| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 4 March 1980
Bob went into town with Danny this morning. At evening, Danny came by to say that
Bob was staying in town, and Glen Hamilton would bring him home tomorrow.
Bob went into town with Danny this morning. At evening, Danny came by to say that
Bob was staying in town, and Glen Hamilton would bring him home tomorrow.
| Chapter Thirty-six THE FILLY IN LA POSTA |
When, at some dance or campfire, conversations turned to morals or metaphysics, or for that matter politics
or economics, Vikor would wander away. He was not unique in this; there are many folks in the world who find
it a bore, the way it is done. It seemed, first off, that every question, every debate, had its sides, and the first
order of business was for everyone to climb on board one or another.
To Vikor, at a young age, that began to seem the same as coming upon two drunks or imbeciles engaged in a
pointless quarrel about imaginary irrationalizations dealing with the situation, and adopting as one's own the
opinion of one of the jerks before taking part in the fracas as an equal… (another definition with which they all
agree de facto applies to new or creative thought)… (heresy)… Such arguments have not usually involved any
disagreements with daily conduct, so far as right and wrong are concerned. Except in areas where diet is a part
of (is addressed by?) the denomination's shalts or shalt nots, the basics conducive to…
As far as what they eat, they agree to disagree.
But as far as whether God is one or two or a multiple, whether male or female or both, whether he was ever
incarnated as a man (or woman), whether man is predestined or free, whether or not there is life after death or
reincarnation, whether there is sex in heaven, whether you can have dogs in heaven, whether this or that
prophecy is correct, whether God cares, whether God created the devil, whether God created evil, or whether
evil has some independent existence, whether the struggle between good and evil is a real struggle which
includes the jeopardy of evil winning out, or whether the triumph of righteousness is fore-ordained, whether
the infinite power of God could sweep away all opposition (evil) with a flick of the wrist, or the finger, or is it
really necessary to sacrifice your son to get the job of God done? Any of these questions is worthy of a crusade
or an inquisition.
That was enough to let it alone, so far as Vikor was concerned, and like the lion slipping into the chaparral,
he let his absence remain unnoticed.
As for gods and goddesses who were not… how was it put? … "outside of the boundaries of perception," he
knew a host of those that slipped unnoticed past most folks' eyes; at least, they did not recognize them as gods.
Vikor was sure that the animals knew them as powerful, personal beings, the wind and the rain. They lived
with them; they heard them and felt them all of their lives. These were not things to be believed; they were as
obvious as a sigh of love, the warm feelings of recognition that stir at the sound of the wind in the trees or the
eaves, the rain on the leaves or a roof, or on fur or feathers or skin or hair.
To sit in debate over the existence of some giant in the sky god when the real warm father, the sun, beams
over wind and clouds, was a waste of time to Vikor. That it could be debated at all cast the whole issue into an
academy of frivolous triviality, when contrasted with the day to day reality of the real gods and goddesses, if
you will.
Earth was not some lifeless rock to Vikor. Even her stones were alive, and he didn't need an electron
microscope to know that. The whole Earth, with her hills and her valleys, her beaches and mountains and
pebbles and gems, was as alive to him as a mother's hand.
Oh, yes, Vikor knew that there were other gods in a deeper sky. He knew the reports of astronomy, and he
had spent many a night beneath the stars with Ma, lying swaddled in the bedroll and looking out at our father's
world, the community of suns that is the observed universe.
And he learned to see beyond them, into the plowed loam of a deeper goddess, and still no faith was needed,
for he felt her love as plainly as the nursing baby feels its mother's heart.
or economics, Vikor would wander away. He was not unique in this; there are many folks in the world who find
it a bore, the way it is done. It seemed, first off, that every question, every debate, had its sides, and the first
order of business was for everyone to climb on board one or another.
To Vikor, at a young age, that began to seem the same as coming upon two drunks or imbeciles engaged in a
pointless quarrel about imaginary irrationalizations dealing with the situation, and adopting as one's own the
opinion of one of the jerks before taking part in the fracas as an equal… (another definition with which they all
agree de facto applies to new or creative thought)… (heresy)… Such arguments have not usually involved any
disagreements with daily conduct, so far as right and wrong are concerned. Except in areas where diet is a part
of (is addressed by?) the denomination's shalts or shalt nots, the basics conducive to…
As far as what they eat, they agree to disagree.
But as far as whether God is one or two or a multiple, whether male or female or both, whether he was ever
incarnated as a man (or woman), whether man is predestined or free, whether or not there is life after death or
reincarnation, whether there is sex in heaven, whether you can have dogs in heaven, whether this or that
prophecy is correct, whether God cares, whether God created the devil, whether God created evil, or whether
evil has some independent existence, whether the struggle between good and evil is a real struggle which
includes the jeopardy of evil winning out, or whether the triumph of righteousness is fore-ordained, whether
the infinite power of God could sweep away all opposition (evil) with a flick of the wrist, or the finger, or is it
really necessary to sacrifice your son to get the job of God done? Any of these questions is worthy of a crusade
or an inquisition.
That was enough to let it alone, so far as Vikor was concerned, and like the lion slipping into the chaparral,
he let his absence remain unnoticed.
As for gods and goddesses who were not… how was it put? … "outside of the boundaries of perception," he
knew a host of those that slipped unnoticed past most folks' eyes; at least, they did not recognize them as gods.
Vikor was sure that the animals knew them as powerful, personal beings, the wind and the rain. They lived
with them; they heard them and felt them all of their lives. These were not things to be believed; they were as
obvious as a sigh of love, the warm feelings of recognition that stir at the sound of the wind in the trees or the
eaves, the rain on the leaves or a roof, or on fur or feathers or skin or hair.
To sit in debate over the existence of some giant in the sky god when the real warm father, the sun, beams
over wind and clouds, was a waste of time to Vikor. That it could be debated at all cast the whole issue into an
academy of frivolous triviality, when contrasted with the day to day reality of the real gods and goddesses, if
you will.
Earth was not some lifeless rock to Vikor. Even her stones were alive, and he didn't need an electron
microscope to know that. The whole Earth, with her hills and her valleys, her beaches and mountains and
pebbles and gems, was as alive to him as a mother's hand.
Oh, yes, Vikor knew that there were other gods in a deeper sky. He knew the reports of astronomy, and he
had spent many a night beneath the stars with Ma, lying swaddled in the bedroll and looking out at our father's
world, the community of suns that is the observed universe.
And he learned to see beyond them, into the plowed loam of a deeper goddess, and still no faith was needed,
for he felt her love as plainly as the nursing baby feels its mother's heart.
| * * * |
The reader deserves to be leveled with, but… the reader takes what he gets. Johnny comes increasingly back
to this attitude. Adopting it, so to speak.
It's amusing. The story, for instance. Story? Oh, yeah, which one? Is there a story? Well, sure. You
remember the part about the snake? Very significant. That house… but never mind now. The important thing
is back even further.
Some questions are still unanswered. Goats for instance.
Goats would have been good down in the coastal hills, around Black Mountain, Carmel Valley, Peňasquitos.
So many rough canyons filled with lush brush.
But I'm skipping around too much. I can no more confess to the reader. Even if I revealed the plain truth, it
could be thought of as fiction. Marigolds were supposed to protect the garden from the intrusions of gophers,
who are apparently appalled at the fragrance of the floral roots. Geraniums, potatoes and daffodils have similar
reputations. Johnny used them all. He used wire, and volts, and severe presence to achieve the protection that
was his objective as he played the role of savior for all that dwelt in his herd. Lettuce and onions and puppies
and goats were gathered into his refuge of arms.
All this stuff about guns, for instance. One day the young goatherder was following his herd in from the
range. Behind them was a day of climbing, hot sun, and dozing in the shade.
The first members of the herd reached the pen and trotted in. The rest followed, trampling dust. Eighteen. He
shut the gate. It was milking time. It was the middle of summer.
The goatherder was wearing a wool hat, cut-off jeans, leather sandals, a belt, a gun belt and a gun. He was
just fastening the chain on the gate, his thoughts on milking, when Mike Wertz came running down the path
by the young pine trees. He ran up to him shouting.
"Hey! I want to talk to you about some kittens!" The shouter had a gruff voice, a full dark beard, wild eyes
and a burly body. He also had a pistol, in a holster.
The goatherder eyed him cautiously.
"What do you know about some kittens?" The tone was fierce and demanding. The goatherder felt
intimidated. He felt that he might soon have to draw his gun to defend himself. He knew this man, knew his
violent temper, lived with him in fact, and he knew the store he set by those kittens. And he knew that two of
them were missing.
"I know that two of them are gone," Johnny replied evenly.
"You gave them to your dad, didn't you?" came back the instant retort.
"No." The word sounded ineffective.
"I'm warning you!" the protector of kittens went on. "Stella is pissed. I've got ten gallons of gas in my truck,
and I'm driving to your father's house. I know he has someone there who likes orange, and if those two orange
kittens are there I'll kill your family and come back here and kill you and all your goats."
Johnny said nothing, only returned his look. He thought Michael seemed very angry. He kept his eyes on
him.
"And I mean it!" He did sound convincing. He turned suddenly and began striding back up the path. His fists
were clenched by his sides. The goatherder followed at a slow distance, eyes pinned in wonder. The man was still
raving in a loud voice, loud obscene references to goat cheese-eating little shits.
Wertz got into his old, pale blue pickup truck, and started it. It came to life, and with a great clashing of
gears he backed the truck around. One of the wheels rolled onto the old mattress that he earlier had dragged
from the trailer and left in the yard.
The truck had been parked under the old oak tree for months. It had been out of gas. A bird had nested in it
and had laid eggs. The chicks had hatched and flown.
With a great spinning of tires, the mattress was torn to shreds, and then the truck bounced away on the
rocky ranch road. Once onto the main road, which was dirt, the truck took off to the right, down the hill, with
more wheel spinning, gear clashing and rear end swiveling in the summer dirt curves.
At times like that the entire majestic, mountain view becomes the frame for the action of the lone human
being in the picture, the wide range of mountains and hills and canyons and creeks and trees, and a tiny Chevy
pickup at the center of the scene that churns up noise that originates at the very heart of a pent up soul.
to this attitude. Adopting it, so to speak.
It's amusing. The story, for instance. Story? Oh, yeah, which one? Is there a story? Well, sure. You
remember the part about the snake? Very significant. That house… but never mind now. The important thing
is back even further.
Some questions are still unanswered. Goats for instance.
Goats would have been good down in the coastal hills, around Black Mountain, Carmel Valley, Peňasquitos.
So many rough canyons filled with lush brush.
But I'm skipping around too much. I can no more confess to the reader. Even if I revealed the plain truth, it
could be thought of as fiction. Marigolds were supposed to protect the garden from the intrusions of gophers,
who are apparently appalled at the fragrance of the floral roots. Geraniums, potatoes and daffodils have similar
reputations. Johnny used them all. He used wire, and volts, and severe presence to achieve the protection that
was his objective as he played the role of savior for all that dwelt in his herd. Lettuce and onions and puppies
and goats were gathered into his refuge of arms.
All this stuff about guns, for instance. One day the young goatherder was following his herd in from the
range. Behind them was a day of climbing, hot sun, and dozing in the shade.
The first members of the herd reached the pen and trotted in. The rest followed, trampling dust. Eighteen. He
shut the gate. It was milking time. It was the middle of summer.
The goatherder was wearing a wool hat, cut-off jeans, leather sandals, a belt, a gun belt and a gun. He was
just fastening the chain on the gate, his thoughts on milking, when Mike Wertz came running down the path
by the young pine trees. He ran up to him shouting.
"Hey! I want to talk to you about some kittens!" The shouter had a gruff voice, a full dark beard, wild eyes
and a burly body. He also had a pistol, in a holster.
The goatherder eyed him cautiously.
"What do you know about some kittens?" The tone was fierce and demanding. The goatherder felt
intimidated. He felt that he might soon have to draw his gun to defend himself. He knew this man, knew his
violent temper, lived with him in fact, and he knew the store he set by those kittens. And he knew that two of
them were missing.
"I know that two of them are gone," Johnny replied evenly.
"You gave them to your dad, didn't you?" came back the instant retort.
"No." The word sounded ineffective.
"I'm warning you!" the protector of kittens went on. "Stella is pissed. I've got ten gallons of gas in my truck,
and I'm driving to your father's house. I know he has someone there who likes orange, and if those two orange
kittens are there I'll kill your family and come back here and kill you and all your goats."
Johnny said nothing, only returned his look. He thought Michael seemed very angry. He kept his eyes on
him.
"And I mean it!" He did sound convincing. He turned suddenly and began striding back up the path. His fists
were clenched by his sides. The goatherder followed at a slow distance, eyes pinned in wonder. The man was still
raving in a loud voice, loud obscene references to goat cheese-eating little shits.
Wertz got into his old, pale blue pickup truck, and started it. It came to life, and with a great clashing of
gears he backed the truck around. One of the wheels rolled onto the old mattress that he earlier had dragged
from the trailer and left in the yard.
The truck had been parked under the old oak tree for months. It had been out of gas. A bird had nested in it
and had laid eggs. The chicks had hatched and flown.
With a great spinning of tires, the mattress was torn to shreds, and then the truck bounced away on the
rocky ranch road. Once onto the main road, which was dirt, the truck took off to the right, down the hill, with
more wheel spinning, gear clashing and rear end swiveling in the summer dirt curves.
At times like that the entire majestic, mountain view becomes the frame for the action of the lone human
being in the picture, the wide range of mountains and hills and canyons and creeks and trees, and a tiny Chevy
pickup at the center of the scene that churns up noise that originates at the very heart of a pent up soul.
| * * * |
"There was a filly in La Posta last year," said Ed, as the waitress filled their coffee cups again. "Thank you.
"I was called to come have a look at this one morning in October," he went on, stirring some cream into his
coffee. His eyes grew distant as he recalled the sight.
"They had been keeping this filly in a paddock all by herself, down away from the house and the other
stock." Ed French was saying this with a certain weary scorn of folks who failed to adequately protect their
animals from the wild predators. "This filly's paddock was just an old corral that happened to be there, so it got
used. The other enclosures were all near to the house and barn, but they all were full."
Ed French figured that the old pen down beyond the pasture had probably been a slaughter pen back when the
place had run a few steers. He also figured that the people who had called him could have strung an electric
enclosure right up by the other corrals until they had time to build a proper wood fence for the filly. They had
nearly a dozen other horses at the place, some owned, some boarded.
The filly was a year old. No lion ever ate better, thought Ed to himself, as he looked at what this one had left
behind.
The head was completely gone. The head, the meat from the neck, and a sizable gouge from the shoulders
had been devoured or hauled away.
Signs also that the cat had made a gesture at covering its kill, a scattering of dirt and hay that lay cast over
the carnage like a shroud, indicated to the game warden that the killer expected to return for supper.
Ed French felt sorry for the filly. Then he felt sorry for the cougar, knowing from his college studies of
wildlife and ecology just what a struggle survival probably had been for the beast, that it was reduced to
marauding.
He felt sorry for himself that he had to know about these sorrows, and sorry further, that he was the power
being looked to for sanction of revenge. He was sorry for himself, and for the cat, that he had no good reason
to deny that sanction, no good excuse, with the filly there dead and laced with the unmistakable, long, claw
marks, for refusing to sign the special permit for the victimized rancher to exact justice, or, excuse me, to
protect his livestock.
He was tempted to deny permission anyway, to tell the aggrieved horse owner to learn to care for his stock
before they died in thundering, screaming, bloody terror, whinnying helplessly out of earshot, but what the hell.
"I was called to come have a look at this one morning in October," he went on, stirring some cream into his
coffee. His eyes grew distant as he recalled the sight.
"They had been keeping this filly in a paddock all by herself, down away from the house and the other
stock." Ed French was saying this with a certain weary scorn of folks who failed to adequately protect their
animals from the wild predators. "This filly's paddock was just an old corral that happened to be there, so it got
used. The other enclosures were all near to the house and barn, but they all were full."
Ed French figured that the old pen down beyond the pasture had probably been a slaughter pen back when the
place had run a few steers. He also figured that the people who had called him could have strung an electric
enclosure right up by the other corrals until they had time to build a proper wood fence for the filly. They had
nearly a dozen other horses at the place, some owned, some boarded.
The filly was a year old. No lion ever ate better, thought Ed to himself, as he looked at what this one had left
behind.
The head was completely gone. The head, the meat from the neck, and a sizable gouge from the shoulders
had been devoured or hauled away.
Signs also that the cat had made a gesture at covering its kill, a scattering of dirt and hay that lay cast over
the carnage like a shroud, indicated to the game warden that the killer expected to return for supper.
Ed French felt sorry for the filly. Then he felt sorry for the cougar, knowing from his college studies of
wildlife and ecology just what a struggle survival probably had been for the beast, that it was reduced to
marauding.
He felt sorry for himself that he had to know about these sorrows, and sorry further, that he was the power
being looked to for sanction of revenge. He was sorry for himself, and for the cat, that he had no good reason
to deny that sanction, no good excuse, with the filly there dead and laced with the unmistakable, long, claw
marks, for refusing to sign the special permit for the victimized rancher to exact justice, or, excuse me, to
protect his livestock.
He was tempted to deny permission anyway, to tell the aggrieved horse owner to learn to care for his stock
before they died in thundering, screaming, bloody terror, whinnying helplessly out of earshot, but what the hell.
| * * * |
Not that hypocrisy was a bane to be avoided at all costs. It was only the lack of pleasure that goes along with
it that persuaded Selabjun to minimize it. The hypocrisy necessary, for him to hold down this post as a
professor at a small town, American university, was enough for him.
To be introduced to the families of colleagues, for instance, as one of the standard paragons of manners,
education, polite company and humanity, while behind his smile lurked every willingness to perform sexual
consummations of every description with, on or to the wife on down to the twelve year old daughter of the
wholesome, convivial host.
Particularly in the area of copulating with underage girls did Selabjun Kirkhaz quickly learn to practice the
maximum hypocrisy. This was a double challenge, for in addition to having the morals of a mink, he had a
background that did not forbid fostering desire for girls of that age in the first place.
"If they're old enough to bleed, they're old enough to breed," was a coarse joke that he heard once or twice
on the campus. He had trouble seeing the supposed humor in the aphorism, because in his village the
observation was not a joke, but the truth. To effect the betrothal and eventual bedding of one of these nubile
children was certainly a process that was bound by extremely rigid traditions. You pretty much had to marry
her to get your way.
There was, however, no secret about the fertile attractiveness that most men felt free to admit was a
constant lure. Now, here, as mental shepherd for whole groups of youngsters who were well into ripeness for
motherhood, he had the onus of agreeing completely with community standards that saw such appetites as
perverse, dangerous, and reprehensible.
The difference, he thought with amusement at times, was this. Back in the mountain village, it was okay to
confess over kumiss that one had the hot hornies for a certain thirteen year old maiden. But that, short of a
panoply of tradition and commitment, was as far as it went.
Here in the United States, on the other hand, while any admission of a general appetite to see, fondle, lick or
probe the bodies of girls at the front door of puberty is condemned as perverse and dysfunctional, the possibility
of encountering real opportunities to do so is exponentially greater.
As a college instructor, Selabjun was in a good position to avail himself of such opportunities as they came
along, one by one, and so he did.
His favorite was fellatio.
Fellatio scored high with Professor Kirkhaz for a number of reasons. It never ended in pregnancy.
It felt so good. As a matter of fact, before his arrival in the United States of America, it had been the only
two person sex in which Kirkhaz had ever participated. In the central Asian republic from which he came, there
were always plenty of young fellows around who were willing to do that. Selabjun did not think of himself as
homosexual, but he had taken his turns as the one on his feet while some sucker wallowed on his knees. It felt
so good.
It felt even better once the performer had become a fellatrix. A seventeen year old freshman with her heart
set on good grades and kind remarks from her instructor was one of Professor Kirkhaz' little slices of heaven.
it that persuaded Selabjun to minimize it. The hypocrisy necessary, for him to hold down this post as a
professor at a small town, American university, was enough for him.
To be introduced to the families of colleagues, for instance, as one of the standard paragons of manners,
education, polite company and humanity, while behind his smile lurked every willingness to perform sexual
consummations of every description with, on or to the wife on down to the twelve year old daughter of the
wholesome, convivial host.
Particularly in the area of copulating with underage girls did Selabjun Kirkhaz quickly learn to practice the
maximum hypocrisy. This was a double challenge, for in addition to having the morals of a mink, he had a
background that did not forbid fostering desire for girls of that age in the first place.
"If they're old enough to bleed, they're old enough to breed," was a coarse joke that he heard once or twice
on the campus. He had trouble seeing the supposed humor in the aphorism, because in his village the
observation was not a joke, but the truth. To effect the betrothal and eventual bedding of one of these nubile
children was certainly a process that was bound by extremely rigid traditions. You pretty much had to marry
her to get your way.
There was, however, no secret about the fertile attractiveness that most men felt free to admit was a
constant lure. Now, here, as mental shepherd for whole groups of youngsters who were well into ripeness for
motherhood, he had the onus of agreeing completely with community standards that saw such appetites as
perverse, dangerous, and reprehensible.
The difference, he thought with amusement at times, was this. Back in the mountain village, it was okay to
confess over kumiss that one had the hot hornies for a certain thirteen year old maiden. But that, short of a
panoply of tradition and commitment, was as far as it went.
Here in the United States, on the other hand, while any admission of a general appetite to see, fondle, lick or
probe the bodies of girls at the front door of puberty is condemned as perverse and dysfunctional, the possibility
of encountering real opportunities to do so is exponentially greater.
As a college instructor, Selabjun was in a good position to avail himself of such opportunities as they came
along, one by one, and so he did.
His favorite was fellatio.
Fellatio scored high with Professor Kirkhaz for a number of reasons. It never ended in pregnancy.
It felt so good. As a matter of fact, before his arrival in the United States of America, it had been the only
two person sex in which Kirkhaz had ever participated. In the central Asian republic from which he came, there
were always plenty of young fellows around who were willing to do that. Selabjun did not think of himself as
homosexual, but he had taken his turns as the one on his feet while some sucker wallowed on his knees. It felt
so good.
It felt even better once the performer had become a fellatrix. A seventeen year old freshman with her heart
set on good grades and kind remarks from her instructor was one of Professor Kirkhaz' little slices of heaven.
| * * * |
Back before the days of safe hammers, Johnny and Bob did what most guys did, the ones who carried
revolvers, and that was to keep an empty cylinder in line with the firing pin. The rough life of a cowboy's hips
was all too likely to include a thump or a jar that might detonate the primer and send a round through a calf or
a thigh. This precaution left them each with five shots.
The slug that severed Freddy's hold on life was Johnny's fourth. Bob now swung his barrel back to Eddy, who
was rebounding like a slow zombie from the side of the Studebaker, and drilled his fourth round right between
the creep's eyes.
Then he spurred Spot, slaughter gone to his head. The horse started, but Bob pulled on the bit hard and Spot
turned and poised on his haunches, long enough for his rider to snap off his last shot. Spot reared, giving in at
last to the excitement of the moment, and Bob sailed off his back, sliding over the smooth haunches and
cracking his head on the open door of the truck. Unconscious he finished his fall in a spread heap over the body
of the still struggling and desperate Maggie Murphy.
Maggie had not yet surrendered. Eddy had overpowered her moment by moment. The sudden outbreak of
scuffling thunder, gunshots, shouts and screams only made it worse. She fancied that she drove him off for a
moment, and she struggled half to her feet, only to be grounded again by the plummeting Bob Cabler. She
wrestled her muscles half free of the weight that seemed still to grasp and batter. Gritting her teeth, she seized
a stone and slammed it into the back of his head, which bowed into the dirt. The rock came back bloody, and
the sight of scarlet made her rage. She slammed the blonde head again and again, unaware that it was her
rescuer that she sought to brain.
Widow did one last four-legged pirouette. Spot whisked by, empty saddled. Johnny swung away anxiously
from Eddy's heart and searched for his fallen friend. He found him. The valiant young warrior was being
brained at seventeen, and the revolver of his mentor cried out in protest. Johnny Stream's last bullet moved
reluctantly through the tangled auras, singled out for tragedy, and it found impact in the soft, hard, brittle and
brave noggin of Maggie Murphy.
In the silence that followed, there was only Carol and Johnny.
revolvers, and that was to keep an empty cylinder in line with the firing pin. The rough life of a cowboy's hips
was all too likely to include a thump or a jar that might detonate the primer and send a round through a calf or
a thigh. This precaution left them each with five shots.
The slug that severed Freddy's hold on life was Johnny's fourth. Bob now swung his barrel back to Eddy, who
was rebounding like a slow zombie from the side of the Studebaker, and drilled his fourth round right between
the creep's eyes.
Then he spurred Spot, slaughter gone to his head. The horse started, but Bob pulled on the bit hard and Spot
turned and poised on his haunches, long enough for his rider to snap off his last shot. Spot reared, giving in at
last to the excitement of the moment, and Bob sailed off his back, sliding over the smooth haunches and
cracking his head on the open door of the truck. Unconscious he finished his fall in a spread heap over the body
of the still struggling and desperate Maggie Murphy.
Maggie had not yet surrendered. Eddy had overpowered her moment by moment. The sudden outbreak of
scuffling thunder, gunshots, shouts and screams only made it worse. She fancied that she drove him off for a
moment, and she struggled half to her feet, only to be grounded again by the plummeting Bob Cabler. She
wrestled her muscles half free of the weight that seemed still to grasp and batter. Gritting her teeth, she seized
a stone and slammed it into the back of his head, which bowed into the dirt. The rock came back bloody, and
the sight of scarlet made her rage. She slammed the blonde head again and again, unaware that it was her
rescuer that she sought to brain.
Widow did one last four-legged pirouette. Spot whisked by, empty saddled. Johnny swung away anxiously
from Eddy's heart and searched for his fallen friend. He found him. The valiant young warrior was being
brained at seventeen, and the revolver of his mentor cried out in protest. Johnny Stream's last bullet moved
reluctantly through the tangled auras, singled out for tragedy, and it found impact in the soft, hard, brittle and
brave noggin of Maggie Murphy.
In the silence that followed, there was only Carol and Johnny.
| * * * |
Who was Ma? It wasn't until Vikor had left Cat One at the age of twenty-five that he had his first memory of
Diana. He had gone to Birmingham alright.
Cat's instructions had proved useless to the virgin predator, after a point. She had served him well till then.
She had taught him martial arts; she had taught him health and strength. She had taught him patience, and a
cool heart lest he glow in the dark.
But she could not teach him the final essence of the free, wild predator. She couldn't, even though she had
nursed such a cub, even though she had given him one of his genes, a string of genes, in fact, that found their
partners and asserted control after generations of domestic dominance. To Dove Springs from the depths of
humanity, the torch was passed and fondled and recognized and loved and nursed to the glow of birth and
becoming.
Ears flat with cunning, aware almost from birth that its kind faced danger, the savage aspect of Vikor was
the gift of a gene-cluster that had survived till then by scrupulous avoidance of the pairing with one of its own
that had now occurred with the conception of little Victor.
The two reasons that conspired to enhance the survival of offspring with only the half-complement of this
particular cluster, paired in other words with a more innocuous yet well-entrenched, and very similar cluster
that lacked the mutation, were these: One, it enhanced the spread of the cluster; it multiplied the
environments that it could populate by its propensity to constantly move away from its clone. One of this kind
of fellow in a neighborhood was enough, 'and the wayward wind is a restless wind.'
It's a survival stage that many mutated clusters adopt by virtue of its success in enhancing survival.
Eventually, when the world, or the closed habitat, becomes densely enough sprinkled with the mutations, (lying
below the surface in recessive prowl, learning by surviving, winnowed by the callous blade of hate and fear
when by chance appearing, grotesque infants from primitive villages cast to the wolves) the mechanism no
longer works, it isn't strong enough, chance overcomes it, and pairs are hatched and survive.
Two, it enhanced the survival of the cluster. Those 'grotesque infants' stayed invisible through the
generations. The recessive traits that would have landed them, as they matured, in prison, in chains, at the
whipping post, the pillory, or on the gallows floor, remained concealed, unexpressed. Genetic hypocrisy.
Survival of the fittest.
It came down through the Fargo line, the wayward wind, edging for dominance against the normal clone,
coming at you from Johnny Dolan like a sudden shock of no intensity, a there but not there flick from another
side.
And when it met, in the hot lash of tragedy, the daring same from the other side, the one we are never
supposed to meet or make with, the one who is always our direction away, it was like Christmas in the
trenches. Tentatively the chromosomes crept across the suddenly silent battlefield. They groped at one another,
recognizing that each other was not the clone that had been promised, the dominant half that would work to
shower the life of the human whose design it influenced with full measures of guilt and submission to the idols
of right and wrong.
What each found, each blueprint for the innocent and deadly child growing smoothly to become the innocent
and deadly man, was another of the same. This was to be a life not limited to the visibility and vigilance
required to watch the horizons for others of the kind, other hosts that bore the fugitive gene. This was to be a
life of activity not limited to repelling its own counterparts, and in being by them repelled.
This time we got control. And this time we know about the danger. This time we realize how ruthless the
species can be, how prepared it is to lock up or shoot down, or poison or gas, shock or hang, decapitate or burn
the obvious mutation. How do we know this? We know this because we need to know it to survive. Even if we
make it up, if we form it from imaginary folklore, it will save us, because it is true. A little more twist to the
mutation was maybe all that was required. Maybe we're just trying harder.
Diana. He had gone to Birmingham alright.
Cat's instructions had proved useless to the virgin predator, after a point. She had served him well till then.
She had taught him martial arts; she had taught him health and strength. She had taught him patience, and a
cool heart lest he glow in the dark.
But she could not teach him the final essence of the free, wild predator. She couldn't, even though she had
nursed such a cub, even though she had given him one of his genes, a string of genes, in fact, that found their
partners and asserted control after generations of domestic dominance. To Dove Springs from the depths of
humanity, the torch was passed and fondled and recognized and loved and nursed to the glow of birth and
becoming.
Ears flat with cunning, aware almost from birth that its kind faced danger, the savage aspect of Vikor was
the gift of a gene-cluster that had survived till then by scrupulous avoidance of the pairing with one of its own
that had now occurred with the conception of little Victor.
The two reasons that conspired to enhance the survival of offspring with only the half-complement of this
particular cluster, paired in other words with a more innocuous yet well-entrenched, and very similar cluster
that lacked the mutation, were these: One, it enhanced the spread of the cluster; it multiplied the
environments that it could populate by its propensity to constantly move away from its clone. One of this kind
of fellow in a neighborhood was enough, 'and the wayward wind is a restless wind.'
It's a survival stage that many mutated clusters adopt by virtue of its success in enhancing survival.
Eventually, when the world, or the closed habitat, becomes densely enough sprinkled with the mutations, (lying
below the surface in recessive prowl, learning by surviving, winnowed by the callous blade of hate and fear
when by chance appearing, grotesque infants from primitive villages cast to the wolves) the mechanism no
longer works, it isn't strong enough, chance overcomes it, and pairs are hatched and survive.
Two, it enhanced the survival of the cluster. Those 'grotesque infants' stayed invisible through the
generations. The recessive traits that would have landed them, as they matured, in prison, in chains, at the
whipping post, the pillory, or on the gallows floor, remained concealed, unexpressed. Genetic hypocrisy.
Survival of the fittest.
It came down through the Fargo line, the wayward wind, edging for dominance against the normal clone,
coming at you from Johnny Dolan like a sudden shock of no intensity, a there but not there flick from another
side.
And when it met, in the hot lash of tragedy, the daring same from the other side, the one we are never
supposed to meet or make with, the one who is always our direction away, it was like Christmas in the
trenches. Tentatively the chromosomes crept across the suddenly silent battlefield. They groped at one another,
recognizing that each other was not the clone that had been promised, the dominant half that would work to
shower the life of the human whose design it influenced with full measures of guilt and submission to the idols
of right and wrong.
What each found, each blueprint for the innocent and deadly child growing smoothly to become the innocent
and deadly man, was another of the same. This was to be a life not limited to the visibility and vigilance
required to watch the horizons for others of the kind, other hosts that bore the fugitive gene. This was to be a
life of activity not limited to repelling its own counterparts, and in being by them repelled.
This time we got control. And this time we know about the danger. This time we realize how ruthless the
species can be, how prepared it is to lock up or shoot down, or poison or gas, shock or hang, decapitate or burn
the obvious mutation. How do we know this? We know this because we need to know it to survive. Even if we
make it up, if we form it from imaginary folklore, it will save us, because it is true. A little more twist to the
mutation was maybe all that was required. Maybe we're just trying harder.
| * * * |
The funeral was private enough, held in the sprawling Bertman hacienda in Santa Fe. But the miners' local
threw a wake in memory of all seven victims, and Violeta was welcomed there with open arms of sympathy and
concern. Chela accompanied her to this function, this party, this near-riot. It was where she met Rico Gonzales.
The Honda car went home to its rental agency after a week, and Chela Ferrerra went home to San Diego, but
only to pack her things. A lot had happened in that week. Violeta may not have been invited to the funeral of
her beloved, but a special messenger made the dusty drive out into Japatul Valley to request her presence at
the reading of the will. Chela accompanied her. The two appeared at the office of the attorney in Santa Fe.
They were both dressed in black. Were it not for Violeta's obviously pregnant condition, Mrs. Bertman would
not have known which of the young ladies was Ivan's 'floozy.'
Nor would she have cared. She and her husband were already in the little room when the receptionist ushered
in the Ferrerra sisters. The Bertmans ignored the new arrivals. They could hardly ignore the irony that
accompanied their meeting in lawyer Shamsky's office this way, after Mrs. Bertman's frosty rebuff to her
grandchildren's mother had invited exactly that.
But it was Ivan, himself, who wrote out his will on the back of a mining document and named Marvin
Shamsky as the executor. When the rescue party finally dug its way to the chamber where the seven had been
imprisoned, they found, along with the stifled bodies of the crew, a neat stack of seven last wills and
testaments, with a chunk of ore holding them in place. Each was written by hand, on an identical loading chit,
each was signed by one of the seven miners, and each was witnessed in ink by each of the other six.
It would have stood up in court, but that wasn't necessary. Ivan knew and trusted Marvin Shamsky; he had
been the family's lawyer all of his life. His trust was well-placed.
When the girls returned to Outlaw Valley, it was in the Chevy truck, which was now Violeta's to keep. There
was little else, but he had left it all to her. A couple of guns and cameras, some money in an account at the
miners' credit union, even a surfboard… all of it legally belonged to Vi now, and there was one thing more.
Marvin Shamsky had arranged to expedite the disposition of Ivan's company life insurance policy. It turned out
that Violeta Ferrerra was the legal beneficiary named on that document as well.
After the miffed Bertmans departed, Marvin Shamsky took the two young ladies to lunch at the diner across
from his office. It was fun, and, after that, he went with them to the bank just down the street from the diner.
threw a wake in memory of all seven victims, and Violeta was welcomed there with open arms of sympathy and
concern. Chela accompanied her to this function, this party, this near-riot. It was where she met Rico Gonzales.
The Honda car went home to its rental agency after a week, and Chela Ferrerra went home to San Diego, but
only to pack her things. A lot had happened in that week. Violeta may not have been invited to the funeral of
her beloved, but a special messenger made the dusty drive out into Japatul Valley to request her presence at
the reading of the will. Chela accompanied her. The two appeared at the office of the attorney in Santa Fe.
They were both dressed in black. Were it not for Violeta's obviously pregnant condition, Mrs. Bertman would
not have known which of the young ladies was Ivan's 'floozy.'
Nor would she have cared. She and her husband were already in the little room when the receptionist ushered
in the Ferrerra sisters. The Bertmans ignored the new arrivals. They could hardly ignore the irony that
accompanied their meeting in lawyer Shamsky's office this way, after Mrs. Bertman's frosty rebuff to her
grandchildren's mother had invited exactly that.
But it was Ivan, himself, who wrote out his will on the back of a mining document and named Marvin
Shamsky as the executor. When the rescue party finally dug its way to the chamber where the seven had been
imprisoned, they found, along with the stifled bodies of the crew, a neat stack of seven last wills and
testaments, with a chunk of ore holding them in place. Each was written by hand, on an identical loading chit,
each was signed by one of the seven miners, and each was witnessed in ink by each of the other six.
It would have stood up in court, but that wasn't necessary. Ivan knew and trusted Marvin Shamsky; he had
been the family's lawyer all of his life. His trust was well-placed.
When the girls returned to Outlaw Valley, it was in the Chevy truck, which was now Violeta's to keep. There
was little else, but he had left it all to her. A couple of guns and cameras, some money in an account at the
miners' credit union, even a surfboard… all of it legally belonged to Vi now, and there was one thing more.
Marvin Shamsky had arranged to expedite the disposition of Ivan's company life insurance policy. It turned out
that Violeta Ferrerra was the legal beneficiary named on that document as well.
After the miffed Bertmans departed, Marvin Shamsky took the two young ladies to lunch at the diner across
from his office. It was fun, and, after that, he went with them to the bank just down the street from the diner.
| * * * |
Once Bob and Johnny heard the girls singing at the pond. It was almost like standing outside the bathroom
door and listening to two little girls cavorting within. The two men slowed their horses to a stop and remained
in place while listening to the shreds of lyrics that floated across the chaparral. Each turned to the other with a
bemused look and said nothing.
That was back before the war. The girls were seventeen. They were singing a song from the radio, and they
thought they were alone. They were belting it out. They were at the pond, in the pond, to be accurate. Johnny
and Bob chose to ride on, after listening for a spell to the voices. Later, after they espied the two tramping
their way home on a distant ridge, they went to the pond themselves for a swim.
Knowing the girls had just left made it easy for the two young hounds to detect their fragrance. To Johnny
and Bob, the place smelled like a 'boudoir,' whatever that was, and the song still echoed in the cattails.
door and listening to two little girls cavorting within. The two men slowed their horses to a stop and remained
in place while listening to the shreds of lyrics that floated across the chaparral. Each turned to the other with a
bemused look and said nothing.
That was back before the war. The girls were seventeen. They were singing a song from the radio, and they
thought they were alone. They were belting it out. They were at the pond, in the pond, to be accurate. Johnny
and Bob chose to ride on, after listening for a spell to the voices. Later, after they espied the two tramping
their way home on a distant ridge, they went to the pond themselves for a swim.
Knowing the girls had just left made it easy for the two young hounds to detect their fragrance. To Johnny
and Bob, the place smelled like a 'boudoir,' whatever that was, and the song still echoed in the cattails.
| * * * |
Oh, my goodness, aren't there times, when a young woman must search her very soul to find the answers to
the questions of life?
Questions of priorities.
Questions of goals.
Questions of allegiance.
Questions of love.
Wendy Ward nibbled at her lip. Then she pretended to light a cigarette, a trick she had learned. She was
back in class. It was next period, and she was in history class.
She elaborated her shaking the imaginary match free from its fanciful flame, lingering over the pantomime
as if daring Miss Ebers to notice and to take offense. She eased back and took an imaginary drag, as Ebers
droned about the heroes of the past. She considered her priorities.
Number one was Wendy Ward. End of priorities. On to questions of goals. Let's look at Wendy Ward's goals
and see if we can prioritize them.
She thought like that, in times of deep reflection. She used the ghostly 'we' for herself, with Wendy cast into
an almost third person role, the senior group deciding what was best (for the young scamp).
So, what do we want?
We want to get out of this history class. We want to get out of school. We want to get out on our own.
We want to have our own place. We want nice clothes. We want something more to eat than oat meal and
lima beans. We want money. We want love. We want to be loved, something beyond the restrictive noose of
selfish affection imposed on us by our parents and families. We want to love.
I already love my parents, Wendy thought to herself, even if I hate them. But I want to love more; I want
my heart to be swept away.
Alright, we want to love. On to allegiance.
Allegiance. I don't even know what that is. I pledge allegiance to the flag. Why does allegiance have to be a
part of this?
Because, whether you notice it or not, little girl, your allegiance is being called in to question. To ignore it,
and to not answer it, will leave it to be answered for you. Perhaps we need to go back to goals for a minute.
Maybe we left something out. These are your goals, to be out on your own and all the rest. Don't they sound
good? Don't they sound like freedom? Shouldn't you add freedom to the list? Maybe at the top, even before
getting out of history class, though even that is a part of it.
So, is letting questions that are yours be answered for you freedom? We have to answer for ourselves,
Wendy, to whom or what we pay our allegiance.
To what groups do you belong? Who can count on you? Not history class and demon Ebers; we know that you
would throw them over in a second. But Donna can come to you with a secret, can she not? And your folks can
sleep in the next room secure in knowing that your loyalty rests with them, at least to the point where you will
not be introducing threats to your family.
But all of this fudges out when you start to climb a step or two higher, doesn't it, Wendy? I pledge allegiance;
you pledge allegiance; we pledge allegiance to America, to California, to San Diego County. Hell, we'd pledge
allegiance to the world if creatures from outer space were invading, bent on conquest.
Miss Ebers was lecturing on the events that led to, surrounded and followed the invasion of the Normans in
ten sixty-six. It was funny how the allegiance of the Saxons changed during a stretch of history. As a barbaric
tribe, allegiance was pledged and paid to the tribe, regardless of the territory claimed, defended, or conquered
by the tribe. And so they had moved across the continent over the years, pushing the valiant Celts ahead of
them while simultaneously guarding their own rear from the likes of other Germanic tribes.
Generation after generation clung to the ways of the tribe. It was for the tribe, that heroes sacrificed their
lives. It was for family and friendship as well, but it was the tribe that bound them all into a movable citadel of
security. If land was sacred, it was because the crops of the tribe were growing there, the babes of the tribe
were being born there, the leaders of the tribe were drawing their lines, and the warriors of the tribe were
committing their deeds and shedding their blood on that deep, northern ground.
Then they came to the magic island, the island that someday would be known to the world by the name of the
Saxon's allies. The Romans had known it as Brittania. The enchanted isle had demonstrated to the Romans its
seductive charm. When finally they left, it was in sorrow and confusion, boggled by the stress of an empire in
decay, that they said goodbye to the misty, green island and returned to the hot sunshine and the shadow of the
Latin eagle.
Even then, there were many who stayed, who chose not to abandon their true beloved country. In large, the
generals and the legionnaires, the aristocrats and the officers, the scribes and the bureaucrats left, along with
the women who sensed that their own fortunes bode best in Italy.
But the bastards, the children of Celtic whores, young men in love with Celtic maidens, escaped slaves and
any who loved the land too much to leave, stayed. They stayed, and they bred that quality forever into the
people of that land, that of loving it too much to leave.
When the Celts at last retreated before the Saxon incursions, to make their stands in Wales and Ireland and
Scotland, the ones who loved England too much to leave, stayed, and submitted to their conquerors, and
infected them with that same allegiance.
It also must have been because there was precious little left of Europe in which to find refuge. The land had
dwindled to England and Ireland. The Angles, the Jutes and the Saxons stood, with their backs against a wall of
Celtic steel, and faced the Normans.
And lost.
By then the little country had grown skilled at absorbing conquerors. Wendy Ward was bored out of her skull
on the one side of her head; on the other she still was lost in musing about her sudden opportunities. She had a
funny fear that she would feel like a rat if she turned in Johnny and Bob. At the same time, she told herself, it
didn't have to be the reward money that motivated her. She did pledge allegiance to some kind of law and
order; we'd be getting robbed and raped every day if it wasn't here, wouldn't we, Wendy?
Yes, but…
Yes, but it's also some kind of complicity, is it not?
What, helpin'…?
Helping the killer keep his secret! They only want to question them, you know.
But Bob and Johnny…
… have guns. We know. Now, where were we? Allegiance? The old 'whose side are you on' question? Think
about it, Wendy. Are any of your dreams of wealth and power and fun going to be accomplished if you get all
hooked up and involved with some backcountry outlaw?
Sure, you can walk on the wild side and be cool and intelligent and have dignity. You can do it while you're
hiding out, harboring fugitives, keeping secrets, sweating it out on the road every time there's a cop or anyone
else behind you, jumping at the knock on the door, waking in the dark to a silent home, and wondering what
roused you.
But you can have just as much dignity and intelligence, and just as much 'cool,' if you're locked in the loving
arms of society, if you are a part of the system, if the long arms of the law are your arms.
But I'll be a fink.
You'll be a heroine.
I will have betrayed him…
… rather than betraying everyone else.
I can't be trusted.
We trust you to do this; we want you to be rewarded when you do.
I'm just getting paid off to snitch. That's what people will say.
People will say what people will say, no matter what you do. You will be Miss Ward; you'll have a car, maybe
a job offer. You'll have money and opportunity.
Donna will do it anyhow, if I don't, she concluded. So I might as well do it. She shrugged to herself with a
frustrated smile and stubbed the imaginary cigarette butt into the center of her page blank of notes. Class
dismissed!
What about love?
the questions of life?
Questions of priorities.
Questions of goals.
Questions of allegiance.
Questions of love.
Wendy Ward nibbled at her lip. Then she pretended to light a cigarette, a trick she had learned. She was
back in class. It was next period, and she was in history class.
She elaborated her shaking the imaginary match free from its fanciful flame, lingering over the pantomime
as if daring Miss Ebers to notice and to take offense. She eased back and took an imaginary drag, as Ebers
droned about the heroes of the past. She considered her priorities.
Number one was Wendy Ward. End of priorities. On to questions of goals. Let's look at Wendy Ward's goals
and see if we can prioritize them.
She thought like that, in times of deep reflection. She used the ghostly 'we' for herself, with Wendy cast into
an almost third person role, the senior group deciding what was best (for the young scamp).
So, what do we want?
We want to get out of this history class. We want to get out of school. We want to get out on our own.
We want to have our own place. We want nice clothes. We want something more to eat than oat meal and
lima beans. We want money. We want love. We want to be loved, something beyond the restrictive noose of
selfish affection imposed on us by our parents and families. We want to love.
I already love my parents, Wendy thought to herself, even if I hate them. But I want to love more; I want
my heart to be swept away.
Alright, we want to love. On to allegiance.
Allegiance. I don't even know what that is. I pledge allegiance to the flag. Why does allegiance have to be a
part of this?
Because, whether you notice it or not, little girl, your allegiance is being called in to question. To ignore it,
and to not answer it, will leave it to be answered for you. Perhaps we need to go back to goals for a minute.
Maybe we left something out. These are your goals, to be out on your own and all the rest. Don't they sound
good? Don't they sound like freedom? Shouldn't you add freedom to the list? Maybe at the top, even before
getting out of history class, though even that is a part of it.
So, is letting questions that are yours be answered for you freedom? We have to answer for ourselves,
Wendy, to whom or what we pay our allegiance.
To what groups do you belong? Who can count on you? Not history class and demon Ebers; we know that you
would throw them over in a second. But Donna can come to you with a secret, can she not? And your folks can
sleep in the next room secure in knowing that your loyalty rests with them, at least to the point where you will
not be introducing threats to your family.
But all of this fudges out when you start to climb a step or two higher, doesn't it, Wendy? I pledge allegiance;
you pledge allegiance; we pledge allegiance to America, to California, to San Diego County. Hell, we'd pledge
allegiance to the world if creatures from outer space were invading, bent on conquest.
Miss Ebers was lecturing on the events that led to, surrounded and followed the invasion of the Normans in
ten sixty-six. It was funny how the allegiance of the Saxons changed during a stretch of history. As a barbaric
tribe, allegiance was pledged and paid to the tribe, regardless of the territory claimed, defended, or conquered
by the tribe. And so they had moved across the continent over the years, pushing the valiant Celts ahead of
them while simultaneously guarding their own rear from the likes of other Germanic tribes.
Generation after generation clung to the ways of the tribe. It was for the tribe, that heroes sacrificed their
lives. It was for family and friendship as well, but it was the tribe that bound them all into a movable citadel of
security. If land was sacred, it was because the crops of the tribe were growing there, the babes of the tribe
were being born there, the leaders of the tribe were drawing their lines, and the warriors of the tribe were
committing their deeds and shedding their blood on that deep, northern ground.
Then they came to the magic island, the island that someday would be known to the world by the name of the
Saxon's allies. The Romans had known it as Brittania. The enchanted isle had demonstrated to the Romans its
seductive charm. When finally they left, it was in sorrow and confusion, boggled by the stress of an empire in
decay, that they said goodbye to the misty, green island and returned to the hot sunshine and the shadow of the
Latin eagle.
Even then, there were many who stayed, who chose not to abandon their true beloved country. In large, the
generals and the legionnaires, the aristocrats and the officers, the scribes and the bureaucrats left, along with
the women who sensed that their own fortunes bode best in Italy.
But the bastards, the children of Celtic whores, young men in love with Celtic maidens, escaped slaves and
any who loved the land too much to leave, stayed. They stayed, and they bred that quality forever into the
people of that land, that of loving it too much to leave.
When the Celts at last retreated before the Saxon incursions, to make their stands in Wales and Ireland and
Scotland, the ones who loved England too much to leave, stayed, and submitted to their conquerors, and
infected them with that same allegiance.
It also must have been because there was precious little left of Europe in which to find refuge. The land had
dwindled to England and Ireland. The Angles, the Jutes and the Saxons stood, with their backs against a wall of
Celtic steel, and faced the Normans.
And lost.
By then the little country had grown skilled at absorbing conquerors. Wendy Ward was bored out of her skull
on the one side of her head; on the other she still was lost in musing about her sudden opportunities. She had a
funny fear that she would feel like a rat if she turned in Johnny and Bob. At the same time, she told herself, it
didn't have to be the reward money that motivated her. She did pledge allegiance to some kind of law and
order; we'd be getting robbed and raped every day if it wasn't here, wouldn't we, Wendy?
Yes, but…
Yes, but it's also some kind of complicity, is it not?
What, helpin'…?
Helping the killer keep his secret! They only want to question them, you know.
But Bob and Johnny…
… have guns. We know. Now, where were we? Allegiance? The old 'whose side are you on' question? Think
about it, Wendy. Are any of your dreams of wealth and power and fun going to be accomplished if you get all
hooked up and involved with some backcountry outlaw?
Sure, you can walk on the wild side and be cool and intelligent and have dignity. You can do it while you're
hiding out, harboring fugitives, keeping secrets, sweating it out on the road every time there's a cop or anyone
else behind you, jumping at the knock on the door, waking in the dark to a silent home, and wondering what
roused you.
But you can have just as much dignity and intelligence, and just as much 'cool,' if you're locked in the loving
arms of society, if you are a part of the system, if the long arms of the law are your arms.
But I'll be a fink.
You'll be a heroine.
I will have betrayed him…
… rather than betraying everyone else.
I can't be trusted.
We trust you to do this; we want you to be rewarded when you do.
I'm just getting paid off to snitch. That's what people will say.
People will say what people will say, no matter what you do. You will be Miss Ward; you'll have a car, maybe
a job offer. You'll have money and opportunity.
Donna will do it anyhow, if I don't, she concluded. So I might as well do it. She shrugged to herself with a
frustrated smile and stubbed the imaginary cigarette butt into the center of her page blank of notes. Class
dismissed!
What about love?
