Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

was a brilliant blue without a cloud in sight. The usual routine for a Colorado spring day is a gorgeous morning, with light rain moving in around three o’clock or so, then a nice cool evening and night. Today looked to be following the pattern.

But you could never be sure.

I opened all the windows and let the fresh mountain air stream in. Max sat up, sticking his head out the back window, the rushing wind slitting his eyes and pushing back his ears.

I got off at Indiana, cruising south toward the Fairgrounds. Only I bypassed the Fairgrounds and took the curving road to the left.

Now they were directly behind me, about a hundred yards back. I went up and over the hill, losing sight of the Chevy. But more importantly, they lost sight of me.

The road took an abrupt right at the bottom of the hill and ended in a short cul-de-sac, completely hidden by a stand of tall Cottonwoods. I put Max in a down so he wouldn’t be thrown around on the backseat and gunned the Escalade, accelerating through the apex of the curve; threw her into a broadside skid, and stopped dead center in the middle of the road.

I keep a Remington model 870, 12 gauge, pump-action, 18 inch barrel shotgun with an extended magazine tube in a rack behind the headrest. It holds six rounds in the tube and one in the chamber of alternating slugs and buckshot. I hit the lock release button beneath the steering column and took the sleek, black weapon from its mooring.

I was standing behind the trees when the Chevy made the corner, my big, black Escalade right in their path.

There was a wild screech of tires and lots of cries and screams, covered by the pungent odor of burning rubber and brakes that clouded the scene in a billowing mass.

The Chevy came to a stop, parallel to my car, with about an inch between them. The driver’s side back door opened and two skater-looking dudes tumbled out, shouting curses. The first boy, wearing ratty cutoffs that hung below his butt and a black, sleeveless shirt with a leering, white skull set at an angle, held a baseball bat in his right hand. The second kid’s head was shaved and waxed to a high shine. A thick length of chain-links hung around his neck, looped by a long-necked combination bicycle lock. He held a crowbar.

They started toward my car, but I stopped them with a friendly greeting. I stepped out from the trees and said, “Looking for me, boys?”

Turning in unison, their jaws dropped as they saw the giant, black bore of that twelve gauge pointing at their crotches.

“Drop the toys, boys.” I couldn’t see the driver because they were blocking my view. They hadn’t let loose of their weapons, so I cranked off a slug into the front driver’s side tire. It sounded like a bomb going off, and both of them dropped the weapons just like I asked.

“Get out of the car, driver, or the next one will be through the door.”

The driver got out, hands in the air, pimply face shaking to beat the band.

“One at a time, starting with you.” I pointed at the driver. “I want you to turn slowly in a complete circle until I tell you to stop. And keep those hands high.” The three of them did as told, and when I was reasonably certain they had no other weapons on them, I stepped up close to Baldy.

“Who sent you, and why?”

He started to look at his partners, but I nudged his belly button with the muzzle of the shotgun. “Nope, don’t look to them for answers, just stay here with me. Who and why?”

“We was just drivin’…”

I dug in a little deeper and he squawked.

I tried again. “Don’t lie to me. It isn’t nice.”

“I don’t know what yer talking ‘bout, man.” His face was going from terror white, to angry red. I could see him trying to work up the courage for a good bluff.

I hate being lied to. It gets that rage going. After the shrink from the Sheriff’s Office told me my anger was due to guilt, I wanted to punch him in the face. I pretty much wanted to punch everyone in the face back then. The shrink said I needed to let go of my rage, talk it out and throw it away. I thought about it. But it’s too much a part of me. It’s who I am. Which was bad news for Baldy.

He poked a finger at my face and said, “Yer dead, dude.” He tried to smack the barrel of the shotgun to the side.

I let the rage take over.

Reversing the Remington, I slapped the butt of the rifle straight into his forehead. Not hard, just enough to make a sweet, hollow cracking sound. Baldy’s eyes rolled up in his head and he crumpled to the asphalt, unconscious.

I took a side step and was now standing in front of Skull Shirt. “Who and why?”

He was scared. They’d bought off on roughing up, or maybe even kidnapping a middle aged man driving a family car, and instead ran into a nut with a shotgun. But even scared, he had more going for him than Baldy.

“You can’t do this, man. We got rights.”

I looked dramatically to either side. “Do you see any police here? I don’t. It’s just you and me and this here scattergun. Now I like to give everyone a chance. You’ve had yours, talk.”

“All we know…” said the driver.

Skull Shirt stopped him. “Shut up, man.”

I looked at Skull Shirt shaking my head. “I really don’t feel like playing games here, pal. So unless you’d like to take a nap with your buddy lying there in the street you’d better answer my questions.”

“Maybe we better,” said the driver.

Skull Shirt grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled back his fist, ready to punch him as if I wasn’t there. Perhaps punching the driver was something Skull