya." Bull was all of a sudden empowered and began sounding rather cocky realizing the two big city tough guys were completely out of their element and in desperate need of his special set of skills. "Is this Lotini fella good for the dough?"

"Yes, Mr. Lotini is a man of his word. You can bank on it." It is particularly curious that, in a world of crime and violence, a man's word could have any value but, nevertheless, greedy sycophants tend to put aside their inherent mistrust in hopes of a bigger payday.

Jake Bills, who up until then had little to say, strutted over to Toby, put his hand on his shoulder and forcefully said, "Old man, we need some horses, a little more gear and a guide who knows these mountains. And, we need 'em now!"

"I fresh out of horses." At almost eighty years old, Toby was not afraid of meeting his maker and could not refrain from a little poignant sarcasm. He even looked forward to getting reacquainted with all of his lost relatives on the other side. "Have one mule but he hate white man."

Toby's humor was lost on Jake who smiled gratuitously and slowly pushed the old man to the ground until he was sitting cross-legged in the dirt. He then stepped back and aimed his pistol at Toby's head. "OK, Sitting Bull, where is the nearest outfitter?"

Toby was hesitant but finally managed an answer, "'Bout three miles back, take Crow Canyon turnoff. A mile or so, you see sign that say 'Crow Canyon Outfitters'. Maybe they help you."

"Well, Chief, if you're lying..."

Toby quickly interrupted, "Indian no lie, white man lie!"

* * *

Jeb, with Seth following and squirming in the saddle, stopped on the edge of a mountain meadow. Relatively treeless and grassy, the meadow stretched slightly uphill about 400 yards and was at least half that wide with a small stream meandering through it. Becoming more and more cautious and alert, Jeb surveyed the perimeter intently, then dismounted and, as he pulled his rifle from the scabbard, spoke to Seth, "Guess it's time for a quick shootin' lesson. I figure your buddies won't be able to get it together 'til mornin' and will be on us by mid-morning. Go ahead and get down from there. We'll tether the horses here."

Seth was more than happy to abandon his torture seat and get his feet back on terra firma. He dismounted and followed Jeb's lead as he found a couple of saplings to wrap the reins around. Jeb reached in his saddlebags, retrieved a box of shells and his binoculars, and then walked over to a log where he began loading the gun. He talked to Seth over his shoulder, "Grab that rifle out of your scabbard and some ammo out of your saddlebag. Bring 'em over here."

Shortly, Seth joined Jeb by the log. Jeb began to lecture as he continued loading, "OK, boy, this here's a Seko, bolt action, 30.06-caliber rifle with a Leopold three-by-nine variable power scope. I shoot a Spitzer boat tail with a 150-grain bullet. Its effective range is 400 yards or so dependin' on who's doin' the shootin'. It holds six rounds including the one in the chamber. I realize you probably don't care about this, but the point is, it's important to know your weapon. This is a long-range, big game rifle. Yours, on the other hand, is a Winchester Model 70, lever-action, 30-caliber saddle gun. Its effective range is only 150 to 200 yards. Now, you ready to give it a try?"

"I guess so." was the tentative response from an overwhelmed protégé.

"Before we start," Jeb continued, "there are a few gun rules you gotta know and don't ever forget 'em when you're around me. Number one, never put a rifle in your scabbard with a bullet in the chamber. You don't want to shoot your horse. Two, never take the safety off 'til you're ready to shoot. Three, never shoot from horseback if you can avoid it. Four, always use a dead rest to make sure every shot is a good one. Five, always make sure of your target. If there is any question at all, don't shoot! And six, never kill anything just for the sake of killin'. Only two reasons for killin' anything and that's self-defense or food. Understand?"

"Yes sir, I think so."

"OK then, let's get started." Jeb spent the better part of an hour patiently teaching Seth the finer points of marksmanship. Seth became engrossed and absorbed everything Jeb had to say. He asked a myriad of questions which Jeb patiently answered one-by-one. The adversarial barriers of their initial encounter were beginning to melt and the seeds of a lasting relationship were starting to take root, though neither man was yet ready to admit it. At the end of the session, both were lying back against the log, Jeb puffing away on his pipe. Finally, Jeb got to his feet. "Well, let's get on up the trail and find us a good campin' spot. It'll be gettin' dark in a couple of hours." The two mounted up and Jeb led the way across the meadow and on up the trail.

It was almost dark by the time Jeb had selected a suitable campsite and they got things unpacked and set up. The eight-by-ten canvas wall tent was overkill for only a couple of nights on the trail, but Jeb, with a lifetime of experience, was able to erect it quickly. He was quite efficient as the skills all came rushing back and Seth did what he could to help. By the time the blackness of night in the pines became a reality, there was a blazing campfire inside a stone ring, and a Coleman lantern burning brightly in the tent.

Seth was crouched by the fire absentmindedly poking it with a stick when Jeb emerged from the tent and joined him. Neither spoke for a minute. Finally, Seth said, "You really think those guys will follow us up here?"

"Yep, I 'spect they were told not to come back without your scalp."

"Why don't we just run from them?"

Jeb reflected a second before answering. "Son, you never want to be the hunted if you can avoid it. If we make a stand here, it'll be on our terms, we'll control the situation. Now, let's get some grub."

* * *

The next morning, Jeb was up before light, had the woodstove fired up, a pot of coffee perking and the bacon on. Eventually, he turned up the Coleman, walked a couple of steps to where Seth was snug in his sleeping bag and kicked him into consciousness. "Wake up, boy. Come on now. We have to get ready for the party."

Seth struggled to his feet, pulled his pants on and buttoned his shirt. Then, he got his boots on from a standing position, a real challenge in the unsteady early morning he discovered. As he turned toward Jeb, he was startled by his outstretched hand offering a hot cup of coffee, "Here, this'll get your motor running. Go on out by the campfire and I'll bring out your breakfast in a minute or two."

Seth went outside and, in a short time, Jeb came out to the fire with a plate of chow in one hand and the coffee pot in the other. He handed the plate to Seth, filled his cup and disappeared back in the tent to retrieve his own. Jeb came back out, eating and talking while he walked over to Seth, "Hurry up now, we gotta get down the hill."

Seth was getting more and more nervous about the impending confrontation. "I don't want to, like, walk right up to these guys."

Jeb just nodded and put his plate down by the fire. "Get your rifle, boy, we don't need the horses this mornin'. We're goin' back down to the meadow and it's only a couple of miles."

* * *

As Jeb was striding down the trail toward the meadow, with Seth struggling to keep up, he suddenly stopped and turned to face Seth. "From here on, there'll be no more talkin' unless absolutely necessary. Even then, keep it to a whisper!" Before Seth could catch his breath or respond, Jeb had turned and was back on his way.

Eventually, they stood in the trees surveying the meadow where they had practiced shooting the day before. All was quiet as they carefully skirted the meadow, purposefully staying in the trees. It was still pretty dark but Jeb insured that, when the sun did rise, it would be at his back. When he finally got to the position he wanted with a clear view of the trail across the meadow, he backed into the trees about ten yards and began to set up behind a fallen log, motioning for Seth to get over beside him. He chambered a round, leaned the Seko against the log and whispered to Seth. "OK, the sun, when it gets high enough, will be at our backs. When they come into the meadow with the sun in their eyes, they won't be able to see into these trees. The range'll be 'bout 200 yards. Perfect!"

"Man, this is crazy! You think they're just gonna leave?"

"Probably not but, if we don't give 'em the chance to, we're no better than they are. Remember, these guys are killers! Now, be quiet and wait!"

To Seth's surprise, Jeb turned around, sat down and leaned back against the log, pulling his hat down over his face as if to take a nap. Seth had his Winchester at the ready and peered nervously over the log deciding that somebody had to keep his eyes open. Just as Seth was beginning to nod off, Jeb suddenly rolled over, grabbed his rifle and positioned it on the log. He whispered to Seth, "They're comin'!"

"I don't see anything."

"I don't see 'em either, I hear 'em! Now, keep your head down and your mouth shut!"

Seth gave Jeb the roll-your-eyes, I think you're crazy look and scooted down so he could barely see over the top of the log. Jeb cranked his scope to nine-power, put the rifle to his shoulder, clicked off the safety and trained it on the place he knew the trail broke into the meadow. A minute later, a rider emerged from the trees, then another and another. Jeb identified the lead rider as his neighbor, John Hawkins. He did not recognize the other two riders but assumed that they were the same two that J.T. had warned him about. During his appraisal of the situation, Jeb noted that Hawkins had no weapon visible but the second rider, Jake, had an assault rifle slung over his shoulder in such a way that he could raise it quickly to shoot. The third man, Bull, had a rifle of some kind but tucked in a scabbard hanging on the side of his saddle, handy but still requiring a couple of seconds to access. The number two rider was definitely the immediate threat and Jeb trained his rifle on him. When the trio had cleared the tree line by fifty yards, Jeb hollered out, "John Hawkins, this is Jeb Grissom! Why are you tracking me?"

John did not answer but looked nervously back and forth between the other riders and the trees. Jake turned abruptly in the saddle and unleashed a barrage of fire from the assault rifle in the general direction of the voice. In less than the beat of a heart, Jeb squeezed the trigger and the Seko roared a deafening response. Jake was catapulted from his mount with a bullet through the heart. Thinking his muzzle flash may have betrayed their position, Jeb knew he could not allow the other man to get off a shot. Bull was in Jeb's crosshairs before his rifle cleared the scabbard and Jeb allowed him a second to reconsider his actions. He did not. Jeb's Seko roared again and it was over. Before Bull's lifeless body hit the ground, John Hawkins threw his hands in the air and started yelling.

"Don't shoot, Jeb, don't shoot! I'm not part of this, I swear!"

Jeb and Seth stood up and began to walk toward the remaining rider. As they got closer, Jeb slung his rifle over his shoulder and instead, pulled his long-barreled .45 from the holster on his hip. When they got up to John, Jeb pointed the pistol at his head and put his finger across his lips indicating John should remain silent. Without looking away from John, Jeb barked an order. "Seth, chamber a cartridge."

Seth shoved the lever on the thirty-thirty down and then slammed it shut. A cartridge was chambered and the rifle was automatically cocked. Seth raised it to his shoulder and drew a bead on the terrified rider. Jeb continued, "Now, keep your eyes trained on him while I check the other two. If he even blinks, shoot him!"

Seth began to tremble as he aimed a loaded gun at another human for the first time and that made John even more nervous. Jeb walked over, first to Jake and then to Bull, keeping his revolver trained on each in turn. He determined both men were dead, holstered his weapon and walked back to John who couldn't stand it anymore and began a rapid-fire jabber.

"Jeb, they forced me to guide them, I swear. That big one kept his hand on that damned Uzi the whole time. I had no choice. I knew you could handle 'em. Christ, Jeb, you gotta believe me. I don't even have a gun. They wouldn't let me."

Jeb stared at his neighbor for a long few seconds remembering how he never really liked the prick in the first place, thought he was an egotistical blowhard. He was enjoying seeing him squirm in the saddle about to pee his pants. Finally, "I 'spect you're tellin' the truth, John, but at this point, I really can't afford to trust you any more than they could. So, get down here and help me get these guys on their horses." Jeb turned to notice his trembling young guard, " Seth, I want you to slowly turn away and very carefully uncock that rifle." Seth complied and John heaved a sigh of relief as he began to dismount. Jeb continued, "Now, while we take care of the bodies, you collect their weapons and any ammo you can find."

It took awhile, but before long, the bodies were wrapped, one in a tarp and one in a poncho, and draped over their respective saddles. When they were finished, Jeb ordered John, "Get on your horse!" John did so and sat quietly. Jeb tied one set of reins to the tail of the other horse and handed the lead horse's reins to John. "Now, get this garbage out of my mountains. My place is the closest. Have Toby call the Sheriff and you tell him exactly what happened here. If the story gets skewed in the tellin', eventually, I'll find you and there'll be hell to pay. You savvy?" John just nodded. "Now, get the hell outta here!"

* * *

Later that day, J.T. was back at his desk when his father, Tuck, walked in. J.T. greeted his father with, "Hi, Dad, how are you today?"

Tuck, as serious as sin, responded, "I just heard about Jeb. Tell me what's goin' on!"

J.T. was surprised by his father's intensity, "Jeez, Pop, calm down a little."

"Don't tell me to calm down, boy! Jeb Grissom and I have been friends for over fifty years. If he's in trouble or needs help, by God I wanna know!"

"Well, Dad, he's not in trouble with the law, but he sure as hell is with somebody. He's protecting a boy that Jean tells me is his grandson."

"Grandson? Well, I'll be damned."

"The kid got in some trouble in L.A. and a Mafioso type sent a couple of gunsils up here after him. Evidently, they hired a couple of bad boys out of Helena to chase 'em on horseback and forced John Hawkins to guide 'em. Dad, when they caught up to Jeb, he killed 'em both! Two shots right through the heart."

"Oh, my God!"

"John says it was self-defense. Claims the two opened up on Jeb and that was the end of it for 'em. He's got no reason to lie, so I 'spect that's what happened. At any rate, Toby says Jeb intends to keep the boy in the high country 'til he's sure there are no more of these contract boys comin'. My problem is I got two murders here and a boy that's wanted for questioning in L.A. for two murders there and the two guys I need are hiding out in two-million acres of wilderness."

Tuck thought for a second then queried, "What are the chances of more shooters goin' after them?"

"Well, your old buddy Jim Packard tells me that these big crime bosses don't give up when they want somebody done in. It's bad for business evidently. I talked to him again yesterday and he said that on one of Vice's phone taps, they recorded a conversation where the fella talked about a guy named Lotini putting a $100,000 bounty on the head of some kid hiding out in Montana."

Tuck removed his hat and rubbed the back of his neck as he took a chair at the side of the desk. After mulling over the situation for a minute, "Well, son, it seems to me that nobody can protect that boy as well as Jeb and since neither of 'em has committed a felony, the best place for 'em is probably in those mountains. I'll get word to Jeb somehow and let him know he can expect some more company. We'll pick 'em up in the spring. I pity those poor sons-a-bitches that try to take Jeb Grissom in them mountains or anywhere else for that matter."

"Dad, Jeb's an old man. He'll be hunted by young, strong guys driven by a big bounty. They'll be killers, one and all. Don't you think we better get those two to a safer place?"

"Son, it's time you understood what you're dealing with here." Tuck got up, went to the coffee pot for a top-off while he organized his thoughts, then returned to sit and tell his story. "Not many know this but Jeb Grissom would have been another Audie Murphy if what he did in Vietnam wasn't so secret. He weren't no ordinary soldier and he ain't no ordinary man. In Nam, he was the baddest of the bad, a real Rambo type. When he got out of the service, he had a helluva time adjusting to civilian life. We'd stay up drinkin' 'til two in the morning and then he'd be wakin' me up at three to go fishin'. He never slept, just catnapped. He wouldn't go to a bar 'cause he was afraid of what might happen. He eventually mellowed but it took years and more than a few trips to the shrinks at the VA hospital. Even now, you don't dare sneak up on him or surprise him. So, yeah, I think they'll be just fine. I just hope the body count don't get too high."

* * *

Seth rode quietly behind Jeb thinking of the events of the morning and trying to reconcile his emotional confusion. Finally, he came back to reality and yelled to Jeb, "Hey, my butt is killin' me, man. How about, like, a break?"

Without saying a word, Jeb stopped, dismounted and started to check the loads on the pack animals. They were in a small clearing on the main trail. Seth dismounted and, rubbing his rear, walked down a game trail into the trees to relieve himself. As he was admiring the view and draining his tank, he noticed a dark ball of fur come out of the bushes and dart down the trail. He struggled with his zipper as he walked on down the trail to satisfy his curiosity. Just ahead, he heard a commotion and soon saw a small black bear cub scamper up a tree and begin to bawl. "Aw, what's the matter little fella, have you lost your mamma?" No sooner did he finish his rhetorical question than a deafening roar came from the trees beyond. Shaken by the sound, Seth's surprise turned to terror as a huge sow came lumbering up the trail straight at him. His immediate reaction to the threat was to scream at the top of his lungs, turn and head back to Jeb on a dead run.

When Seth broke through the trees and on to the trail, Jeb was already standing, poised for the unknown, with his .45 unholstered, cocked and ready. Seth ran directly to Jeb screaming and crying. "It's a bear, a giant goddamn bear!" Right on his heels, the bear broke into the clearing and skidded to a halt. Black bears are cautious by nature but the sows can be vicious and unpredictable when protecting their cubs. A 600lb bear in a rage can literally decapitate a man with one swipe of their massive paws but, now confronted with two men, the sow paced back and forth growling all the while. Still consumed with terror and cowering behind Jeb, Seth hollered again, "Shoot, shoot, for Christ's sake shoot!"

Eventually, the big sow stopped, stood up on her hind legs with her front paws outstretched and roared her outrage. Seth was beside himself when Jeb took a couple of steps toward the bear, threw his arms in the air and growled a loud, challenging response. Confused by the unusual turn of events, the bear dropped to all fours and resumed her pacing and growling. Jeb just stood his ground and growled right back. Satisfied she had made her point, don't mess with my kid, the big sow finally slowly and deliberately turned and ambled off back down the trail. Jeb holstered his weapon and went back to the boy who had melted in a heap in the dust on the trail. As Jeb stared down at the pitiful lump on the ground, Seth looked up with tears still blurring his vision and said, "Why didn't you shoot it? I wanted you to shoot it?"

"Shoot it! This is her house. We're just guests. She has more right to be here than you. If you kill just 'cause you can't overcome your fears, trust me boy, you die a little too. You gotta learn to face your fears to give any meaning at all to your life. Now, stand up here and dust yourself off." Jeb reached down to give the boy a hand and helped him to his feet.

"Haven't you ever killed a bear?"

"Yeah, a couple, but only when it was necessary and I never took no pleasure in it. If a bear has to be killed, it ain't his fault. It's generally 'cause man failed him somewhere along the line. Now, get on your horse and let's get goin'"

* * *

By nightfall, a new campsite had been erected and Seth and Jeb were relaxing around the campfire drinking coffee after a filling meal of Jean's homemade chili and cornbread. Jeb got up, walked over to his saddlebags and pulled out a pint of whiskey. He poured a little in his coffee, screwed the lid back on and threw the bottle to Seth. "Here, add a little snakebite to that coffee. It'll warm your gizzard."

Seth poured a little in his cup, took a sip and immediately had a look of pain as he gasped for breath. Jeb chuckled as Seth put the lid on and tossed the bottle back.

After a few moments of sipping and silence, Seth turned to Jeb and asked, "Where are we going, anyways?"

"We're headin' up to a cabin Tuck and I built in '76. We should make it by tomorrow afternoon, hopefully, before the storm hits. It's remote as hell and tough to find. Few people know about it and nobody ever bothers it. I ain't been there in twenty years, not since your dad was killed. We used to come up in the fall to hunt for a few weeks. Toby comes up occasionally and I think Tuck still makes it up a couple of times a year. We'll be safe there and fairly comfortable 'til this thing blows over."

"Or blows up!" added Seth. "Ya know, it's like I can't figure you out. One minute you're talking about how you shouldn't kill just to kill and the next you're talking about hunting. It sounds pretty hypocritical to me."

After pondering Seth's statement for a minute, Jeb finally responded. "I never attempt to justify my life to nobody. I just live it accordin' to my own set of rules. I never kill anything I don't eat and never kill just for sport. Nevertheless, killin' don't bother me none. It's the natural order of things up here. These here mountains are a theater of life and death. When I come as a hunter, I join the cast if only for a short while. Otherwise, I'm just in the audience, just a spectator. To me, huntin' is its own justification."

"Will you, like, teach me how to hunt?"

"If you use the word 'like' one more time where it don't belong, I'm gonna, 'like', muzzle you for, 'like', the rest of the winter! Savvy?"

"Jeez, you, 'like', sound...," Seth immediately realized his error and slapped his hand over his mouth for a second, then continued, "Oops, just like Mom." Both chuckled a little.

"OK, I'll teach you to be a hunter but not with a rifle. Anyone can kill a dumb animal with a boomstick. Now, archery, well that's another story! I taught your dad to hunt with a bow and he got pretty good at it. There's a certain primal satisfaction to puttin' meat on the table by your own hand. Doin' it with a primitive weapon adds new meaning to 'the thrill of the hunt'. There is nothin' more excitin' on this planet than callin' in an 800 pound bull elk that's bellowin' away and tearing up the forest with his big horns."

"What do you do with 'em after you kill 'em?"

"There's an old saying in hunting that goes, 'as soon as you pull the trigger, the fun stops'. That's 'cause then you have to get that big beast out of the forest and onto the dinner table but that's another story. Let's get some sleep, we got a long day tomorrow."

* * *

The weather was definitely changing. There was a chill in the air and, with the constant wind, the cold cut through clothes like a knife. A storm was coming for sure. Jeb and Seth had kept to the main trail and had been climbing for hours, steadily gaining elevation. There were so many false tops that Seth thought they would never arrive at their destination, whatever that was. After several hours of climbing, they left the main trail and started up an even steeper climb. Eventually, they crested the final mountain and found themselves on the rim of a large basin with a small lake in the bottom. The view from the rim was panoramic and breathtaking. They sat on their mounts taking it all in until Seth finally spoke. "Whoa! This is amazing! You'd never know this was here."

"Tuck and I found this place just after the Vietnam war. We liked to think we were the first humans in here and maybe we were. I've never seen it show up on any map and, unless you know it's here, you'd have to find it by accident like we did. The only way to see it is to be here or from the air."

"Where's the cabin?"

"The cabin sits in the trees right under that big rock face on the far side. You can't see it unless you're right there. There's game trails everywhere but really only one trail into the bottom suitable for saddle horses. Let's see if I can still find it." Seth and Jeb began to make their way around the rim until Jeb finally found a tree with a healed-over axe mark high off the ground as if it had been there for forty years. "Well, here's the trailhead. Let's tighten our cinches for the descent and get on down there."

It took less than an hour to pick their way down the trail and soon they were side-by-side in front of the rustic, hand-hewn, log cabin. It had a low-pitched, shingled roof, two double-hung wood windows on either side of the door and a six-foot wide deck with a log handrail running across the front. Outside of the deck were two hitching rails.

"Wow, this is awesome!" exclaimed Seth.

Jeb slowly shook his head and smiled at Seth's amazement as he dismounted and wrapped the reins loosely around the hitching rail. "Let's get the saddles off these horses and get 'em taken care of. You just watch me and do what I do." Jeb unstrapped his saddlebags and tossed them over the rail. He took the lead ropes for the pack animals and tied them to the rail. After securing the pack animals, he began to lead Pete around the side of the cabin to the corral in the back. Seth followed with Boots in tow. The corral gate consisted of three loose rails that just slid out of the way and Jeb quickly threw them aside. Seth watched and followed suit as Jeb unfastened the cinch and belly strap of the saddle. When the saddle was free, Jeb slid it off, held it with one hand through the gullet, grabbed the saddle blankets with the other and carried them over to the small tack shed attached to the back of the cabin. After struggling a bit, Seth mimicked his mentor but stepped on a dragging cinch strap and went ass-over-teakettle landing upside down in the horse manure. Jeb had another good chuckle as he opened the shed door and draped his saddle over one of the two saddle racks. After putting Seth's saddle on the other rack, he said, "Now, let's go get them pack horses unloaded."

The four pack animals waited patiently as Seth and Jeb unloaded them one-by-one setting the panniers in a row on the front deck. The loose gear was piled to one side and the tarps were neatly folded for the eventual ride out. The sun set early in the bottom of the basin and the day was swiftly coming to a close by the time they finished moving the eight panniers and loose gear into the cabin.

The inside of the cabin was basically one big room with a wooden floor worn smooth over the years. There were two sets of bunk beds along one wall. Along the opposite wall was the kitchen consisting of barn-wood-looking, handmade cabinets and a wood countertop. Built into the back wall of the cabin, facing the front door, was a huge stone fireplace with a big, swinging, iron hook. Hanging on the hook was a large, very heavy, cast iron pot. The fireplace had a wide hearth running across the opening and the entire length of the back wall. There were two chairs in front of and facing the fireplace, one an old oak rocker.

Jeb got up from building a roaring fire and walked over to Seth who was rummaging through his duffel. "OK," he said pointing to the panniers on the floor, "these four are food and cooking gear. Drag them over to the kitchen area and unload them into those cabinets. I'll help you with the rest when I get back."

"Where are you going?"

"I gotta get those critters taken care of 'fore it gets too dark."

* * *

That night the temperature plummeted with the impending storm and the wind began to howl. Jeb and Seth had gotten the cabin pretty well organized and most of the gear stowed. After a less-than-sumptuous dinner of canned chili, Jeb was relaxing in the rocker in front of a blazing fire puffing on his pipe and reveling in the peaceful, secure ambiance of the cabin. It was the first time in years he allowed himself to savor the moment and it amazed him how good it felt. He knew there was eminent danger on the horizon but for the time, and for the first time in a long time, he felt good.

Seth threw the towel on the counter after cleaning up the few dishes and walked over to the fire. He pulled the other chair next to Jeb and joined him in his fire-watching, meditative state. Eventually, almost casually, he asked, "Do you think more men are gonna come looking for me?"

"Well," Jeb began after removing his pipe from his mouth, "we have no way of knowin', so I think we better stay on our toes just in case. We'll patrol the rim twice a day, early morning and early evening. From there we can see for miles in every direction. And, we stick together! Never leave this basin alone." Jeb paused for a second while he tamped his pipe and took another quick puff. "It's gonna snow tonight, probably a good one from the feel of it. That'll cover our trail into this place but a good mountain man will still find us sooner or later, if he's a mind to. Tomorrow, we'll take a couple of these pack horses up to the rim and send 'em home. We still won't have enough feed to get through the winter but we'll just see how it goes."

"What do you mean, 'send 'em home'?"

"These old veterans are like homing pigeons, they find their way. Now, let's get some shuteye."

* * *

The fast-moving storm, which raged most of the night, had departed by morning after depositing a good two feet of fresh powder. In the bright morning sun, the basin's appearance had immediately and radically changed from a myriad of fall colors to pure white. The evergreens, with their branches draped in snow, stood in stark contrast to the surrounding sea of white. The emerald-blue lake was suddenly free from beaches of mud and now had a neatly penciled shoreline punctuated only occasionally with the hoof prints of thirsty deer and elk that had yet to leave for some distant wintering area. The air was crisp and calm as Seth and Jeb prepared to release the packhorses and make their first patrol around the rim. Each breath was illustrated with a brief cloud of steam on this chilly mountain morning at 9,000 feet.

Both riders led a packhorse up the hard-to-follow trail to the rim. In the deep snow, the going was slow as Jeb carefully picked his way along the narrow path. But, before too long, they were standing on the basin rim admiring the view. Jeb climbed down from Pete's back, walked back to his packhorse and slipped off the halter. The creature looked strangely naked and out of place standing belly deep in snow without a packsaddle, two-hundred pounds of gear and a halter. Jeb took a few steps and removed the halter from Seth's packhorse also.

"Well, let's get 'em goin'," Jeb said as he handed Pete's reins to Seth, "You keep hold of this one 'cause he'll wanna go with the others." With that, Jeb walked back over to the naked equines, smacked both on their rumps while waving his hat and hollering, "Heeahh," loudly several times. The two large, dark animals thundered off toward the ranch through the untracked, glistening, pure white powder. Their pounding hooves threw the snow up in billows around them painting a ghostly portrait of the contrasts that winter in the mountains brings. Seth and Jeb watched the surreal spectacle until the galloping ghosts disappeared into the whiteness.

Both men were moved by the beauty of the event and rode silently, side-by-side, slowly around the rim trail deeply inhaling the unpolluted, pure mountain air. They were equally moved by the stunning panorama unfolding in every direction. It had been a long time since Jeb was able to appreciate the natural beauty around him and he soaked up every image.

Suddenly, they heard the approach of a small aircraft and quickly guided their mounts into the pines. From their vantage point, they watched a red and white Cessna 206 as it flew low and slow over the lake. Seth was beginning to panic but Jeb remained steadfastly calm. As they watched, the pilot threw a package out of the window with a makeshift, florescent-red parachute attached. The parachute did little to break the fall of the package but certainly would facilitate its location in the new snow. After the small plane powered up and disappeared into the distance, Jeb said, "Looks like Tuck brought us a care package."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I recognize the plane and I know Tuck! Let's finish our ride and see what the old buzzard brung us."

* * *

It didn't take Seth and Jeb long to locate the package once they got back from their morning ride and Jeb rode to the hitching rail with it balanced on his saddle horn. The two dismounted and Jeb sat on the edge of the porch at the top of the steps while Seth leaned against one of the posts. Jeb used his pocketknife to open the box and, on top of the peanut packing material, was a letter. He pulled his specs from his breast pocket, opened the letter and began to read.

"Dear Jeb, It's a shame you had to go up there without me, but J.T. filled me in on your situation. The law wants to talk to you but no charges have been filed, yet! There is still a problem though. The guy in L.A. who wants the kid has offered a $100,000 bounty to the local bad boys so you can probably expect some company in the next couple of weeks. I'll drop some hay off in a month or so and some ammo. Also, I figured you might not have had a chance to stock up on these essentials. Take care of yourself. Tuck"

Jeb put down the letter and began rummaging through the box. The first thing to appear was a large bottle of whiskey that he set carefully on the deck. The next item was a large bag of pipe tobacco, that prompted a, "Thank you, Tuck," spoken largely to himself. Jeb put the box aside, pulled out and lit his pipe, then looked up at Seth. "Well, looks like we was right. Won't be many that'll try these mountains in winter, but there'll be some."

Seth hung his head. "Jeb, I can't help it, I'm scared. I'm scared to death!"

"Sit down here and listen to me for a minute, boy." As Seth sat down, Jeb continued, "Now, just like before, men are gonna be comin' that are wantin' to kill us, that's true enough. And, it's OK to be scared. If you're not afraid of dyin', then you're already half dead. So, the trick is to accept your fear, to embrace it and then to rise above it. It can be your friend or it can be your enemy. It's your enemy when it cripples you so bad you can't defend yourself. It's your friend when it triggers your survival instincts and makes you angry, mean and dangerous. This here situation is kill or be killed, ain't no middle ground and no runnin' away. These men intend to take your life for money. They are the worst of the worst."

Jeb paused a second and looked at Seth. "You understand what I'm tellin' you, boy?" Seth nodded slowly and Jeb continued again, "Now, we have the advantage here. We know they're comin', we hold the high ground and we know the terrain. So, you gotta make up your mind right now, do you want to live or die, it's that simple. If you want to keep your life, then let's get ready to fight for it. You've never been in a war, boy, but you'll find that life gets a lot more precious when you've had to fight for it."

* * *

Over the next few days, Jeb and Seth spent their time preparing for the inevitable. They felled trees with a bow saw and an axe to detour riders from the trail, out of the pines and into the open. They built blinds with poles and pine boughs that had unimpeachable views of the various possible routes. Jeb delighted in teaching Seth the skills required to prepare for conflict and the thought process behind it. Seth, motivated by fear, hung on every word and soaked up the knowledge. The old man and the boy grew closer and closer as the days wore on.

One morning along a narrow portion of the main trail coming up to the rim, Jeb decided to plant a booby trap. He took Jake's Uzi from his saddlebag, clicked it to automatic, lashed it to the crotch of a tree pointing straight up and carefully fashioned a trip wire of white, nylon twine. He stretched the twine across the trail and tied it off to a large rock such that rock would act as a "dead man". When a horse's hoof caught the trip wire, it wouldn't break but drag the rock and keep the Uzi firing as long as possible.

As Jeb was putting the final touches on his trap, Seth's curiosity finally got the best of him. Jeb's teaching philosophy was unusual in that he always waited to teach until his student asked a relevant question feeling that, at that point, they were truly ready to learn. His patience was rewarded by Seth with, "What the heck are you making?"

"This here's what's called a booby trap. Hopefully, the snow will keep this trip wire concealed and, when any riders come up this trail, the horse's hooves will hook the twine and pull the trigger on that there rifle. We'll be able to hear the noise from the cabin and the racket should cause quite a rodeo, maybe even dump a rider or two. At any rate, it'll scare the hell out of 'em and give us time to get ready. It's our own little 'early warning system.'"

* * *

A few days later, as Jeb and Seth were riding the rim on their morning patrol, Jeb reined up Pete and quickly pulled his binoculars from his saddlebag. He looked through them long and hard, then handed them to Seth and pointed off in the distance. Seth eventually located two riders, each with a packhorse, on the valley floor moving slowly across the meadow toward the trail leading to the rim. Without any emotion, Jeb matter-of-factly said, "Well, boy, looks like we're about to be tested."

"How do you know they're after us? Maybe they're just hunters or just passing through."

"Don't be naive, son. Ain't no good reason to be up here this time of year. All the game's moved to a lower elevation to get out of the deep snow and our little sanctuary here ain't on the way to nowhere. Nope, the only thing them boys is huntin' is bounty!"

"So, what are we gonna do now? Are you gonna, like, kill 'em?"

Jeb ignored Seth's linguistic breach and continued. "Maybe not, but it's most likely. Remember what I said. I can't abide no man that hunts another for money and neither should you so let's get ready for business. First thing is to go disarm our 'early warning system', we done been warned. I reckon from their pace, we got a few hours to get ready so let's get to it."

It took the two bounty hunters a couple of hours and a little backtracking to discover the trail up to the rim so when they finally reached the top, Jeb and Seth were waiting. Unaware that they had been watched from the time they entered the meadow below, the two opportunists felt they had the upper hand, the element of surprise. Soon, they found horse tracks on the rim trail and were even more certain they were about to hit the mother lode. They dismounted, tied their mounts off in the pines and eased their way down into the basin.

Jeb and Seth had taken refuge in one of their blinds that commanded a clear view of the area where the two men had surfaced. As planned, the distance to their targets was less than 200 yards. Jeb watched the men closely through the binoculars as they began to get set up in a small flat spot about a quarter of the way down the basin wall. After a few minutes, he turned to Seth and, in a whisper, said, "Son, these are no amateurs. That rifle the one's setting up on the tripod is probably a $5,000 weapon. If he knows how to use it, it's accurate to 1,000 yards. The other fella is the spotter. Look at the huge binoculars and the spotting scope. They think we're in cabin or camp down below and intend to pick us off one at a time and it appears they're willin' to wait."

"What do we do?"

"You just sit tight. Take the Seko and keep it trained on those boys. Anything happens to me, you start shootin' and don't stop. And, shoot to kill! OK?"

Seth nodded a shaky affirmative and Jeb continued. "I'm goin' out the back here and work my way around behind them. If any shootin' starts, you remember what I said. Now, get down there and be still."

Jeb, carrying the Winchester, worked slowly around the backside of the rim to a point above and behind the would-be snipers. So intent on getting set up and analyzing their field of fire, the two assassins made a fatal error by not guarding their flank. In the light powder snow, Jeb approached undetected to within twenty-yards directly above them. After a deep, calming breath, Jeb levered a round into the chamber making a loud noise. The quicker of the two, the spotter, pulled his sidearm as he spun around to face Jeb. When Jeb determined in a split second the man intended to shoot, he pulled the trigger on the 30.30. Shooting from the hip is never a good idea but when the target is at twenty paces and speed is essential to your survival, the odds are in your favor and Jeb's aim was deadly. With the roar of the Winchester, the other man literally dove straight down the hill, did a front roll and came to his knees facing Jeb with his rifle to his shoulder. He never got the chance to fire as a thirty-caliber slug slammed through his forehead. Jeb checked the corpses and then, without thinking, waved to Seth to come on over. Seth went a short distance behind the blind, grabbed the horses and slowly made his way over to Jeb. When he reached Jeb, he dropped the reins and walked down to the second shooter lying on his back in the snow, eyes and mouth wide open. A big-bore rifle round shot at close range into the forehead does some serious damage. The whole back of his head was gone and the snow was a bright red with bits and pieces of hair, scalp, skull and brains scattered all around. It was a gruesome sight and Seth just stood there, staring down at the man. He was frozen in place and speechless. When Jeb returned from retrieving the assailants' horses, he found Seth on his hands and knees violently puking his guts out and sobbing loudly in between convulsions.

Jeb was visibly touched by the scene. He knew the boy was in pain but he really had no idea what to do, how to comfort him. He stared at the pitiful sight, shrugged slightly and looked to the heavens as if for guidance. Finally, he walked over to the boy, picked him up and looked into his red, swollen eyes. Without hesitation, he wrapped the boy in his arms and held him tightly. Seth unashamedly grabbed hold and buried his head in Jeb's chest. With one hand caressing the back of Seth's head, Jeb stared, teary eyed, into the distance and wondered if he'd done the right thing bringing the boy to this beautiful place only to witness firsthand the savagery of man.

Seth eventually raised his head and said simply, "I'm sorry."

"Son, there ain't no shame in feelin' things. No matter the cause, takin' another man's life is hard on you. The day it gets easy, you've truly lost your humanity, your soul. I was almost there once and I know. This here had to be done. There weren't no other way." Then, Jeb pushed Seth gently to arms length and continued. "Now, you take them pack animals down to the cabin and unload 'em while I take care of the bodies."

* * *

Jeb and Seth were not bothered by intruders for over two months. Seth had seemingly successfully put the trauma behind him. He and Jeb busied themselves with the myriad of chores required to maintain a comfortable existence in an extremely harsh environment. Chopping and splitting firewood was almost a daily event but certainly necessary as there were many sub-zero nights. They fixed up the cabin and re-built the corral. Both became rougher and rougher looking with their infant beards and lengthening hair.

But mostly, they played. Jeb became reinvigorated. His demeanor changed from insensitive and calloused to fun loving and playful. Seth became more and more attached to the old man and never tired of the many lessons and gems of wisdom. He learned how to walk in snowshoes and how to snare Snowshoe rabbits and how to field dress game for the dinner table. He learned to identify the various night visitors by their tracks, the fox, the coyote, the wolf, the moose, the deer and the bear. He learned to navigate at night by the stars and the names of the various constellations. He became amazed at the storehouse of knowledge locked in the old man's head.

In the evenings, Seth would read to Jeb by the fire and they would talk. Each man shared his innermost thoughts and secrets with the other as their relationship changed from merely familial to a deep friendship. There was a bond of love and respect building between the two, spanning the generations, a bond that would be the envy of any grandfather. Each struggled to understand the alien world of the other. The barriers to communication and understanding were falling daily as the two men's souls gradually became intertwined and the power of an indefinable, ethereal genetic link began to have a profound effect. Life, for Jeb, was good again, full and exciting and he reveled in the feeling of happiness that had been absent for so many years.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When the two mountain men, Jake and Bull, had shown up draped over their saddles, Sergio and Phillip were immediately ordered back to LA by Lotini. Later, after hearing of the demise of the next two bounty hunters, Lotini realized that he needed to hire men with special skills, possibly paramilitary. He phoned his contact in Helena that had referred Jake and Bull and read him the riot act for providing two such incompetent buffoons. After calming down a bit, he asked, "Do you know anyone who can track down and kill one old man and a boy in those damn mountains?"

"I know one guy," the man responded, "that might consider it. He's a ruthless old mercenary type and, at one time, would take any mission that paid, anywhere on the planet. He's hard to reach and very cautious since he's wanted in so many different places. I'll see if he'll take the job and, if he does, what do want him to do?"

"I want him to kill those two sons-a-bitches, that's what I want him to do and the pay's the same, $100,000!"

"OK," the man went on, "I'll tell him the deal and give him your number."

"If I don't hear from him soon, you and I, we will talk again!" Lotini slammed the phone down.

Several days later, Lotini got a call from the mercenary who agreed to the terms but couldn't be in Montana for a couple of months. Lotini grumbled a bit but the mercenary was on a covert mission in Venezuela and wouldn't be back in the country until the end of the month. His men needed a few weeks of rest and then he would be there. They finally agreed on the second of March and that Sergio would be in Grifton to brief them.

* * *

It had been over a month since Jeb and Seth had been challenged. The several early snows had accumulated in and around the small basin to form the beginnings of a record snow pack. The trail from the cabin to the rim and the rim trail itself were getting deeper and deeper from their daily patrols. The days were getting shorter and the temperature rarely ascended above freezing. After a long day of chores and patrols, Seth and Jeb had consumed a sumptuous dinner of venison stew and Seth was relaxing by the fire with his elbows on his knees, chin resting in his hands, placidly staring at the flames. Jeb strolled over from the kitchen with two steaming mugs in his hands. As he eased down in the rocker, he handed one to Seth. "Here, this'll warm your gizzard."

Seth cautiously took a sip and exclaimed, "Whoa, that's good! What is it?"

"It's a poor man's hot toddy. Basically, a shot of whiskey in hot water with some cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar and a dollop of butter, 'cept we don't have no butter."

Seth took another sip and added, "It's great, thanks." After a long period of silence, he asked, "What was the war like, Grandpa?"

Jeb stared at the boy for a minute pondering what might have prompted that out-of-the-blue question. Finally, "War is awful," he said. "It changes you forever. I was scared to death most of the time but I learned to kill without remorse, without givin' it a second thought. When I got home, I hated myself for survivin' when so many others didn't." Jeb paused and reflected for a minute. "I guess I hated my country too for quittin'"

"What do you mean, quitting? How can you quit a war?"

"You just pack up your marbles and go home. That's what we did, we just left, tail between our legs."

"Were we losing?"

"Naw, but evidently that's what the reporters were tellin' the American people. In 1968, the Viet Cong unleashed everything they had on us all at once. They called it the 'Tet Offensive.' During that battle, we lost over 1,500 men but the Viet Cong lost over 45,000!"

"Whoa!" exclaimed Seth.

"During the battle, all of us were terrified but too damn busy tryin' to stay alive to know it. After it was over, we celebrated, we knew we'd won big time. We were sure the next thing we'd be doin' was marchin' into Hanoi, that was the enemy's capitol city, and declarin' martial law. But, the next thing we knew, the press was still sayin' we were losin' the war and Johnson, the president at the time, decided to quit, just pull out and give up. We couldn't believe it."

"What happened then?"

"A lot of men just sat and cried realizin' all that killin' and dyin' was for nothin'. The US Army was a bunch of quitters. We killed those people by the tens of thousands and then just went home as if it was all a big mistake." Jeb paused a second, then continued, "I hated that most of all, the feelin' that what we done was somehow wrong. Hell, we did what our country asked us to do!"

Both men sat quietly for a few minutes sipping their toddies, Seth absentmindedly poking at the fire and Jeb rocking and messing with his pipe. Eventually, Jeb continued to ramble, more to himself than to his rapt audience of one, "Ya know, for twenty years now I been lost. It seems the death of someone close brings out the worst in people. Bein' 'round you makes me realize how much time I wasted feelin' sorry for myself, convincin' myself I was somehow responsible for my son's death, as if we really have any control over what happens to us in this life." Jeb paused for a second and took a puff on his pipe before continuing. "I hate to say it but I'm ashamed of the way I been treatin' people since then, like they were somehow responsible for my misery. After Vietnam, I eventually moved on, put it behind me as best I could. I ain't sayin' it was easy 'cause it weren't. I did it 'cause I had no choice. I had a ranch to run and a son to raise. But, the loss of my boy cut too deep, hurt too bad and I couldn't seem to get goin' again, to give a damn about anything."

Later that night, Jeb had been lying awake quite awhile, thinking about his words to Seth, unpremeditated words from the heart that enlightened and surprised Jeb as much as it did the boy. Around midnight, while Seth was sound asleep, Jeb quietly put on his clothes, slipped out the cabin door and saddled up Pete for a ride, a chance to sort out his thoughts and feelings. There was a full moon reflecting off the snow, illuminating the landscape. The air was quiet and cold. At 9,000 feet, the multitudinous stars were close and bright. That combination of environmental phenomena created a magical sense of well-being, of oneness with the universe. Jeb slowly walked Pete along the rim trail lost in the ethereal, surreal and silent world.

He finally stopped, fumbled around in his coat pocket and eventually pulled out a cell phone. From another pocket, he retrieved his glasses, "cheaters" as he called them, so he could see if he miraculously had a signal. After moving several times, he finally captured a couple of bars. Jean had put her number in Jeb's phone with a speed dial access and Jeb punched the number and waited.

Jean was deep asleep at this late hour and was startled into consciousness by the ringing but struggled to find the phone in the dark. Finally she got things together. "Hello," she muttered sleepily.

"Yeah, Jean, it's me."

Jean immediately swung her feet off the edge of the bed, sat up in a hurry and turned on the light, as always, expecting the worst. "Jeb, what's the matter, what happened?"

"Nothing, dear, everything's fine."

Jean gave a heartfelt sigh of relief. "Oh, Jeb, it's so good to hear your voice." Then came a barrage of questions. "How are you doing? How is Seth doing? Are you safe? What's happening? Why are you calling me so late? Why..."

"Whoa, girl, not so fast, slow down!" Jeb tried to ease into the conversation cautiously as he had something delicate and very important to say. "First, the boy and I are great, just great! He's turning out to be a fine lad and we're actually becoming friends, I think. Aside from one nasty skirmish with a couple of bounty hunters, we've been having fun, real fun! Hell, I feel twenty years younger and I'm really gettin' to like the kid."

Jean couldn't help it as she began to sob into the phone with joy.

"What on earth is the matter with you, woman? Why the hell are you crying?"

"I'm not," stammered Jean. "Well, it's just that, well, you sound better than you have in years. You sound like the old Jeb Grissom, the one I love."

Jeb put the phone down against his leg and stared up at the starry sky for a second, searching for the right words. Slowly he raised the phone back up to his ear. "Jean, are you still there?"

"Yes, Jeb, I'm still here."

Then, Jeb was the one stammering. "Jean, the reason I called, well, what I wanted to say was... Well, when I was talkin' to Seth earlier tonight and tellin' him a little about us, I began to realize what a shit I've been and how hard it surely has been for you."

"Oh, Jeb, it isn't..."

"Damn it, Jean, let me finish what I come up here to say while I still got the words. I know I ain't been an easy man to be around but you stuck with me, even when I was bein' mean and ugly. I want you to know, case somethin' happens, that I'm eternally grateful." Jeb paused and took a deep breath, summoning up the strength to finish. "I love you, honey, and when we get outta this mess, I'd be privileged if you'd be my wife." Jeb finished and waited but a response never came. "Jean, are you still there!"

"Yes, yes, I'm still here," Jean said while choking back the tears. "Oh, Jeb, you have any idea how long I've waited to hear those words."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Damn it, woman, will you marry me or not?"

"Of course I'll marry you! You think I been hangin' around and puttin' up with your crap all these years for nothin'?"

Jeb relaxed a bit. "Well, OK then. Go ahead and move your things out to the ranch permanent like. Me and the boy will be back when it's safe."

Jean, acting coy and having fun now quipped, "Oh, I don't know. I may just be too busy makin' me a fancy weddin' gown to move anything."

Chuckling, Jeb continued, "OK, OK. Well, I best be gettin' back now. You take care."

"Jeb, you know I love you?"

Jeb swallowed hard. "Yes, I know. Bye, now." He turned off his phone, slipped it back into his jacket pocket, folded his hands over the saddle horn and thought about what he had just done. He was out of character, was changing and the uncertainty of it made him uneasy and a little fearful. After a minute, he shook his head, reined Pete around and headed back to the cabin.

* * *

The next morning Jeb awoke with a heart full of hope, the night's events fresh on his mind. He found he was looking forward to each new day now more than the one before. Even with the ever-present danger, he was happy again for the first time in as long as he could remember. Seth was surprised to hear the old man whistle as he whipped up the oatmeal for breakfast and smiled to himself at what a remarkable change had occurred since their first encounter.

After breakfast, they saddled up and headed toward the rim to make their rounds. About half way up to the rim, a sudden burst of automatic gunfire fractured the still morning air spooking the horses and momentarily stopping both their hearts. In a second, they both realized that it was their trusty early warning system triggered by an unwelcome visitor and signaling their approach. "Someone's coming!" Jeb whispered loudly as he hurriedly dismounted and began to lead Pete off the trail and into the pines signaling Seth to do the same. The two were in concealment quickly enough, tethered the horses to a tree and, pulling their rifles from the scabbards, raced back to the edge of the pines and dropped into a defensive position behind some deadfall.

Both men were panting as they strained to hear the footfall of an approaching rider or riders. Almost immediately, there was the growing sound of a horse coming down the trail at a gallop, snorting loudly as he neared with hooves pounding. They shouldered their rifles and prepared to face an unknown enemy. Suddenly, the noise subsided as the horse slowed to a walk. Jeb and Seth looked at each other quizzically and waited for him to appear in their view of the trail. Their hearts were pounding as the sound came closer and closer. Through the undergrowth, they could see the outline of a huge animal moving slowly into view. When finally it came into full view, they looked at each other in disbelief. Jeb began to howl with laughter as he uncocked his rifle and dropped on his butt in the snow. Soon, Seth too was rolling in the snow.

There before them was a huge, black Bull Moose lathered up, snorting and pawing the ground. The monstrous animal with palmated antlers over six-feet wide had triggered their booby trap. His terror had obviously turned to anger by the time he reached Jeb and Seth and, for a short moment, he put on quite a show demonstrating his indignation. When he was evidently satisfied that they truly understood, he calmly ambled off into the basin. It took several minutes for Jeb and Seth to collect themselves, get on their mounts and resume their patrol. They chuckled about their heart-stopping, non-event most of the morning.

* * *

Several days later, a small single-engine plane circled the basin several times again while Jeb and Seth were on patrol. They sought cover in the trees until Jeb was able to identify it as belonging to his old friend Tuck. Then, they led their horses out into the open and waved their hats back and forth at the searching pilot. Soon, Tuck dipped his wings left and right signifying recognition and positioned his plane to complete his mission. His approach over the frozen lake at a low altitude and directly at the cabin, a low-level bombing run, allowed his bombardier, J.T., to hit his target, the shoreline directly in front of the cabin, with four bales of desperately needed hay. J.T. could only manage to get one bale at a time out the door so it took four passes to deliver their cargo. As he pulled up the last time, Tuck dipped his wings once again and disappeared over the rim.

When Jeb and Seth reached the hay, they found another letter tucked in the binding that Jeb shoved in his pocket. He would save this one to read that night after dinner. He and Seth used their saddle ropes to drag the bales over to the corral and get them secured. The date, March the second, was meaningless to Jeb and Seth but would prove to be the beginning of their worst nightmare.

* * *

That same afternoon back in Grifton, a three-quarter ton, four-wheel drive, crew-cab pickup with a shell on the back and towing a lowboy trailer with three snowmobiles on it pulled into the parking lot at the Pine Cone Inn. In the truck were five ruffians with shaved heads and quasi-military dress. John Clancy, the driver, and another man named Scott emerged from either side of the front seat and headed toward one of the cabins.

Clancy, Jeb's old nemesis from Ranger School, had no idea he was destined to confront the man that, in his mind, had ruined his life over forty years ago. Drummed out of the Rangers for insubordination, it wasn't long after that Clancy was sentenced to five years in Leavenworth for beating an unsuspecting officer almost to death. During his many years in solitary, his hatred for Jeb had festered, never waning, and the deep desire for revenge kept him going. On his release, he heard erroneously that Jeb had been killed in Vietnam and felt cheated with no chance to exact his revenge and soothe his tormented soul. For a long time his life had no purpose, no meaning. The hours, days and years spent planning, imagining how he would torture his tormentor were all for naught. His redemption would never come.

When he stumbled into a job as a mercenary, his life began to have some direction again. He was still a miserable human being full of hate and venom, but those qualities stood him in good stead in his new profession and he prospered.

"I hope this is a quick deal," said Scott as they approached the cabin. "We're supposed to be in Cairo in ten days you know."

"Aw shit, we should be done here in a day or two, three at the most," was Clancy's indignant reply. "How tough could it be roundin' up some snotty-nosed city kid and an old man? It's a quick hundred G's for a few days work."

Lotini had arranged for Sergio and Phillip to meet Clancy in Grifton and fill in the details. They had arrived earlier that afternoon and were waiting in their cabin. When the expected knock came at the door, Sergio, who was working on some puzzle at a small desk in the corner of the room, said to Phillip, "Get that, would you, I'm busy here?"

Phillip slowly dragged himself away from the cartoons on the TV and opened the door. There stood John Clancy with Scott at his side.

"Yeah, I'm lookin for Sergio. Nick Lotini sent me," said Clancy.

Before Phillip could answer, Sergio hollered from the desk, "Are you John Clancy? If you are, come on in."

Clancy motioned for Scott to stay by the door and stepped into the small room. Sergio turned in his chair and the two eyeballed each other from head to foot. Finally, Sergio said, "Phillip, grab that other chair and drag it over here. Mr. Clancy, have a seat and I'll fill you in." Clancy sat down and Sergio continued, "So, how much do you already know?"

"Well," started Clancy, "Nick told me a kid named Seth Talbot killed his son and that he'll pay a hundred grand for his head. He said the kid's grandpa took him into the mountains so's you boys couldn't get at him. Is that about it?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"So, what's gramp's name and where are they?"

"The old man is named Jeb Grissom and..."

Sergio was violently interrupted as Clancy jumped to his feet and at the top of his lungs said, "What! Did you say Jeb Grissom?" Sergio just nodded and Clancy continued as he began to pace around the room, "Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch! When I got out of Leavenworth in seventy-six, they told me he was dead. If I'd known he made it through Nam, I'd a come after the bastard years ago!"

"What's the big deal?" interjected Sergio, "He's just an old drunk the locals..."

Clancy interrupted again, "Bullshit! How many men has he killed?"

"Well, there was a couple of locals and..."

"Goddamnit, how many?" roared Clancy.

"Well, four that we know of."

"I thought so. They wouldn't have searched me out if Grissom hadn't become a problem." Clancy paused a second before continuing, "OK, you tell Lotini to have the money ready to wire on Thursday and tell him Grissom will cost him another hundred G's! This ain't no ordinary manhunt now."

"What if the boss says no to the old man?"

"He won't!" said Clancy, "He knows I know where he lives! Now, come on out to the truck and show me a couple of things on the forestry map."

Clancy, followed by Sergio and Phillip with a wary Scott bringing up the rear, marched out to Clancy's vehicle. Clancy reached in the open driver's-side window and yanked a forestry map off the dash. Spreading it out on the hood of the truck, he motioned for Sergio to step up.

Before Clancy could even ask, Sergio volunteered, "But, I have no idea..."

Once again, Sergio was rudely interrupted by Clancy, "Yes, you do! Now, just show me where Grissom's place is, where they entered the forest."

Sergio fumbled for a few seconds, got his bearings and pointed to a spot on the map, "Here, right about here is the ranch and they took off in that direction."

Clancy quickly circled the ranch location with his pen, turned to Scott, handed him the map and began barking orders, "OK, here you go. Let's assume that wherever they were going was less than two days horse ride through the snow and uphill all the way, so, maybe twenty miles at the most and to the northeast. Use that location as the center point. It looks to be about 9,000 feet elevation. Look for the closest cabin heat signature, one that is remote and isolated. Hopefully, there'll only be one. Get the coordinates and plot a route on the GPS." Turning to Sergio, "We'll head in tomorrow afternoon and be back Thursday morning.

Armed with all the tools that international mercenaries need to be successful, it hadn't taken Clancy long to find Jeb's most probable location. Access to military global satellite imaging came only at a steep price but in the business of spreading worldwide mayhem, it was a necessity. Bribery is the grease that lubricates the engine of espionage and the US military is no less susceptible or accessible than others. Few places on the planet are not under the constant gaze of the international intelligence community's sophisticated surveillance equipment. Infrared imaging had become an important tool in the international underworld as well.

As promised, Clancy and his team were unloading their snowmobiles at the Forest Service trailhead below the Grissom ranch in the late afternoon on Wednesday. They intended to finish their business that night and be back before noon the next day. Compared to the dangerous and complicated missions they completed on foreign soil on a regular basis, this was just an exercise.

The trip up the mountain took them much longer than expected in the virtually untracked, deep snow and it was after dark when they arrived at a point near the cutoff on the main trail that wound up to the basin rim. The smaller, less-traveled trail to the top was unrecognizable with the snow cover but their GPS kept telling them to veer east from the marked main trail to intercept the coordinates they had entered. With a steep climb, no trail and a moonless night, they were forced to abandon the snow machines and proceed on foot. But, since they knew they were within a couple of miles of their target, they wanted to avoid the noise of the machines anyway.

Cold and stiff from the four-hour trip to the cutoff, the going up to the rim was even more arduous, especially with their packs and weapons. Several of the men were less than enthusiastic about an armed assault on, what they considered, a questionable target at 9,000-feet in the dark and the snow and the cold. They did not understand how driven their leader was. Clancy's lust for revenge, long dormant, was, once again, about to consume him. The hate that festered within, though over forty years ago, was back as strong as ever, clouding his judgment and causing him to act with reckless abandon. He blamed Jeb, all because of the one incident, for everything bad that had happened in his life.

Clancy's band of soldiers held him in high regard but rarely voiced any malcontent, not out of respect, but out of fear. They had all seen him at his worst and none would ever challenge his wisdom and risk invoking his wrath. Even now, at age sixty-five, Clancy was still a formidable warrior, unpredictable and ruthless. A man with his skills and absolutely no moral compass is the most dangerous sociopath there is and his men all knew it.

As the motley crew neared the rim, Clancy stopped suddenly. Intuitively, he shined his flashlight slowly from the left side of the trail to the right and back again. Soon he spied the automatic weapon lashed inconspicuously to the tree, chuckled, shook his head knowingly and led his band around Jeb's booby trap.

Once atop the rim, the trail down to the cabin was easily located by the veteran man hunters. Clancy decided to parallel the trail along the edge of the trees until they were within sight of the cabin. Then, after deploying the other four men around the periphery, he would take up a position somewhere between the front of the cabin and the lake.

* * *

In the cabin, Jeb and Seth had finished dinner and were enjoying the evening fire again. Jeb pulled out Tuck's letter, put on his specs and got comfortable. "Well, let's see what old Tuck has to say this time," as he began to read it aloud. "Dear Jeb, we received your last two packages, hope that's the end of it. You're causing quite a stir in law enforcement circles but we've managed to keep it out of the press for the most part. Nevertheless, the Feds may be coming for you one of these days and we won't be able to stop them. I suggest you think about coming down before too long." Both men sat quietly and contemplated the significance of Tuck's warning, Jeb more so than Seth. Jeb knew they were on Federal ground and, if word got back to Washington and the bureaucrats got a hold of it, that the shit would hit the fan. If they involved the military, things could get real dicey real quick.

Finally, Jeb broke the silence, "Well, son, I don't know what kind of trouble we're in with the law but, sooner or later, we're gonna have to face the music. So far, you haven't killed anybody and that's good."

"But, those men you killed, they were trying to kill us!"

"That's right, son, but killin' is killin' and there's got to be an accountin'."

Again there was a long period of silence until Seth finally said, "Grandpa, how 'bout one of those poor man hot toddies?"

Jeb smiled, got up and headed to the kitchen to mix a couple of his miracle elixirs. When he returned, both men sat in silence again. To be able to sit in silence in the company of another, alone with your thoughts, is a masculine trait peculiar to the gender and neither man feels the need to speak just to break the silence or is offended that the other does not. Silence is more important to men for some reason. Eventually, Seth asked casually, "What was my dad like?"

Jeb did not answer immediately, but stared at the boy and smiled for a few seconds formulating his answer. Finally he began, "When I lost him, he was no older than you and it broke my heart. He was raised on the ranch so I guess he was a cowboy at heart, all he ever knowed. Just like, I suppose, you bein' raised in the city and that'd be why you're the way you are."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, good, bad or indifferent, we're all molded by the place and the people we grow up with. When he graduated from high school, rodeoin' was his life and he was pretty damn good at it. His specialty was calf ropin' but he also won some dough bronc ridin'. Every weekend seems, he was at some Jackpot Rodeo. He wanted to ride bulls too, but I wouldn't let him, made him promise never to get on one."

"Why? Aren't bucking horses just as bad as bulls?"

"A buckin' horse is easy compared to those damn bulls, too many injuries, too often fatal. I told him anybody that'd get on a 2,000-pound animal with an attitude that could jump an eight-foot fence had to have a death wish. I don't care how big the pot is, no amount of money is worth bein' crippled or maimed by one of those demons. As a matter of fact, when one of his bull ridin' buddies got stomped to death down in Cody, I think his promise to me was a whole lot easier for him to keep."

"What did my mom think about it?"

"I'm sorry to say, I never met your ma. Hell, I never knew she existed 'til you showed up. But, I'm sure your dad could do no wrong in her eyes. I doubt it mattered to her what he did for a livin'. It pains me to think that I was such a self-absorbed pain-in-the-ass that my own son was afraid to bring his future bride to meet me."

"Maybe, he was just waiting for the right time," was Seth's feeble attempt to placate.

"Maybe, I don't know if he was more afraid of my reaction to her or her reaction to me, or both! Nonetheless, it was probably your mom's fear of what I might do that caused her to run away with you. What a shame, a terrible goddamn shame! I could've helped, ya know. I'm sure it weren't easy for your ma raisin' you all by herself. Hell, maybe you and her could've come up here and lived with me and we could've been a real family." Jeb paused a second, then added, "I wish things would've been different but then, 'if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.'"

With that, Jeb stood up and started for the kitchen holding up his mug to Seth as if to say, "Want another?" but not actually saying it. Seth nodded and handed his cup to Jeb. While Jeb was making the drinks, Seth got up and stepped over to get another log for the fire. As he picked up the log with his hands on the ends and turned back around, a rifle shot blasted through the window and into the log knocking him violently against the wall above the hearth. Dazed, he slumped to the floor in front of the hearth next to the fireplace with blood from splinters embedded in his cheek trickling down his face.

Before Seth hit the floor, Jeb grabbed the lantern, dropped to his knees and quickly extinguished the flame. Then, by the remaining light from the fire, he scrambled across the floor to Seth on his hands and knees. "Are you all right, son?" he whispered to Seth.

Yeah, but I think my face is bleeding," Seth responded in a groggy slur.

Jeb reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a penlight and shined it on Seth's face. There was a large wood splinter embedded just below Seth's left eye. Jeb reached up and, without warning, yanked it out. Seth winced as Jeb took his hand and placed it over the wound. "There, just keep pressure on it 'til it quits bleedin' and don't move!"

Having assured himself that his grandson was OK, Jeb re-focused his attention on his new adversaries. In the flickering light of the fire, Seth witnessed an almost paranormal transformation in the face of his grandpa. Jeb's eyes narrowed to a menacing scowl, a grimace showed his gritted teeth, his fists slowly clinched and Seth could almost feel the rage welling up in his grandpa. Jeb crawled to the front of the cabin below the shattered window. As he leaned with his back against the wall, he reached for the Winchester propped in the corner and immediately levered in a round. Then he turned and peered cautiously over the windowsill into the darkness, listening intently for any noise or movement. Finally, a booming voice pierced the eerie silence.

"Jeb Grissom! This here's your old buddy Clancy, John Clancy, remember me? You got no idea how much grief that little stunt of yours back in training caused me. Hell, it ruined my career! Jeb, you hear me you son-of-a-bitch? You ruined my goddamn life!"

Jeb did not respond but waited for the inevitable continuance of the verbal assault. The haunting memory that drove Clancy, Jeb had discarded long ago but he vividly remembered Clancy's face as the face of pure evil.

"So, here's the deal. I'm here for a rematch, one last round of 'Tally-ho' only this time, I aim ta kill ya, no paintball bullshit! At first light, if you've still got the balls, you come for me. I'll kill ya for sure, but at least you got a chance." Clancy waited a second for a response but heard nothing. "Grissom, you listenin' 'cause after I kill you, I'm gonna hunt down that hundred-thousand dollar kid and take his head back to town." Once again, Jeb choose not to respond and the silence infuriated Clancy. "OK then, if you decide not to play the game, I'll torch that tinderbox and shoot you both like a couple of dogs, your choice!"

Jeb realized he needed to buy some time. Turning his head to the window, he hollered, "OK Clancy, you got a deal. I'll be coming for you at first light. Tell them goons I know you got with you that, if I win, the boy is not to be harmed." Jeb knew that, even if Clancy responded, which he didn't, there was no chance of anyone being let go, not with the money involved.

Clancy slumped down behind the rocks, pulled out his two-way radio and pressed the transmit button. "OK you guys, I know this sneaky bastard and he won't wait 'til dawn. He'll make a run for it while he still has the cover of darkness, so be ready. Keep those night vision goggles trained on that damn cabin!"

Jeb, not risking exposure, reached up and closed the curtains above him as best he could with the barrel of the Winchester. Then, he crawled past the door and did the same on the other window. He knew that, without any interior light, the assailants could only see shadows and maybe a little movement behind the curtains. As the firelight waned, they would be able to see even less. After dealing with the curtains, he grabbed his duffel from the corner and crawled back over to Seth who was still a little groggy as he asked, "Grandpa, what are we going to do?"

Jeb ignored the question as he reached up and pulled Seth's hand away from his wound. "The bleedin's stopped," he whispered, "you're OK. Now, here's the situation. This guy Clancy is an madman. He aims to kill us and that's the lot of it. I 'spect he's not alone, cowards like him rarely are. Probably has three or four others scattered around. The temperature out there's gotta be in the low twenties so we'll let 'em cool down and stiffen up a bit before we do anything"

"Do what, what can we do?"

"Listen son, we're not beat lest we quit and that ain't gonna happen. I'm gettin' us outta here pretty soon so do as I say and no more questions. Now, crawl over to your bunk there and get your cold weather gear on, long johns, parka, gloves, Sorrels, the works. Grab that other rifle too then get back over here."

By now, Seth knew when and when not to question his grandpa so, without a word, he began his mission. Meanwhile, Jeb pulled out his hunting knife and started prying up the floorboards in front of the hearth in the corner. The cabin foundation was a beam and post design to elevate the floor above the ground and there was a crawl space concealed behind a foundation skirt. Jeb, as quietly as he could, opened a hole in the floor just big enough for them to squeeze through. Sheathing his knife, he reached under his nearby bunk and pulled out a black duffel bag. By the time Seth returned, Jeb had assembled a potpourri of various weapons including a couple of hand grenades. In the back of his mind, he chided himself for not thinking to fortify the cabin and rig the perimeter with explosives. What a potentially costly mistake but not one that he would dwell on. His plan, as always, was to turn the tables and become the aggressor.

Seth crawled back over to Jeb who shushed him before he could say a word and then whispered, "Them boys are expectin' us to fuss over our predicament all night long. We ain't doin' that! Put this stuff I got scattered on the floor here in that rucksack while I whip up a little diversion. Where is that AK47 you found in them last guy's stuff?" After noticing the scowl on Seth's face, he quickly added, "The machine gun!"

Seth pointed to the far front corner of the cabin, by the end of the kitchen counter, where the weapon was propped against the wall behind the coat rack. Jeb, with a roll of duct tape in his hand, crawled over, grabbed the gun, checked for a full clip and scrambled over to the front window where he jammed in the clip, cocked it and leaned it against the wall. Next, he dragged over a chair. Seth had located his own small flashlight and watched in fascination as Jeb taped the chair legs solidly to the floor in front of the window and then the barrel of the AK47 to the back of the chair. When he was finished, he turned to Seth, "Hand me that smallest log there by your foot." Seth did and he used the log to prop up the butt of the gun so the barrel was aiming out the window, again, taping everything tightly in place. Next, he tied some twine to the trigger mechanism and carefully strung it over by Seth where he tied it to the end of a much bigger log.

"OK," he finally said to Seth, "you drop down through this hole and I'll hand you the pack and rifles." Seth lowered himself into the pitch black underworld of the cabin and, lying on his back in the cramped quarters, took the gear as Jeb handed it down and pushed it aside. Then came Jeb. It was a struggle for the bigger man with aging joints and a bulky jacket, but soon they were nose-to-nose in the darkness.

"Now," Jeb began, "here's the deal. We'll go through the skirt right over there." Jeb illuminated a spot about fifteen feet away with his pen light. "It should put us out right beside the shed and the corral behind some bushes. I'll go first and you wait here. When I get set up, I'm gonna fire off these two flare guns." Jeb patted his side pocket to indicate where they were. "If these guys are watching through night goggles, the bright flash should temporarily blind them. The second you hear a pop, pop, you reach up through the floor, slide that log back enough to trigger the weapon then slither over as fast as you can and take my place in the bushes. Do not, I say again, do not leave the bushes until I signal you with this light! But, when I do, you come to me at a gallop, ya hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK then, let's do it!" Jeb crawled over and carefully removed three of the rotting one-by-six boards comprising the cabin skirt. Seth stuck his upper body through the hole in the floor and waited for the sound of the flares. In less than a minute, he heard the sound and pulled on the log. As the roar of the AK47 shattered the window and the silence, he ducked back down, slithered over to the skirt and through the hole. Jeb was gone having darted across the open and into the forest in the confusion. He knew exactly where to go since the flares had caused the two closest of Clancy's men temporary blindness and to voice their discomfort as they threw down their goggles, not much, but enough for Jeb to locate them. Jeb ran directly at the closest sound and, in the few seconds it took the clip on the AK47 to empty, Jeb was close enough to launch his knife, underhand and while running, into the man's chest.

As silence once again filled the night and the flares faded away, from the forest undergrowth, Jeb carefully signaled with his penlight for Seth to come. Through the dark and the snow, Seth raced toward the little light. When he stumbled in, Jeb grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him down to the ground. "Follow me, keep quiet and keep down!" Jeb said as he turned and crawled off through the forest. He had correctly surmised that Clancy had deployed his men in traditional fashion in a ring around the cabin and taking out one would leave a gaping hole in their would-be net. Seth struggled to keep up with the old man as they worked their way, first crawling then trotting, up toward the rim paralleling the trail in the trees.

Finally, Jeb stopped. Both men were bent over, hands on knees, gasping to catch their breath in the thin mountain air. Eventually, Jeb turned to look at Seth. "OK boy, find some cover here. The trail's about fifty-yards that away," Jeb pointed toward an open area, "and you'll see a good stretch of it at first light. Have that Seko ready and remember what I taught you, just in case. If you don't see me coming up that trail by seven, you slip on outta here and over the rim. Keep on headin' downhill, always down, and move as fast as you can. Never break cover. Sooner or later, you'll get to civilization. Then, find Tuck." Jeb swallowed hard, "You'll be on your own son, so don't forget what I taught you and be wary of everybody and everything."

"Don't go back grandpa! We're safe now. We can leave together."

"No! This man is a bad one and it needs to end here. He means to kill you and I can't abide that. As you know by now, I allow no man to hurt me or mine. So, just hunker down and wait. I'll be back soon enough."

By the time Seth got hidden away, Jeb was gone without another word. He backtracked their trail down through the trees until he was again near the cabin. Over the next two hours, Clancy's remaining three men fell to Jeb's knife, one-by-one, silently, painfully. And then, there was one, the Devil himself.

When his radio went silent, Clancy had to assume that he was now alone. A lesser man, a man not consumed by hate and revenge, would have been terrified, looked for the quickest way out, deigned to fight another day. But Clancy was a true psychopath, tormented by rage and compelled by a false bravado that led him to believe he was invincible. Jeb, too, was calculating, ruthless, unafraid of death and driven. The difference between the two was like the difference between love and hate or right and wrong, opposite sides of the same coin. Jeb was driven by the love of his grandson, Clancy by a festering, indefinable hatred of life. Jeb was guided by a moral compass, Clancy by the raging beast within. The stage was set for the classic battle of good vs. evil and the outcome was far from predestined for neither side wins consistently. Often, the winner is a loser even in victory. The only outcome would be that one would be missed and one would not.

* * *

As the morning light, imperceptibly at first, gradually began to redefine the shadowy shapes of the darkness, two equally lost souls faced one another in a small clearing in the forest, alone together in the wilderness. Clancy was casually leaning against a pine, arms folded, legs crossed and smoking a cigarette with his rifle propped against the tree by his side. Jeb, ten-yards across the clearing, was sitting on his haunches in the Filipino squat, facing Clancy with his arms folded around the Winchester laying across his knees. Neither man spoke as each waited for the other to break the silence.

Finally, Clancy gave a long, punctuated exhale of smoke, threw the butt down, ground it into the snow with his boot and said, "Well, what now?"

Jeb did not respond but reached between his legs, picked up a pouch and threw it to Clancy who grabbed it mid-air. Without taking his eyes off Jeb, Clancy opened the drawstring and pulled out the contents. There were four recently severed human ears on a string. Clancy looked at them, tossed them to the side, looked back at Jeb and shrugged, unfazed.

Jeb slowly shook his head and stood up. "You aim to kill my only grandson and I won't have it. Judgin' from your actions here, you're still the same miscreant you was forty-years ago, only worse."

Without batting an eye, Clancy responded, "Well, OK then, let's finish it."

Jeb looked at Clancy a second before saying, "Regardless of what happens here, you'll never get the boy. He's halfway back to the ranch by now. You still wanna try me?"

"I don't care about the boy, it's you I been dreamin' a lifetime of killin'."

As he took off his coat and threw it aside, Jeb said softly to himself, "I thought so."

Clancy flashed an evil grin as he too removed his coat and threw it aside. Then he turned back to Jeb, "No weapons, 'au natural'?"

Jeb nodded, turned and walked to the tall pine a few paces behind him where he leaned the Winchester against the trunk, unsheathed his Bowie knife and stuck it in the tree. With a profound respect for each other's talent, the two old warriors converged cautiously.

Unlike the movies, hand-to-hand combat and for that matter, street fights and barroom brawls, rarely last beyond a few well-placed or even lucky blows. An elbow to the face, a kick to the groin, both are debilitating and likely to end the most violent of conflicts. The human body cannot take the kind of punishment depicted in Hollywood, pop up bloodless and keep going. Nevertheless, a fight to the death is different, especially when the combatants are highly skilled, driven men trained to kill.

This battle was brutal, bloody and extraordinarily long especially considering their age and the altitude. Both refused to quit, neither man lost heart. The advantage swung back and forth. On several occasions Jeb almost succumbed and, had it not been for the thought of Seth, he most likely would have. Finally, Jeb doubled Clancy over with a kick to the stomach and drove him to the ground with a bottom-of-the-hand blow to the back of his neck. Collapsing on his stunned opponent, Jeb straddled him, grabbed him with one hand by the hair on the back of his head and around his chin with his other. With every ounce of his remaining strength focused, Jeb yanked the chin one way, pushed the head the other and heard a sound like a tree branch snapping. Clancy's neck was broken. The fight was over.

Jeb immediately pushed himself to a standing position, wavered for a second, and then, still gasping for breath, staggered over to the pine and grasped his Bowie. In his weakened state and with the force it took to dislodge the knife, Jeb fell over backwards. Not having the strength to get up again, he crawled over to Clancy's lifeless body and grabbed his ear. He tried several times to remove the trophy, but this time, for the first time, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Finally in frustration, he flipped the knife into the air, grabbed the blade and hurled it viciously across the clearing plunging it deep in a pine tree. Then, unceremoniously, he collapsed across Clancy's body.

When Jeb opened his eyes again, he was on his back next to Clancy looking up into the face of his kneeling grandson. In his mental haze, Jeb saw a cherubic face with an azure blue background and framed all around with the tops of the pines like a portrait, posed and postured. Jeb blinked a couple of times and said, almost sleepily, "Who are you? You can't be my grandson 'cause he'd be halfway home by now."

Seth just smiled, got to his feet then struggled to get Jeb erect. With Jeb's arm around his shoulder, Seth steadied the old man as they made their way down to the cabin.

Later, as Jeb, beaten and bloodied, was standing at the sink cleaning and tending his wounds, Seth was warming his hands at the fire. "Grandpa, who was that man," he asked?

"Oh, he was a fella I tangled with a long time ago. I beat him badly in an Army training exercise and he's carried that grudge ever since. He was surely a black heart but I was wrong to do what I done to him. I not only shamed him in front of his men, but I took his pride away not knowin' it was all he had. I ain't proud. Now, why don't you make us some breakfast while I lick my wounds a bit? After we eat, we'll collect these guys and get 'em ready for Tuck and J.T."

Seth and Jeb finished a hearty breakfast and began the arduous task of collecting the human carnage scattered around the cabin and getting it down to the big meadow where the snow machines were parked. Jeb reasoned that five men missing would eventually prompt a search and rescue mission even for this gang of criminals. It really wasn't necessary to move them to the meadow but something inside drove Jeb to remove all evidence of the intruders from the basin. He had a sense that their sacred sanctuary had been violated once again and didn't want to give anyone else an excuse to visit their special place.

It was late afternoon by the time Seth and Jeb had packed the five bodies down to the meadow. Between the snow machines, the bodies and a couple of packs for periods, they spelled out the letters J.T. in the snow. When they were finished, Jeb turned to Seth and said, "OK, now let's get back to the cabin. I hope Tuck and J.T. find these guys 'fore the critters do. I'll try and call J.T. in the morning and let him know where they are."

* * *

That night Jeb was relaxing in the rocker and, as always, messing with his pipe while Seth was stoking the fire. Jeb took a couple of puffs before speaking. "Well, it's time we head north, I 'spect. If these guys could find us, our location has been compromised for sure now. I imagine when they find those five bodies, it'll cause quite a stir. Then everybody will be chasing us, good guys and bad!"

"Where are we going?"

"Canada."

The word "Canada" had little meaning to Seth. He knew it was a neighboring country to the north but that was about it. It didn't conger any visions of Frenchmen on bicycles or vast areas of wilderness or anything really. Being a city boy with a sordid past, his frame of reference was quite limited. He liked life at the cabin and had become comfortable there. He occasionally longed for the luxuries of civilization but, in general, accepted his plight and quickly banished the thought. Knowing in his heart that he really no longer had one, he was still nevertheless a little homesick. He looked forlornly into the fire and muttered, "But maybe that was like the last of 'em."

Jeb scowled at Seth for a second but chose to ignore his irritating linguistical slip before responding. "Well, we can't risk it and if your enemy knows where you are, you've lost your advantage, the element of surprise. An old man and a greenhorn, we need to have an edge. At any rate, we're no longer safe here so get some sleep. We need to be in the saddle by ten tomorrow and we got a ton of stuff to do before we go."

Seth and Jeb were up at five preparing for their exit from the basin. As planned, by ten o'clock the horses were saddled, the pack animals were loaded and the old cabin was buttoned up. Without fanfare, Jeb climbed aboard Pete, reined him around and headed up the trail with Seth not far behind. Once on the rim, Jeb found the two-bar cell phone signal again at the same spot on the basin rim and left a message for J.T. telling him where to find the bodies. J.T. would not get the message until after a rescue plan was already underway, but it really didn't matter. Jeb and Seth sat quietly a minute for one last gaze down at what had been home for the last three months before they turned and rode away.

Jeb was apprehensive. It was at least a three-day ride to the Canadian border, a lot could happen and there was no guarantee that crossing the border would make any difference. He reminded himself to be vigilant and make no mistakes. The last encounter might have been the end of it but there was no way to know what lie ahead. He wondered too as they made their way along, how the events of the past few months would affect the boy, how they had changed his life. He was more attached to him than he ever imagined and was frustrated that all he could do was to react to the unexpected.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jeb and Seth had fought their way north from the cabin, only about ten miles, when they decided to call it a day and set up camp. The wall tent was a lot of work but in adverse weather, it was well worth it to be warm and protected from the elements. The going had been slow as the old man was overly cautious. He kept to the trees, always insuring that good cover was close by and minimizing their exposure. Neither had any experience with the modern GPS systems which would have made navigation much simpler but Jeb was quite skilled with a map and a compass. It became eminently more difficult when visibility was impaired by cloud cover and various landmarks were obscured. Nonetheless, while having snowed most of the day, this particular evening they were blessed with beautiful weather and a starry night.

Even so, rather than risk an open campfire, Jeb decided to restrict their activity to the tent where, after dinner, both were on log perches by the woodstove. They left the stove door open to create the illusion of sitting around a campfire but it just wasn't quite the same. Sipping on his coffee, Seth looked at Jeb and casually asked, "How far is the Canadian border?"

"Oh, another three day's ride or so, depending on the terrain and the weather," was Jeb's equally casual reply.

"How far have we come?"

"Only about ten miles today I reckon so tomorrow we'll need to pick up the pace."

"What happens when we get to the border?"

"Well, the border up here is basically a line in the sand, or snow, if you will. But, after we cross a couple of roads and skirt a couple of small towns, we'll break into a million miles of Canadian wilderness. Unless the Feds unleash the Northwest Mounted on us, the only thing we'll have to worry about is more bounty hunters."

"You say towns? Hey, I'm ready for a little running water, a flush toilet and maybe a 'Big Mac'."

Jeb chuckled as he said, "Well son, campin' in the snow is never fun but, as we get closer to spring, things'll get easier and more enjoyable. The animals will come out of hibernation or return to the high country and there'll be a lot more game. Soon, we'll be dining on Chucker, venison, Elk and duck. Also, we'll be able to catch some Cutthroats when the streams thaw."

Seth shoved another branch into the stove and smiled as he said, "Well, one more thing. It would be great also to have a girl to sleep with instead of you."

Jeb chuckled again, "You'll have plenty of time for girls if we get through this alive. Besides, the way you look now, a girl would sooner hug a Grizzly Bear! Now, let's get some shut-eye."

* * *

Almost as soon as Clancy and his team had launched their assault, the Grifton busybody spy network came to life but it wasn't until the next morning that J.T. and Tuck were aware of the plan. With that kind of firepower loose in the mountains, J.T. wanted to alert the Feds. Tuck felt that would be a bureaucratic nightmare and initiate a media frenzy that would hamper their efforts. Eventually, Tuck convinced J.T. to let him make a phone call first. He fumbled through the Rolodex and quickly dialed the number.

When Jeb first came home from Vietnam and after his stint in the VA Hospital, Tuck had been contacted by an Army Colonel, Fred Cole, who had known Jeb from his first days in Nam. He was concerned about Jeb's ability to re-assimilate into society and wanted somebody close to keep him posted. He somehow learned that Tuck and Jeb were buds and, once or twice a year, for many years, he and Tuck would chat. They became shirtsleeve friends and now, Tuck felt he needed to impose on that friendship.

Over the years, Cole had ascended through the ranks and was now a Brigadier General and the Commanding Officer of Fort Lewis. After Tuck laid it out, Cole immediately understood the delicacy of the situation and knew what had to be done. He was duty bound to protect one of his own and a decorated war hero, but he also needed to prevent a bloodbath. Unauthorized covert operations were a political nightmare on the international scene but on our own soil, much less of a problem. The media could be a huge problem though, if not kept in check. Cole could imagine the headlines, "MODERNDAY JEREMIAH JOHNSON LOOSE IN NATIONAL PARK."

Nevertheless, Cole decided to risk invoking the wrath of the military and his actions most certainly would be cause for censure, especially if something went wrong. Putting aside any misgivings about the consequences, he began to develop a plan. The logistics were a challenge, especially getting a small team from Fort Lewis to Montana quickly and quietly. Fortunately, he had access to a C-37A, the military version of the Gulfstream corporate jet that would be available the next morning. He volunteered a team of four Army Rangers and had them report to Flight Ops at 0700 hours with gear and weapons. The flight to Montana would take a little more than an hour and they would land, unannounced, at Fort Harrison near Helena where a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter would be waiting for their purported "secret" training flight. To lessen the impact of a military aircraft landing in a small rural community and avoid raising any suspicions, they would land in the pasture and pick up Tuck at Jeb's ranch.

The next morning, everything went as planned and Tuck was shouting directions to the pilot as they headed up the mountain. Because of having to wait a bit for the helicopter at Fort Harrison and adding the one-hour time difference, it was almost noon. Nevertheless, they were over Crater Lake in a matter of minutes and Tuck was pointing out the cabin location. Not knowing that Jeb and Seth had left hours before, they were surprised that all was quiet when they landed the helicopter by the shore and cautiously approached the cabin. Soon, it was painfully obvious from the blown out windows that they were too late. Tuck's heart sank as Cole deployed his men to do a quick reconnaissance of the surrounding terrain. In a short time, they had located all five kill sites and fresh tracks leading to the rim. With no bodies and no survivors, they were baffled as to what had actually happened. The last member of the team returning to the cabin had been all the way to the rim and back. Having double-timed it from the top down, he gasped for breath as he said, "There's something beyond the rim of this basin you just gotta see!"

"What on earth is it?" asked Cole.

"I can't describe it. You'll have to see it for yourself but we gotta take the chopper cause I think we're gonna need it."

Tuck, Cole and the four Rangers piled back in the Black Hawk and lifted off amid a flurry of snow. As they cleared the basin rim and the panorama of the valley below unfolded, they could clearly see Jeb's message highlighted in the meadow snow, the letters "J.T."

"What in the hell is that?" was Cole's comment.

As they circled, Tuck shook his head in disbelief before he spoke. "The initials are my son's, the County Sherriff. Looks like Jeb and the boy didn't need our help after all."

"Well, I guess that old warhorse still has some fuel in his tank," responded Cole. "Judging from the location of the kill sites, I reckon they were surrounded. I wonder how the hell he got out of that! At any rate, let's get down there and retrieve those bodies. We'll put 'em on ice back at Fort Harrison as John Doe's until we get things sorted out and we'll let the Forest Service deal with the machines and the other stuff in the spring. Where do you figure he's headed?"

"Most likely, he'll head north now that this place is so damn popular, probably up into Canada. As long as that bounty is still out there for the boy, Jeb will stay in the high country. And, if he leaves the old US of A, then I reckon we can let those crazy Canucks deal with him."

"Hell, I'd like to find him and give him an escort," snorted Cole, "but I'm gonna have my hands full hiding these bodies for awhile and convincing people that our little sortie today never happened."

* * *

The next two days of travel for Seth and Jeb were long but thankfully, uneventful. On the third day, they were proceeding, nose-to-tail, along a particularly steep ridgeline. As they picked their way along a rather precipitous stretch of trail that traversed an open hillside, Jeb stopped and sat up tall in the saddle, looking intently in all directions. He gestured to Seth to be quiet as he turned and tilted his head, listening. He sniffed the wind like a bear that had discovered a scent he couldn't quite identify.

After a minute of this, Seth couldn't stand it anymore. "What is it, what's wrong?" he whispered loudly.

Jeb whispered back, "Someone's coming and they're close! Let's get off this open ground, now!" Without waiting for a response or another question, Jeb struck out across the open hillside as fast as he dared on the steep terrain as Seth struggled to keep up. Soon, they disappeared into a stand of Aspen at the far side and kept up the pace around the mountain and down into the wide saddle below. On the relatively flat ground, they crossed the saddle at a gallop and continued up the ridge to a bald top on the other side.

Jeb pulled up immediately and quickly dismounted. He pulled his binoculars from the saddlebags and the rifle from the scabbard, handed the reins to Seth and said, "Get these animals on ahead in some trees and get your butt back here! Bring your rifle! Now, go!"

Seth heeled his horse and quickly disappeared over the top. Moments later, he returned on foot and joined Jeb who had taken a position behind some rocks overlooking the saddle 500-yards below. Several minutes later, two riders appeared at the tree line. They would not venture out into the open but stayed in the trees and scanned the ridgeline where Seth and Jeb were hidden. Jeb reached over without taking his eyes off the two riders, grabbed Seth's arm and pulled him down farther behind the rocks. Whispering again, he said, "These guys are good, not taking any chances, staying out of range. They know they're close." As the two riders began to work their way around the edge of the saddle, staying in the trees, Jeb spoke again, "This is no place to make a stand. Let's get outta here!"

He and Seth carefully crawled backwards until they were safely out of sight, got on their feet and jogged to the horses. They mounted up immediately and continued along the trail but at a much faster pace. About an hour later, they came to a particularly rocky stretch of trail in the middle of a dense grove of Aspen. Jeb stopped and very carefully dismounted onto the rocks so as not to leave any tracks. Seth moved up a little as Jeb began to speak, "Boy, go on up ahead, take the horses. Find some high ground with a good field of view and sit tight. Even if you hear some shootin', you stay put! Use the binoculars and that rifle of mine. When I'm done here, I'll hike on up and find you. Now, get goin'!"

Seth was reluctant to leave. His confidence had been growing and he blurted, "No, I wanna stay with you! I can..."

Jeb interrupted sharply, "Stop, son, I'll be OK. If one gets past me, you just stand your ground, get tough and finish it. Seth started to get a little weepy as Jeb quickly added, "Now hurry up and get outta here!"

Jeb handed Pete's reins to Seth who then dug his heels into Boots and lurched on up the trail. When Seth was safely on his way, Jeb unholstered his .45, checked to make sure it was loaded and slipped it back on his hip. Then, he began to jump uphill from rock to rock in an effort not to leave any tracks by the trail and took up a position about twenty yards off the trail in the thick Aspen undergrowth.

Less than thirty minutes later, the two riders cautiously approached. Jeb's reputation had preceded him and these two knew to be careful. They knew he was capable but had no idea just how capable. Nevertheless, the lure of a big payday encourages reckless and costly behavior.

Jeb was well concealed in the foliage but with a clear view of the trail. As the men came into view, he hollered, "Stop right there, boys!" The two riders pulled up their mounts abruptly, realizing they had wondered into harm's way. "Why are you trackin' me?"

The first rider quickly responded, "We ain't trackin' nobody, we're just doin' a little huntin'."

"Bullshit! There's no seasons open this time of year that'd bring you up this high!"

Both riders strained to find the body attached to the gruff voice emanating from the nearby undergrowth but none could be found. The man in the rear slowly eased his pistol from the holster, carefully pulled back the hammer and laid it against the side of his leg hidden from the voice. The first rider had a rifle laying across his lap in the saddle with the barrel casually pointed in Jeb's general direction. He carefully and silently clicked off the safety as he spoke, "What's your problem, mister? Come on over here and talk so's we know you mean us no harm."

Anticipating this very situation, Jeb had rigged up a piece of twine so he could shake some of the bushes ten feet away or so, a test of intention, if you will. "OK, hang on, I'm comin'," he hollered back as he began yanking on the twine and shaking the bushes. Immediately, both riders raise their weapons and begin shooting. With his pistol already drawn and a clear view of the first rider's silhouette through the foliage, Jeb's .45 roared to life. The man, at that close range, was blown clear out of the saddle. Before he hit the ground, Jeb had crouched down and moved to another position. The remaining rider also acted quickly, dismounting and moving stealthily back down the trail a few steps while straining for a glimpse of his quarry.

For the next twenty minutes, the two adversaries played a game of cat and mouse in the thick aspen, neither gaining an advantage and neither firing another shot. Finally, the last bounty hunter groaned loudly, grabbed an Aspen tree with both arms and slid to the ground with Jeb's big Bowie knife firmly embedded between his shoulder blades. Jeb slowly materialized from the trees behind and, very indelicately, retrieved his knife.

Jeb didn't mess with the bodies or the animals. There was no time and really no need since, in a day or two they would be deep in the wilderness of another country. He quickly collected himself and trotted on up the trail following Seth's fresh tracks. In the middle of the next large clearing, he stopped, bent over panting with his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his breath. Eventually, he stood erect and carefully scanned the far side of the meadow. Soon, he spotted Seth standing on a knoll waving his rifle over his head. Jeb waved back and began to make his way up.

"What happened?" Seth asked as Jeb approached.

"It's over, that's all! Now let's keep movin'. I don't like bein' exposed like this."

The two mounted their horses and headed on over the hill at a much faster pace this time.

* * *

It was the morning of their fourth day on the trail. Both men were weary from long days and close encounters. Once again, Jeb was questioning the wisdom of his decisions. Back at the cabin, they at least had a modicum of advantages, high ground, knowledge of the terrain, comfortable quarters, etc. Out on the mountain, they were definitely at a disadvantage. He began to reason that, at least in the hands of the authorities, the boy would be protected and safe. But then, the lure of a big bounty could certainly penetrate the prison walls and Seth would have nowhere to hide. Jeb immediately discarded that idea and began to re-focus his attention on the task at hand. He could enhance their safety by traveling at night and keeping to the forest but their progress would be slowed to a crawl. The answer was to get into Canada as quickly as possible which meant keeping to the ridge trail. And maybe, he thought, this might be the last of them. He knew he couldn't count on that though and he certainly couldn't let his guard down.

* * *

Late in the morning the next day, Jeb and Seth came to a high mountain meadow that ran for over a 1,000 yards and covered the entire mountaintop. In the middle of the meadow was a single four-by-four post with a simple "US/CAN" carved on either side. Since there was really no unexposed way around the wide-open expanse, Jeb motioned for Seth to dismount and wait in the trees as he tentatively began to make his way toward the sign. It had snowed the night before and the meadow was pristine and untracked. Extremely cautious, he stopped frequently to scan the far tree line with his binoculars. Finally, when he was well across the meadow, he turned in the saddle and motioned for Seth to come ahead. Jeb waited patiently as Seth approached at a gallop. When he got close, Seth slowed to a walk and coaxed his mount alongside Jeb.

Seth started to speak but Jeb quickly raised his hand for quiet. As was his way, Jeb cocked his head and listened intently to a faint, as yet unidentifiable sound wafting through the still mountain air. Soon, there came, still faint but very familiar to Jeb, the distinct whop, whop, whop sound from the blades of a helicopter. On recognizing the ominous sound, Jeb screamed at Seth, "Get to those trees up ahead, now!" And, as he leaned over and slapped Boots on the rump, he added, "Get going as fast as you can."

As Seth galloped toward the tree line, the sound of the approaching aircraft, still not in view, was getting louder and louder. Just as Seth disappeared into the foliage, the helicopter suddenly came roaring right overhead and continued on a line toward Jeb. It was a civilian Bell Ranger but, for a moment, Jeb saw a North Vietnamese, Soviet Union built, Mi-24 Hind, assault helicopter with guns ablaze descending over the jungle canopy and once again the sounds and the terror of battlefield filled his head.

The Bell Ranger rotated ninety-degrees and dropped on its skids in the deep snow between Jeb and the trees. Jeb struggled to control the jittery horses and pull his rifle from the scabbard while the swirling snow from the rotors obscured his view of the chopper. When the blades began to slow and the veil of snow subsided, Jeb gradually was able to make out two armed figures, weapons in hand and ready to fire, framed in the side-door opening. The two men were Sergio and Phillip who had been told this time not to come back to LA until they had successfully completed their mission. They had rented the helicopter days before and had been flying about randomly, looking for something to give them hope for returning to civilization and their version of a normal life. As soon as he could see clearly, Jeb raised his rifle to fire. Before he could pull the trigger, the two began spraying their automatic weapons wildly in Jeb's direction. The packhorse bolted and a panicked Pete reared so high he fell over backward, burying Jeb in the deep snow.

As the startled horse rolled off of Jeb and struggled to his feet, Sergio motioned to Phillip with his gun barrel to go finish the job. Phillip approached cautiously but Jeb was barely visible in the snow. When he was close, Jeb erupted as if an apparition from his coffin in the snow and, hurling his trusty Bowie in one continuous motion from a sitting position, buried it deep in the chest of the startled and unprepared assassin. With the impact of the knife and as the life began to drain from his body, Phillip crushed the trigger of his weapon with a spasmodic clench of his fist and unleashed another hail of bullets, one of which creased Jeb's temple, leaving a deep gash and rendering him unconscious.

Sergio, having watched as the drama unfolded, jumped from the chopper and charged through the snow toward the unconscious target, enraged at having to brave the elements needlessly. As he neared the body, he slowed his approach, gun poised. When he closed the distance, Jeb came into view lying on his back and groaning, with the snow spattered bright red around his lacerated skull. Cold and angry, Sergio was in no mood for mercy but needed for Jeb to tell him where the boy was. He shouldered his weapon and took careful aim before he spoke. "OK you tough old bastard, wake up! Where is the boy!"

Jeb was in no condition to respond and would not have anyway. A selfless sacrifice like that would be foreign in Sergio's heartless world of crime and would therefore have been lost on him anyway. Jeb groaned again and struggled to regain his wits. Sergio, frustrated, said, "Aw, fuck it!" and re -aimed his weapon. Before he could do the deed, there was a distant roar from a big bore rifle and Sergio was catapulted over backwards, a bullet through his heart.

When Sergio hit the snow, the chopper pilot panicked, eased open the throttle and began to lift off. The lumbering hulk rose slowly at first, enshrouded in a blizzard of white. From under the hovering craft and materializing through the eerie mist, came a ghostly rider on a galloping steed. Seth was charging toward Jeb's position with the tails of his slicker flapping in the wind, a rifle in one hand, reins in the other and tears streaming down his face intent on preventing the unthinkable. On reaching Jeb, he saw the blood and feared the worst. He jumped from his mount before it could stop and, rolling head-over-heels in the snow, finally crawled to Jeb's side.

Seth sat in the deep snow with the head of his Grandpa, his friend, cradled in his arms as he sobbed, "Oh, no, oh, no! Please don't die! I love you, Grandpa! Don't leave me!"

Jeb slowly opened his eyes and looked fondly into the face of the young man that had touched him so deeply and had, in fact, saved his life. He raised his hand and gently placed it on the boy's tear-soaked cheek. "I'm OK, son," he barely managed, "I'm OK."

With that, Seth hugged the old man for all he was worth and Jeb, unashamedly, hugged him back, he too with a tear in his eye. "I love you too, son," he whispered in Seth's ear as they embraced. When they were done, Jeb began to struggle to get to his feet. "Come on son; give an old man a hand here." Seth pulled Jeb to his feet. On unsteady legs, Jeb said, "Go fetch them horses and let's get goin'."

When Seth had finished rounding up the two packhorses and Pete, Jeb had rejoined the living and was collecting his gear that was scattered around in the snow. As he bent over to retrieve his Bowie from Phillip's chest, he said to Seth over his shoulder, "By the way, that was a great shot you made on that other scoundrel there."

"Grandpa, that wasn't me. I was behind the chopper."

Jeb stood up, looked quizzically at Seth then began to scan the area. Eventually, Seth tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a lone rider silhouetted on the ridge at the top of the meadow. "There's a rider, Grandpa," he said. "Do you suppose it's another bounty hunter?"

Jeb squinted at the ridgeline for a minute then pulled his binoculars out of the saddlebags and took another long look. Finally, he put the glasses down, turned to Seth and said, "Mount up, son. That ain't no bounty hunter."

"Who is it, do you know him?"

"Yep, I know him," was all Jeb said.

The two got mounted and began to zigzag their way up the hill toward the lone rider. Seth stopped short but Jeb rode right up next to the man, smiled and slowly began to nod. Old Tuck sat tall in the saddle with one hand on the horn and the other on a rifle draped across his lap. After a few minutes of non-verbal hellos and thank yous, Jeb finally said, "Howdy, friend."

"Howdy," responded Tuck. "Nice day for a ride, eh?"

"Better 'n average, I guess."

As always, Tuck and Jeb communicated non-verbally with a level of understanding stemming from years of brotherhood and friendship. What was left unsaid between the two was as enlightening as the spoken word.

"That old buffalo gun still shoots pretty good," continued Jeb.

Tuck gave a wink with, "I still shoot pretty good!"

Jeb added simply, "Thanks for your help, old friend."

Tuck just nodded his silent "you're welcome" response and continued, "Winter's been pretty rough, I 'spect?"

"Naw," said Jeb grinning, "It's been a goddamn picnic!" Seth squirmed in the saddle a little and reminded Jeb that he was not alone. "Tuck, this here's my grandson, Seth. Seth Jr., I guess. Seth, this old salt is Tuck Tucker."

"Well, I'm pleased to finally meet you, boy."

"Nice to meet you, sir and thanks for those care packages."

Tuck nodded again and then said, "Ya know, you boys have become quite the celebrities. One of them news magazines called J.T. the other day offerin' ta pay all your legal expenses for an exclusive story. I got no idea how they found out about your escapades and, actually they didn't really know much."

"What'd he tell 'em?" interjected Jeb.

"Something to the effect of, if he ever caught up with you, he'd relay the message." Everyone had a good chuckle before Tuck continued, "Well boys, I've got some good news and some bad news. What do ya want first?"

"Just get to it, you old goat!" barked Jeb.

"OK, the good news is Lotini's dead. Me and my buddy in the LAPD made sure it's been in all the news media and spread the word in all the proper circles that there ain't no more bounty, so these here varmints should be the last of 'em. The bad news is there's a warrant out for both of you. Ya know, the law still frowns on killin' people even if they're tryin' ta kill you."

There was a long pause in the conversation as Jeb and Seth tried to process the new information. Finally, Jeb casually asked, "You still a lawman?"

Tuck looked Jeb in the eye for a few seconds then reached into his vest watch pocket, pulled out a Sheriff's badge, gazed at it a second and carefully put it away. Folding his hands across the saddle horn, he asked, "What's the date today?"

"Jeez Tuck, how the hell would I know?"

"Well, I think yesterday was my sixty-fifth birthday so I must be fully retired now. Besides, looks like you're about ten-feet Canadian right now." He and Jeb smiled at one another until Tuck continued, "Oh, I got one other piece of good news for ya. Seth, I know you thought she was, but your Ma ain't dead!"

Stunned, Seth stammered, "What? No! How could that be? She is dead, I saw her dead!"

"No, son," Tuck calmly continued, "She was gravely wounded but they was able to save her. They put her in the hospital under a different name so's the bad guys wouldn't know. She finally called the ranch the other day and got Jean. We flew her up a few days ago and she's been stayin' with Jean." Tuck looked at Seth and winked before he added, "Mamma's waitin'!"

Seth just sat in the saddle overcome with a flood of emotion, tears rolling down his cheeks. Jeb and Tuck sat quietly, giving the boy a moment to pull himself together. Finally, Tuck spoke again, "Ya know, I understand the Canadian Rockies are a splendor this time of year. Why don't you and the boy do a little sightseeing for a month or so? It'll take at least that long to get the paperwork together to sic the Mounties on you, especially considerin' the kind of cooperation the Fed's will get from us local boys. Now, why don't you two go on ahead a bit and find a nice campsite. I'll join ya soon as I clean up your mess here and, when I get there, I'll expect you'll have me a cocktail ready, eh?"

Jeb leaned over in the saddled and extended his hand. Tuck grasped it warmly and nodded as Jeb said softly, "Thanks again, old friend."

Jeb moved off a bit and Seth took his place next to Tuck where he too extended his hand and added, "Thanks for saving my grandpa."

Tuck replied, "I didn't save your grandpa, son, I saved my old friend." Both men nodded as he went on, "Say, when this is all over are you headin' back home to LA?"

"No sir," was Seth's quick reply, "I think I am home, here with my Ma and my Grandpa."

Still nodding, Tuck closed with, "Well then, I know it was a long ride but welcome home, son."

###

