The Gangs All Here

Thirty days is nothing when you're not waiting for it to pass. With repairing Naomi, junglemart runs, target practice, and an issue with Abigail's fuel system, the time is over before I know it.

Lou is hard to motivate to do anything that hasn't got to do with that pistol of his. Progress on Naomi was sluggish at best until Jerry announces he won't be going with us to the meeting in Puerto Barrios. He has too much to do and can't be away from his runs for any length of time. It's not about the money... not for Jerry. It's about the flying. He knows he will never have to make another run again if he doesn't want to.

With that announcement Lou kicks it into gear and gets busy with Naomi and the rigging. It takes a couple of days to do a job that should have taken three hours. Most of the panels we have to take off to access are sluggish... stripped screw-heads, bad nutplates. We end up drilling a lot more than we expected. We find a couple of pulleys that have to be replaced and that means another run out into the jungle to a plane or two for parts we didn't know we would need. By the end of the third day we have taken her up for a test flight. There was a brief reminder when we fired the number two engine that we needed to address a fuel flow issue. Turns out to be a filter and there is actually one on-board among her supplies.

After it is all said and done, Lou and I have to be in Puerto Barrios in two days. Don't know what to pack, what to do to prepare... and what the fuck we are going to do when we get there. If it involves shooting something, then Lou is the one that is prepared.

He can pull that old pistol in the blink of an eye and knock a can down fifty feet away. I can throw coin in the air and he can hit it from a draw. The draw he makes to shoot level is not out all the way like in the old westerns. He just pulls it from the holster slightly and gets the shot off from the very beginning of the draw by fanning the hammer rather than pulling the trigger. You would think there wouldn't be much of an aim shooting like that, but he hits what he aims for every time.

By the time tomorrow rolls around we have Naomi serviced and ready for the trip. We will make a fuel stop at Tapia's and that should take us easily into Puerto Barrios. In gratitude for the ample hospitality and the lastest delicacy of "pit ribs" as Lou calls them, he is bringing along a box of Cuban cigars he has been keeping here since our return from the Big City. I don't think I have seen Tapia smoke a cigar before but the thought is there. That and a solar/wind-up generator radio/flashlight that he has new in the box from last year.

"Paid $63 American for it." Lou says as he packs it in amongst his things. His things consist of three changes of underwear, no socks, no slacks, two pairs of shorts, and three button up short sleave "cruise-wear" shirts. I don't even think I see a toothbrush.

"It's in there, jackass." Lou holds up his toothbrush holder, reading my thoughts.
"Packing kind of light, aren't you?"
"For what? A meeting and salad bowl briefing?" He pushes the clothes down and grabs the wooden box containing the cigars. He opens it and samples the aroma, "take a sniff. I seasoned them with a little whiskey."
I do, and they smell terrific.
"Isn't that a sin... fucking with a Cuban cigar like that?"
"Only if what you do makes them worse. This makes them just perfect."

"What are you packing, Nancy?"
"Same thing you are, I guess. For some reason I thought we would be gone a lot longer."
"So we do laundry."
"Yeah, I guess so." I grab my duffle and throw a several pair of underwear, some tour shirts, and one button up shirt. I look down at my sandles and am reminded that the only good pair of boots I owned are somewhere in the Amazon jungle.

"Those will do. Besides, if we need anything special let Antonelli supply it. This is his party."
I nod.

The three of us and Nester's nephew that has been helping Jerry all go into town to the Cantina for some chow. Nester is there and has received a message on his new satellite phone from Ollie. He has been released and is now on board the Caribbear awaiting our arrival.
"No shit, how is he?"
"He is fine, my friend. He lose a little weight, but he tell me his appetite is back." Nester says with his thick accent, downing a shot of the local hooch and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Your friend, Anotelli, is taking very good care of him."
"Antonelli, it's Antonelli. Yeah, I think he has a soft spot for the big fella getting hurt and almost dying just to rescue his ass."

"I'm beginning to think that boy has used up his nine lives." Lou says before downing his shot and passing the glass back for more.
I take the bottle of hooch and pour my own shot.
"First those thieving bastards at Coop's in the Big City. Then those little savages. He keeps getting the shit kicked out of him and getting up for more."

"He gives better then he gets." Lou says, raising his glass, "to Ollie."
"Hell yeah." We drink.

There has been no communication from Antonelli or the Carribear since we returned home. Just the expectation that we return in thirty days. The thought of the Clarok and our participation in whatever was to come had occupied our thoughts when we had first returned. But once things got back to normal in the compound and there was work to be done, we didn't give it another thought. Now, with tomorrow bringing us together with Andy, Mike, Chris, and Ollie... the mystery of this whole thing is right back up front.

Morning comes with an early call to breakfast. Breakfast tamales, courtesy of the girls at the Cantina. Hot and steaming like the cup of dark brew that accompanies it at our small table. They have delivered it personally and their giggles and chatter back and forth had awaken us just after dawn. Jerry's arrangement, I'm sure. He has to fly down Monjas to pick up a load of vending machines to fly back up to Guatamala City. Then he wants to head over to Chichicastango and take those bikes out to the coast for the guy.

Before we pour our coffee, Nester's cousin is here and helping himself to breakfast tamales. He's just a kid, maybe twenty, but what he lacks in experience he makes up in enthusiasm. While he is eating he says something in mother tongue that has Lou choking on his last bite.

"What?" I have no idea. Now Lou and Jerry are laughing. The kid looks at the both of them, not knowing what he said was funny, and laughs with them.
"What did he say?"
Lou pats the kid on the shoulder, "Junior here said good luck tossing your salad."
I look at him and shake my head. "No shit?", I look at Jerry, "what the hell did you tell that boy?"
"Hey, maybe he just has the knack of looking at someone and telling it like it is."
"Or maybe you're just an idiot, Jerry."

We watch Abigail take to the sky. A little more smoke than I would like to see, but then again we haven't seen very good fuel lately.
"She looks good." Lou says, watching her climb out and then bank to the south.
I look over at Naomi, all fueled and ready to go. She looks so small sitting there.
"We ready, Jake?"
"Yeah."

On any other day Lou's first cup of coffee would have been followed by the morning's first beer, a Walker, or both. Today he must feel the same strange feeling that I have, because it was three cups of coffee and nothing else. It is a nervousness, an apprehension about showing up down there. This has all been a bit of a joke up until now. But there is something very real about what they expect to happen.

I watch the number two spin up, starting like a champ now that it has good fuel flow. With both engines rolling Lou releases the brakes and we start for the gate. We should close them behind us, but fuck it. The girls are still here, doing a little cleaning for Jerry and me. They will probably close them for us.

We line up and Lou pours the coals to her. She is up and gear stowed before we pass the half way mark. We line up on our heading that will take us to Tapia's. Lou must be deep in thought about this as much as I am. The mystery, the possible danger of...
"Do you think Nester's cousin, the one the runs the Cantina, has a boyfriend?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"No? She doesn't?"
"Jesus Christ, Lou, doesn't any of this shit mean anything to you?"
"Any of what shit?"
"The CLAROK."

He is silent for a moment, then shakes his head. "I don't believe in the Bermuda Triangle, the Boogerman, that we ever landed on the Moon, or that No Country for Old Men should have won that best picture oscar. Strange enough, though, I believe in UFO's... so where does that leave us?"
I look at him for a beat or two and then shake my head, "that is the... you're one of the... oh fuck it."

The sun is in our eyes for the trip to Tapia's. We do a fly-by of the ranch house and see most of the crew out at the goat corral doing something. There is a thousand different things these guys do out here from milking to shearing to castrating, insemenating, worming, and slaughtering. I can see Tapia, white Stetson in hand, waving at us as we pass.

Lou takes her down for an almost perfect landing. Cross wind is a bit of a hassle, but better here than somewhere unfamiliar. We taxi to the end of the strip and he spins her around then shuts down both engines. I look at the time... a little after nine o'clock. Before we can get out of the hold Marietta drives up in the old Chevy pickup. We are smothered in hugs and kisses. She holds Lou's face in her hands like she is his grandmother, talking all the while in mother-tongue. Now she is back to me, asking about Jerry, about Ollie. She grabs my beard and gives it a gentle tug, telling me it's too long and that I look like her billygoats.

We drive to the goat corral and pick up Tapia. The four of us squeezing into the truck cab. Tapia can smell the cigars.
"What is that wonderful aroma?"
He must have a nose on him because all I smell is goat.
"These are for you, Tapia, whiskey seasoned Cuban cigars." Lou sets them in his lap. Tapia opens the box, his arms pinned like everyone else's so he can't lift them to his nose to sample their aroma. Luckily for him the smell fills the cab and overcomes the goat for the moment.
"Oh my, these are very nice."
"So were those ribs, very nice."
"You like my family goat ribs, eh?"

The truck bounces to a stop through a set of tractor ruts and we are at the ranch house. Marietta heads for the kitchen to bring out something to eat. Both Lou and I don't feel all that hungry, but it would be an insult to her not to eat something.

Tapia passes the box around and we each take a whiskey Cuban and puff it to life.
"Hell, this is the best damn Cuban I have ever smoked." I tell him without reserve.
"Yes... " Tapia takes a long draw and blows out the aromatic smoke, "this is very good."
Lou smiles, then takes draw and blows out a couple of smoke rings. "Damn self rightous Cubans won't do it themselves because they don't think you can improve on 'em."

Thankfully Marietta only brings out some corn salsa and home made tortilla chips, and some ice cold Dos Equis. We have a nice conversation. They are happy to hear that Ollie has healed and is down there waiting for us. Lou presents the little radio to Marietta who blushes at the gift. She is very excited to have it. When Lou shows her the power options, she tells him that it is perfect. Tapia gives him wink when she hugs him.

After we are done with our smokes, Tapia sends a few of his boys to top off our tanks. I try to pay him, but he won't have it.
"Just come home safe, Amigo, this is all I ask."

Within the hour we are wheels up, the ranch fading into the mist behind us, the ribbon of the river below us begins to take it's turn away from our destination. Lou makes a bit of a course correction as we aim for Puerto Barrios. We both ride in relative silence. There is music, a Bob Seger cd... Roll Me Away starts to play and Lou soflty sings along. He is much more comfortable with this than I am.

There is a lot to this thing, more than meets the eye. Bear believed in this to the point where he gave his life for it. One of dozens of lives that this enterprize has already taken. There has to be something to this. Something powerful enough to involve fortunes and souls throughout history that have tried to uncover it's true meaning. Six of us to be used like guinea pigs. Or maybe this is much more than that, an honor that we are being included in, the exploration of this phenomenon... to witness whatever takes place.

By the time we land I have gone with that whole "honor and exploration deal" and try to keep in the frame of mind that we are really going to see something special. Lou drops her hard onto the tarmack but keeps her down.

There is no one here to meet us. By now we know the little ground crew that handles the planes. We tell them that we are here for a few days and that a wash would be nice. Then we pull what little gear we have and walk toward the terminal hut. There is a familiar face, Loco, leaning against that dirty green cab of his.
"Hey... LOCO."
He turns and smiles, gives a little wave. Not in his police uniform today. I wonder what happened. He pops the trunk and we toss in our shit. Lou grabs him in a bear hug, when he releases him I do the same.

"Muerte Verde time, my friend." Lou tells him as we pile into the car. He pulls one of the cigars he seasoned from his pocket and gives it to Loco... must have had a few extra. Loco praises him for the gift and tells him that he will smoke it over the Muerte and a few cold beers.

We go to Domincans. I thought Loco was sent to pick us up. Turns out that he just heard a plane fly over... didn't know it was us, and showed up. We take our table on the deck and look around at the gathering crowd in the restaurant. Quite a few people here, but no one I recognize.
"You see the boys?"
Lou takes in the bar and what he can see of the restaurant, "They'd be out here where we are sitting, wouldn't they?"
"You would think so."

Loco goes and talks to the bartender. When he returns he is holding a message for us.
"This comes earlier today." He hands it to me and I read it.
"It's from Abramowitz. Everyone arrived early. Helicopter won't be back to shore until four o'clock."
Loco looks at his watch, "Is two o'clock."
"Well hell, sounds like cocktail time to me." Lou sees the waitress approaching with a frosty skull of Muerte Verde.
"Oh, man, that looks good. Beer... we need beer."
Another young lady comes with Dos Equis. That and a plate of tortillas and shredded pollo.

We eat and drink until we are full and fucked up. Somewhere in the interim Loco goes out to his car and comes back with a hog-leg of a Walker... local shit with voodoo sprinkled into the mix. Colors are brighter, food tastier, and my skin is crawling like an Aborigine's dinner. But it is a nice feeling when you let it in.

By the time the helicopter flies in we are paralyzed, only able to tip a shot and then a beer. I am pretty sure I had to piss an hour ago... I just hope I didn't do it while I was sitting here. I look at Lou, who has a waitress growing out of his lap. Loco is gone. Not just "fucked up" gone, but gone altogether. His green taxi is not parked out front any more.

"Jesus... what was in that stuff?"
Lou's brow furrows, "Elephant tranquilizer."
"Are you shitting me?"
"Yes." He stands, nearly knocking the little lap sitter to the ground. She is as fucked up as we are. Must have had a few hits.

Abramowitz is standing in front of us, beckoning us to come with him. I watch as he leaves with Lou. Then as he returns and drags me out by the arm.
"Hey."
"No time to waste, Mr. Allen."

Next time my eyes focus I see the boat below us as the helicopter starts it's descent. I am not in any condition to meet and greet. I hope to god that Antonelli's mother isn't waiting to meet with us, she scares the shit out of me.
Lou is all perked up and talking up a blue streak. I tap him on the shoulder and he cuts to me real quick, and then looks back out at the window. He hands me something and tells me to chew it. I do.

Whatever the shit is, it works. I feel the rush in my veins as the door opens and there is Chris.
"Hey you guys... glad you could make it." A two big, meaty arms reach in and momentarily grab the both of us around the neck. Then we are taken from the deck and escorted down below to our cabins to toss in our gear. The bed looks mighty inviting, but just for a moment. There is music and laughter coming from another room.

Antonelli leads us into the aft salon and there is Andy and Mike, Ollie and some of the off-duty ship's crew. Ollie has a half empty bottle of tequila in front of him. There are two empty umbrella drinks in front of Andy, who is in a short sleeved shirt and shorts... totally unravelled. Mike is smiling like the Cheshire Cat and when he sees us he stands up and yells, drawing even more whooping and hollering from the rest of them.

"The gang is all here." Antonelli says to the room as the door closes behind him. It is going to be a hell of a night, and then the tomorrow of tomorrows.

Parts, Pit Vipers, Ribs, and Beer.

Seems like we never left this place. The jungle has a way of accepting you back when you runaway. The heat and smothering humidity makes it feel like your wading through a tub of hot whipped cream... back in the womb of the green goddess.

It's been a week since we came back from the bar burning. We had a control cable snap as we brought Naomi down. It was by the grace of the gods that it happened when we were five feet off the ground. One of those Huatulco bastards got a lucky shot that has nearly severed the elevator cable. By the looks of things we took some pretty heavy fire from that truck as we passed over head. The rifle shots that actually hit us went all the way through the fuselage and out the other side.

I give Lou a crash course in sheet metal repair and we go about fixing the entry and exit holes as best we can. I have a gas powered air compressor and a set of air tools; drill, rivet gun, a pnuematic cherry puller, couple of high speeds. None of it matters because it takes most of the first day just to keep the air compressor running. When you don't start something like that at least once a week in the jungle, you regret it. But any mechanic worth his salt has hand tools he can use for the same purpose... and I do.

As soon as Jerry comes back from his run into Chichicastanango we should have our control cables. He was on a run down south with Nester's cousin and landed at local airstrip to drop some irrigation equipment. Off in a little wooden hanger he spotted a Goose fuselage. He thought we were in business but found out that everything that wasn't aluminum was removed because it was being cut up for recycle. A guy from Chichicastanango took everything salvagable from the cockpit and the cable runs as well. Has a couple of planes he is working himself, apparently. We managed to contact him and he agreed to trade the cables for some flex hydraulic line. He will let Jerry take the cables to us first and along with the cables he will give us the lengths of flex line and end fittings he desires.

"Where in the fuck are we gonna get flex line?" Lou asks me from his lawn chair, an old paperback book in his hand... the pages curled at the tips.
"Junglemart. I have a map of planes out in the jungle that we can pull some parts off of. Most of them are DC-3s like Abby, but there are a few others. Depending on what the guy wants we might just be able to pull it from one of our planes... if not one of the others."
"Roadtrip?"
"As soon as we know what we're looking for."

I have Lou's pistol in my hand and an old holster that Jerry had in the gun safe. The two aren't a match, so yanking it out in a hurry in quick draw fashion isn't working to well. I try to spin it around a bit and drop it into the holster, then pull it out like someone is drawing on my. I'd be dead if this were for real.

We are out of ammunition for every pistol in the place. Lou has burned it all practicing. He is like a long distance runner, running all day, pushing the bounderies, trying to get better and better... only with guns. Apparently it isn't dumb luck that he is such a good shot.

Jerry was pissed. Lou kept telling him he had plenty of money for the ammo. Jerry kept telling him it wasn't about money, it's about availability. On this run he is out on now he will have to make a special stop and buy what we need. And to make Lou happy he is coming back with cases of 44 caliber rounds for his old pistol. But Lou had to agree that he wouldn't burn any more of the compound's ammunition. That is for our protection and for Abby's protection on the runs.

"You'll get yourself killed doing that." Lou tells me, setting the paperback down as he hauls himself up out of the chair.
"No shit."
"Not your fault. That holster isn't for that gun. Holster is kinda like a baseball glove, gotta be seasoned a bit."
Lou takes the pistol, then motions for me to give up the holster. He rams the gun down into the leather pocket a few times, twisting this way and that. After repeating the process a few times he dons the belt and loosely fastens it.
"You don't wear the holster high and tight like you're trying to hold up your pants with it. It lays low on the hip. Some gunfighters would wear it low on purpose because they would drop a bit when they draw their weapon to make a smaller target."

He pulls the gun from the holster a few times slowly, then makes a few more adjustments. When he is finished he tells me to stand in front of him and pretend I am drawing a gun.
"This is stupid, just draw it."
"Do it, Nancy, I need to see you make your move."
"Can't I just say go?"
"Just do it."

I shake out both hands, keeping my eys locked on Lou's as though we are mortal enemies. My right hand slowly to my side, wiggle my fingers above the imaginary grip. I make my move and before I even go to draw my weapon I hear six clicks from Lou's old gun, level with my gut.
"No fucking way."
Lou twirls the gun back into the holster and gets that look on his face.
"How did you do that?"

He pulls the gun and slowly pulls the trigger. "One shot and hold the trigger down. In the same instance you have to bring your other hand down quick, fingers spread, and catch the hammer with each of them as you sweep the gun."
His hand moves and the cylinder makes a full revolution one chamber at a time as each finger catches and releases the hammer.

"No shit."
"Shit."
"Can you do that with any gun? Revolver I mean?"
"Not to easy to do without a little modification, but the principle is there."
"No shit."
Lou smiles and quickdraws the gun and repeats the feet. I wouldn't believe it could be done if I hadn't heard it in the bar back in Hualtulco, Just then we hear the throaty report of Abigail's engines.

"Just in time. I'm in the mood for some target practice."
"We have work to do, Lou, before we shoot anything."
"Who are you, my mother?"
"If I were your mother I would have thrown your ass off a bridge in a burlap sack a long time ago."


Jerry skips his traditional fly-by and lands, taxiing into the compound. We close the gates behind him, mostly to keep the goats out. Even after the thousandth time I hear her engines it still gives me a thrill. Jerry cuts them both and the props rotate to a stop. He drops his flight bag from the window and I catch it. Lou is already inside the cargo bay.

"Oh yeah, we're in business."
There's enough ammunition in the hold to equip a small army. As I climb up inside Jerry taps his foot on a green six-latch case just behind the cockpit. I climb to his side and he opens it. Three M-16s sit side by side in the cut-outs.
"Replacements."
"Beautiful."
"We have a little horse trading to do for this guy. We have to keep him on our route for a while."
"Guns?"
"Guns, some distilling equipment, goats, and he has six Harleys that he wants me to take to the coast... has a buyer out there."

Lou perks up at the sound of the bikes, "Harleys, huh? Does he have any parts so I can fix meathead's bike?"
"I still want a new one."
"Bullshit, it's still new."
"You sank the damn thing and fucked up the front end."
Jerry holds up a hand.
"I don't think the guy builds 'em, guys, I think he's a fence for 'em. So no, he hasn't got any parts."

Also in Abby's hold we find three huge slabs of ribs wrapped in dirty burlap, sticky with barbaque sauce.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Tapia dug them up this morning." Jerry rubs his hands together.
Lou looks at them and moves one of them with his foot.
"What are they?"
"Tapia's slow cooked ribs. Meat falls off the bone. Sauce is so delicious you'll have an orgasm." Jerry slaps him on the back.
"Well hell, let's eat then." Lou is in.

"No...no,no,no. Have to bury them again with some coals. Should be done in a couple of hours. Then we eat. That will give the beer time to get cold."
Jerry tosses back another tarp and there is a couple of cases of Negro Modelo and some block ice in a plastic tub.

Lou reaches for a beer and Jerry tosses the tarp back over them and hands him a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?"
"Parts list."
I snatch it from him and take a look.
Jerry points at a couple of items, "I bet we can pull those off of ole' number three."

Old number three is one of the planes on our treasure map about four miles out in the jungle. We haven't been out to her for a year or so because there is nothing left of it. Engines were stolen before we set upon her, instruments... same thing. We used a side window once, and took the other at the same time so we wouldn't come back and find out the monkeys broke it. But the beauty of old number three is that everything else is exposed for the most part. We don't have to pull anything out to get at these lines.

I grab the GPS, some wrenches, a couple of jugs of water, and one of the radios and throw them in the Jeep. Lou comes to the conclusion that we aren't eating or drinking until we come back with the flex lines. Jerry offers up one of the M-16s for support, but Lou grabs a couple of boxes of ammo for his Frontier hops in the Jeep, pistol in his lap as he loads it. As an after thought he tells me to hold on and runs into the hanger. He returns and tosses whatever he grabbed into the back.
"I'm shooting something, goddamnit."

We leave the compound behind us. Jerry stays behind to put the meat in the pit for warm up and ices down the beer for our return. We head out of the gates and down toward the approach of the airstrip. There is a path we follow for a mile or so, then it gets really rough. All we have is the GPS and our destination punched in in from the favorites.

Lou pulls whatever it was that he retrieved from the hanger and lays it in his lap. It is a cartridge belt.
"Where did you find that?" I ask as we leave the airstrip and bounce into the jungle. Lou nearly looses the pistol.
"Hey... "
"Hurry the fuck up, we gotta get there."

He puts the pistol into the holster and then holds onto the dash of the Jeep while he slides the cartridges into the belt one at a time. He manages to load two boxes of shells into the belt and then puts it over his head and left arm.

The "trail" becomes caustic. We are jarred out of our seats and I almost loose it as we break through the bush and catch an old riverbed that I don't remember. When we land back in our seats I slow up considerably. The GPS gets the shit knocked out of it, but continues to give us a vector. Lou spits out a little blood and then hits me hard in the arm. Bit his tongue I would suspect.

We ride through the pondwater stench of this part of the jungle. When that goes away I know we are close.
"GPS says we're here." Lou holds it in his hand.
We break through an overgrowth of ferns and there it is. The jungle has nearly consumed it.
"That's a piece of shit."
"It has it's charms."

We stop when we run into it. The gear had long since collapsed or were robbed. Never could tell. But now the jungle growth has totally obscured starboard wing which I think we are parked on top of. I back up and shut the Jeep down.
"Jesus Christ it is miserable out here." Lou is soaked in sweat, as am I. I grab the tools and the piece of paper.

While I am waist deep in fuselage, Lou is going through ammunition like crazy, shooting everything in sight. He takes a pause, waiting for the birds to come back.
"Don't shoot the birds, Lou."
"Who are you, Marlin fucking Perkins?"
"The birds are cool, man. Shoot the fucking snakes if you have to shoot something."

Lou draws a bead on something right over my head.
"Come on."
"You said snakes." He pulls off a round. I turn and see what remains of a Bushmaster drop out of the tree twenty feet behind me. Bushmaster... biggest fucking pit viper on the planet. He steps over old number three and over to the tree and picks up what's left by the tail.
"This thing is about twelve feet long." He whips it out into the jungle and then looks around for the rest of it.
"Don't touch the head, it can still kill you."
"I know that Nancy... WHOA." He drops the thing and kicks it away. "That is the ugliest thing I've seen since last year's Mardi Gras."

I make quick work of our friends order. I even remove a couple lengths of hard line that are hard to find for good measure. Lou burns all forty rounds in his cartridge belt. In the silence that follows he reloads both the gun and the belt. I am finished and we hop in the Jeep and head back home. Lou fires a shot or two on the way, but the trail is too rough for any effectiveness. Before we know it we are on the airstrip and I am going through the gears. We can smell the ribs, we can taste the beer. The sun has set and the heat is dying down. A full moon rises over the misty green. It's going to be a good night.