Dennis Yates - Red Mountain

When they came to the ledge through the opening in the fence, Nolan used his good leg to help jack himself over to the other side. A concrete slope angled sharply into the slapping dark water. Robert had been too busy trying to support Nolan’s weight to notice he’d grabbed hold of a loosened iron bar and pulled it free.

Robert set Nolan down on the narrow shore and looked up to see if anyone was watching. Nolan slid the iron rod out from behind his back and stabbed Robert in the chest. The pain shot up inside him, ringing all the way to the back of his jaw. It hadn’t gone in but had glanced against a rib and taken a lot of skin with it. He stared down at Nolan in surprise.

“And here’s one for the wife,” Nolan said. He swung again and cracked the iron against Robert’s hipbone.

As Robert pitched backward, he grabbed Nolan’s hair and pulled him into the reservoir with him. The water was ice cold and set his lungs on fire. Nolan let go of his club and began to claw at Robert’s face. Robert grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him toward the bottom, until he felt a current begin to pull them both down.

When they reached bottom Robert realized that Nolan had been sucked up against the mouth of a giant intake pipe. Already Nolan’s movements had begun to slow as he ran out of oxygen. Robert tried to pull him away from the pipe but Nolan bit him in the arm. There was no time left now but to save himself. Robert kicked to the surface.

Gasping for air, he treaded water with his face in a layer of mist. Warm bubbles left from Nolan’s lungs drifted up to the surface and burst next to him. Robert began to hear the sounds of people yelling in the distance. Then he saw a glow of yellowish light making its way around to his side of the reservoir.

****

He swam back to shore. Shivering, he pulled on his jacket and hat and started to climb the slippery ivy hill. A man’s voice shouted up at him to stop. Robert hid behind a tree and watched. There were many couples standing on the path below, staring up at him. They also had several dogs straining on leashes. He figured it was some kind of neighborhood watch program. He’d heard of the rise in citizen patrols but had never seen them in action.

Just my luck…

“He’s up there! I see him behind that tree!” a woman screamed.

The crowd started to run up the hill toward him. Their dogs barked excitedly and hauled them up faster. Robert tucked his head and charged through a patch of blackberry vines. Stickers tore through his clothes and scratched his skin. Flashlight beams danced wildly around as the citizen patrol got closer. He found a muddy path and followed it down to the grove of cherry trees.

He dug his arm inside the tree and pulled out the plastic-wrapped revolver. The citizen patrol had now broken up into two groups. One group was coming down the hill toward him while another worked up from below. Soon their flashlight beams were criss-crossing near where Robert stood.

“He’s over there!” a man’s voice called out.

Two men began to move cautiously toward him, one with a wide-eyed black lab at his side. Neither one of the vigilantes looked anxious to fight.

“You might as well give it up, Mister,” one of the men said. His voice trembled. “We’ve got you surrounded. The police are on the way.”

Robert pulled his cap down low over his face. He raised his pistol and waited until they saw it glint in their flashlight beams.

“Holy shit! He’s armed!” someone shouted.

Robert aimed the gun just above their heads and fired. Branches split apart and rained down on them. The two men flattened against the ground. The black lab whimpered and covered its ears with mud-sopped paws. Other members of the brave citizen patrol could be heard diving into bushes and behind trees, cursing as they scratched themselves. Robert saw an opening in the woods behind him and ran toward it.

He’d survived his first match…

CHAPTER 14

When Underwood first settled in Wrath Butte to begin his new career, Frank Longhorn, the retiring sheriff, regaled him with the story of Charlie Maynard—Oregon’s infamous merchant sailor turned cross-country bank robber. It so happened that Wrath Butte Bank was the last place he’d held up before disappearing into the mountains with a posse of lawmen on his trail, including Frank Longhorn and two men from town he’d recently deputized.

Underwood recalled reading about Maynard’s career as a criminal, but was unfamiliar with how he got there.

Legend had it that Charlie Maynard grew up in the thriving town of Portland. As a young man, he’d dropped out of school and began unloading freight from ships that made their 80-mile journeys up river to Portland’s docks. The work was strenuous, and Charlie struggled to help his tubercular father by keeping food on the table for his seven younger brothers and sisters.

On the night Charlie turned drinking age, his father was too sick to even get out of bed. He felt guilty at seeing his son’s youth being eaten up so quickly by work. He had wanted to take his eldest out on the town for his birthday and educate him in the ways of the adult world. Most of all he wanted Charlie to know he still had a future.

During the day when Charlie was at work, his father composed a mental list of everything he’d wanted to share with him. A sense of urgency was haunting him day and night. He slept very little, and thoughts about the cold ground next to his departed wife’s grave caused his bones to ache all the more.

When Charlie returned from the docks that evening, his father called him to his room. He told Charlie how sorry it was that he couldn’t take his own son out for a few pints on his birthday. Charlie didn’t seem to mind, having never cared much for the smell of liquor anyway. He told his father he’d be just as happy playing games with the younger children or reading to them. His father disagreed, insisting a man of Charlie’s age needed time to mingle with other men, maybe even buy himself a whore if he felt like it. He’d pressed some money into Charlie’s hand and told him not to come home until he had some stories to tell. He said that the pain he felt for his son had become unbearable. Charlie deserved a chance to experience freedom once in awhile.

There was no sense in arguing with the dying man, so Charlie thanked his father and left, confused about where he should go. As he walked the darkening streets, he thought about concocting some stories to tell his father so he could save the money for his family. His younger siblings were growing so fast. They needed new shoes and warm jackets for winter. Yet Charlie never lied to his father, and he knew if he came home with a few made up stories, his father would certainly be able to tell if his was lying.

He passed near a small tavern where a friendly crowd standing in the doorway waved at him to come inside. Charlie didn’t recognize anyone—they were all strangers, merchant sailors who told him they’d only been in Portland for a few days.

Charlie had never been in such coarse surroundings before and was stunned by the forward women and the drunks. A man who wore a silver plate for a nose laughed when he observed the shock on Charlie’s face. When Charlie glared back, the man apologized and asked him if he could makes amends with a bit of rum. His name was Captain Greeley, and he claimed to have sailed the world nine times over.

Several rums later, Charlie found his surroundings had much improved. He and Captain Greeley were later joined by some of Greeley’s crew. Stories were traded and songs were sung at the tops of their lungs. Throughout the night, Captain Greeley continued to take Charlie’s cup and refill it with more rum. Charlie made many attempts to leave, but his new friends kept stopping him at the door and begging him to stay a little longer.