JULIENNE
                                                     IDAHO

                                                    

Julienne, with a population of four hundred and thirty-one at the last count, stood six thousand feet overlooking a disused railroad that twisted through forested country along Bull Creek. Mist hung eerily in the trees. However, Julienne itself defied the local weather conditions for it sat quietly; dry, sun-beaten and tired on the dusty path named Main Street.

     Town sheriff Ethan Jones shifted position in his veranda chair; half opened one eye to check everything was okay and settled again in the early afternoon hot weather - for it was siesta time. Jones smiled: this was the good life - and it had remained so for years - until yesterday. He stretched luxuriously and thought those years of doing little was a darned good way to earn a living. However, he was a sheriff who carried out his duties, oh, yes sir, for he ensured troublemakers did not exist in Julienne. Nobody dare flout the law in this town because if they did, then Ethan Jones would run them out and, if necessary, kick ass on the way.

     A dog barked at the other end of the street. Jones tried to ignore this peace buster but it was no good trying. It had barked throughout the last twenty-four hours and Jones had slept badly: upsetting wife Olivia as he moved in bed, grumbling, hoping the hound would lose its voice box. Jones smiled at the thought. That would be just fine and dandy: a yapping dog going down with laryngitis. The dog barked again - piercing howls that tugged at Jones' ears. Jones winced.

     Approaching footsteps sounded on the sidewalk. Jones winced again. They just had to belong to hulking deputy sheriff Amos Camano. Jones believed Camano's clumsy strides would echo if he walked on sand. The sheriff opened one eye and squinted as Camano stamped up the veranda steps, puffing red-faced exertion.

     "You have heavy feet today, Amos."

     "People are complaining, sheriff", said Camano, deflecting the jibe, taking off his Stetson and wiping his sweating brow. "I cannot walk anywhere in this town without somebody is grouching about Tristan Green's dog."
 
     Jones opened both eyes: Tristan Green's new dog was a problem. "I agree, Amos. We have a quiet town - or we did have until yesterday - when.."

     "When Tristan turned up with this dog and it ain't stopped yapping since it arrived," Amos said. "As you know, I live a mile from here and yet my family and I could hear that critter throughout last night. That's why I was late on duty this morning: I was so tired when I got up that I could not think straight. You told me to speak to Tristan about the hound, but I didn't get hold of him until a half hour ago."

     "Is that a fact?" Jones flicked an insect from the front of his shirt. "So what should we do about this dog?"

     Camano considered options. "I've seen it close up and I tell you it's an evil-looking son of a bitch. I say we go the whole hog and we shoot it."

     Jones puffed out his cheeks. "You know damn well we can't shoot it because that is illegal, so let's run it outa town. You know, shove it into our law abiding car's boot and release the dog in the mountains on the edge of a sheer drop."

     Camano sat in a chair near Jones. "That could be difficult."

     "Why?"

     Camano's square jaw tightened. "I spoke to Tristan about that dog, just like you told me to do."

     "Oh, yeah, and what did he say?"

     "He didn't say a thing."

     Jones grimaced. Getting information from his deputy was worse than dancing barefoot on a bed of glowing lava. "Why didn't he speak, Amos?"

     Camano started slowly, not wanting to miss any detail. "I was heading for Tristan's place and the hound was barking like hell behind the high fence Tristan has round his home. Somebody on the sidewalk said to me, 'Do something about that dreadful dog, deputy. Surely you will not allow it to bark through another day and night.'
So," Camano rolled his shoulders. "I opened the catch to Tristan's back gate and I went in. Camano looked at Jones, waiting for encouragement.

     "Go ahead."

     "I didn't see the dog at first. It was behind Tristan's shed and I was climbing the veranda steps - then he came for me."

     "Did he get you?"

     "No, he did not get me. I saw his teeth and I got the hell out. I had no time to open the gate so I vaulted the fence, landed awkward and hurt my ankle."

     Jones scowled. "You hurt your ankle escaping the dog's teeth?"

     "I did."

     "What did you do then?"

     "I knocked on Tristan's front door, maybe I should have done that in the first place, and when he opened up I asked him what he intended doing about his dog."

     "What did he say?"

     "He said he didn't know what to do."

     Jones whispered harshly, "Tristan's dog attacks my deputy, huh? He almost bites your ass and Tristan doesn't know what to do about it?"

     "That's right, sheriff."

     Jones heaved himself slowly and deliberately out of his chair. This attempted biting of a deputy's ass was an insult against Julienne's Town Regulations. This dog had almost committed a serious crime against a Lawman. Jones hitched his gun belt: Sheriff Ethan Jones was just the man to handle a law-breaking, ass-biting dog, just see if he was not. "Where did Tristan buy this hound?"

     "He didn't buy it - he won it in a card game."

     Jones frowned. "Well I'll be damned. Since when do people play a card game to win a dog?"

     Camano shrugged husky shoulders. "Tristan has friends down the mountain a ways. They usually play for bottles of home-brewed beer. He says they had no beer or money to pay him when he won so they offered him the dog."

     Jones rubbed his whiskered chin. The dog was barking again. That settled it. "Okay, Amos, go cool down real good. We need you sharp and active and then we go see Tristan and square things about his dog."



Jones stopped at Tristan Green's gate and smirked at Camano. "There's something wrong, Amos?"

     Camano shrugged. "Is there? Well, what is wrong?"

     Jones smirked again. "The dog ain't barking but I can hear him at the gate. He's waiting for you, Amos."

     "If he ain't barking maybe we should go; I have plenty of paperwork to catch up on." Camano turned to leave.

     "Hold on there just one little minute," growled Jones, catching Camano's arm. "I've come see Tristan about this dog and that's what I aim to do."

     "If the dog ain't yapping then there's no reason to see Tristan."

     "The hell there ain't! I've left my veranda and walked a dusty street to reach Tristan's place and I'll be damned if I've come for nothing."

     "But the dog ain't barking."

     Jones used his heavy right boot to kick the gate. The dog howled, its paws scratching at the wood. Jones grinned at his deputy. "He's barking now, Amos. Knock on Tristan's front door while I prepare my boot for that dog's rear end."

     A scrawny, pinched man of about sixty, wearing faded jeans and a yellow tee shirt answered Camano's knocks. "Howdy, Tristan, the sheriff wants a word about your hound."

     Tristan Green had lived in Julienne forty years. A mountain man when younger and later a gold prospector, he headed a family of wife and two unmarried daughters who never broke the law or asked anyone favours. The dog howled. Jones swaggered to Green. "Howdy, Tristan. What are you doing about this dog?"

     Green frowned deep lines. "I don't get it. The dog was quiet just then. Suddenly there was a bang as though somebody had kicked the side door." He stared accusingly at Jones' boots.

     "That was the dog, Tristan. He is one helluva noisy dog. Why did you bring him here if you knew he barked forever?"

     "I didn't realise he barked so much. He was quiet when I brought him in my car and he didn't kick up until I put him in the shed

     Jones rubbed stubble on his chin. "Maybe he don't like hot tin roof sheds."

     "I reckon you're right. Perhaps he don't care for being locked up because he was free to run around at Joe Langley's place."

     Jones hitched his gun belt. "How did the dog escape the shed?"

     "He bit his way out."

     "He what!"
 
     "He snapped a chain and chewed the door into pieces. Then he was free to run around. That's why he almost nailed your deputy when he came in the side gate."

     "Ah, now I understand why the dog howls. He's locked inside a tin roof shed that's too hot for him." Jones hoisted his gun belt again and indicated the gate with a jerk of thumb. "Open the gate and let him out."

     "Oh no! I ain't going near that critter! I have give given him meat and bones; he's had biscuits and plenty of water - but he still whines."

     Jones nodded. "Do you give him love and affection?"

     "What do you mean?"

     "A dog needs love and affection just as much as folks do."

     "I don't understand you."

     Jones grimaced at the heat. "Let that hound into the street and I'll show you what I mean."

     Tristan shivered. "I'm not opening that gate, sheriff. He has already snapped his chain and eaten the shed door. I have no control over him."

     "You have no control, huh? Then how come you got him into the shed?"

     "He loves chasing ball, sheriff. I threw one into the shed. He chased it and.."

     "You locked him in?"

     "Yeah, after I'd chained him."

     "Okay, open the gate."

     Green scratched his graying hair. "That dog is big and he is a mean bastard. I ain't going near him."

     "That's sure right," croaked Camano. "He must weigh two hundred pounds."

     Jones smirked at his deputy. "It don't matter what the dog weighs, Amos. I tip the beam at three hundred and forty pounds - and that's without my boots on." He turned to Green. "What are you waiting for?"

     Green's tanned face turned to slate grey as he twisted the gate knob. The hound shoved the gate open with his snout, barked, teeth bared, and snarled at Jones.

     "Well, hello there, dog," said Jones. "I am offering you my hand in friendship, and if you go for it I will kick your ass." The dog growled, head close to the ground, tail twitching, eyes firmly on Jones' extended hand." Jones grinned. "Come to me, boy if you want love and affection. Now what do you say?"

     The snarl faded, the tail swept the ground, and the dog licked Jones' hand.

     "I can't believe it!" said Green. "He likes you!"

     Jones ruffled the dog's ears. "Of course he does because I'm a good guy if you treat me right. Now get here, Tristan and stroke his head. Show him that you are his friend."

     "No thanks, sheriff."

     "I said get over here."

     "The hell I will. I hate dogs - particularly this one. My wife detests him. My daughters are frightened of him so take him away. Arrest him. Shoot him. Do what the hell you like but don't leave him here."

     Jones looked down at the dog. "Did you hear that, boy? What shall we do with you, huh?" The dog whined and licked Jones' hand again. Jones smiled at Camano. "How about you, Amos, do you want him?"

     Camano backed off. "No, sir, my wife would not allow it."

     Jones nodded to himself. Okay, damn it, there was only one thing to do.




                                             BROKEN ROCK
                                         WASHINGTON STATE

                                                 

At two-thirty, with the sun baking Broken Rock dry, a red Chevrolet cruised along the mountain path and pulled up at the gasoline station. Owner Dan Buxton stared out the station window and whistled. There were seldom flash autos in Broken Rock. He squinted at a figure exiting the car and watched the customer's outline pass the pumps and appear at the frosted glass front door entrance. Buxton stood up as the customer came in. "Can I help you, mister?"

     Frank Rickard nodded, face thin, mouth taut. He spoke with little lip movement. "Sure, I want whatever you got."

     Buxton smelled danger. An ex-army sergeant with service in the Philippines and Korea, he could sense hostility as well as see it, for the atmosphere of this run-down knocked-out gas station had filled with the hatred radiating from this visitor. An old Colt 44 lay in the desk to Buxton's right hand. He decided not to go for it, but smiled, and said, "You want a full tank of gas?"

     "That's right."

     "Is there anything else I can fix you with?"

     "No. A full tank will do."

     Buxton glanced at the till. It was holding three hundred dollars, the takings for the past ten weeks. He should have stashed most of it away. Leaving it there was asking for trouble. The pumps were not self-service. He needed to go outside to make the sale. The visitor sat on an old stool next the window, obviously determined to wait there. Buxton lived alone and worked hard for his money. Seven other folk lived at Broken Rock down the track in log cabins. Buxton could expect no help from his neighbours if there was danger. He moved to lift the desk lid, looked at Rickard and decided again against using the 44. He wanted a sale and a sale meant a few dollars more in the bank account. The account lay hidden in a locked box under his bed.

     He grinned uneasily, went outside and saw the silhouette of another man behind the steering wheel. He switched on the pump, took off the car filler cap and listened to the gas gushing into the tank. Rickard was moving around inside the office. Buxton could see him at the till. He switched off the gas and hung the delivery hose on its hook then returned to the office and found Rickard standing at the till with a few dollar notes in his hand.

     "How much is that?"

     "That comes to fifteen dollars and fifty cents, mister."

     Rickard's eyes narrowed. "I reckon you're charging too much."

     Buxton reached the till. "I charge everybody the same price per gallon."

     Rickard separated two ten dollar bills and handed them to Buxton. Buxton rang the till. Suddenly, Rickard was behind him, a knife at Buxton's throat. "Take it easy, old man." The whispering voice sent shuddering dread squirming down Buxton's spine. "You've got a bundle of dough in your till, old man. Pick it up slow, pack it together and lay it on the desk. You can reach the desk without moving much - and for Christ sake stop shivering. Now turn round." Buxton turned slowly, the knife still at his throat. He stared into Rickard's gray eyes and he knew death was nearby. Rickard picked up the wad of bills, lifted the desk lid, watched Buxton tensely and rummaged among the papers until he found the Colt 44. He laughed softly at Buxton's frightened face. "Trying to reach your firearm, huh, you crafty old bastard." Rickard giggled - sounding as though he were drowning. "Ain't you kind of old to own a hand gun? They can go off and hurt you, don't you know that?" Then the 44 was at Buxton's forehead. "Is it loaded, old man?"

     "Yeah, it's loaded."

     Rickard snickered. "So if I squeeze the trigger your brains will scatter the wall, huh?" Buxton nodded. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. His legs quivered in his pants. "Okay," sniggered Rickard, "let's look for more dough. If we find more - I might let you live." Rickard laid the 44 on the desk and shoved the bills into his coat inside pocket, still holding the knife at Buxton's throat. He retrieved the 44, not trusting it to be in working order, although he could see the rounds in the chambers. He backed off. "Okay, where's your dough. Don't mess me around now. Where is it?"

     Buxton, sweating profusely, nodded to the made up bed at the far side of the office. "It's under there."

     "Go get it - and don't try anything stupid."

     Buxton limped to the bed, drew back the blankets and felt for the box. Beside it lay a 9mm Smith and Wesson automatic, loaded and in working order with the safety catch off. Rickard was standing behind him. Maybe if Buxton dragged out the box he could bring the automatic into play. He had killed several men in military combat so had no scruple about blowing away this scum intruder. A thousand dollars lay in the box and Buxton had earned every one of them. He dragged out the box with his left hand and brought up the automatic to use it.

     Rickard swung the 44 downward and caught Buxton a savage blow to the left temple. Buxton went down. Rickard hit him again, picked up the box, slipped the automatic into a pocket, and wrenched a telephone cable away from its wall socket.
Rickard figured Buxton used the gas station for living quarters, for next the bed stood a large fridge. From it he took a whole cooked chicken, a bundle of red grapes, a bottle of milk and a bunch of bananas. He grabbed a plastic bag from the counter and shoved them in. He snatched up packets of biscuits and found five tins of beer next the till. He went outside to the car, scrambled inside and told Wade to drive.

     Wade pulled away, kicking up dust clouds, his tee shirt clammy with sweat. "What happened, Frank?"

     Rickard flung the box onto the rear seat. "It was nothing I couldn't handle. The fool pulled a gun on me and I had to lay him out. There's dough in the box. We'll stop some ways along the trail and I'll shoot off the lock." He held up the guns for Wade to see. "Look at this, the old guy had a Colt 44. This other one is a 9mm Smith and Wesson automatic. He weighed the guns in his calloused hands. "They may come in useful."

     "I don't like this," Tommy whined. "We've never hurt folks before."

     "Don't worry about it. The guy will live. He just weighs a few dollars less, that's all."
He pulled the tag from a beer can and gave the can to Wade.

     Wade, guzzling greedily, drove swiftly with one hand along the twisted cliff edge trail. His hand was slippery on the wheel. Rickard had used violence. State Troopers may pick up their tracks. Wade gazed at the road ahead: it was clear of cops, but would it be clear tomorrow? Had someone reported the incident? Maybe the cops were trailing them now. Wade's eyes flicked to the driving mirror. There were no chasing cars. He finished the beer, tossed the can out the window, increased speed and dragged spiralling clouds of dust behind them.



                                                 PINE COVE
                                                   IDAHO

                                                 

At mid afternoon, Lennox reached Pine Cove, a small fishing community on the east bank of the Logan river, feeling tired as he stopped outside a property offering 'bed and meals at a reasonable price.' He noted fishing boats tied to a wooden landing stage, bobbing gently in the river flow. Pine Cove Lodge read a sign on the Lodge's solid oak door. He shoved open the door and went inside. Several folk were sitting in a corner, gossiping. They stopped and looked curiously at him. The room was cool and welcome.

     A crumple-faced man in his eighties came to the bar. "What can I do for you, friend?" His voice was of smooth sandpaper working on a wooden surface.

     "A beer will do fine."

     "With hamburger to follow?"

     Lennox smiled. "Sure thing, thanks. How far is Allenby?"

     "It's thirty miles south. With these trails you should make it in an hour."

                                       END OF CHAPTER FOUR