Uncertain Justice

Grabbing the remote, Miles turned on the television. It had been a long time since he'd watched the magic box. The afternoon game shows were at least as boring as they'd been before he went into the wilderness and the soaps seemed not to have progressed at all.

Someone was still having someone else's baby while married/engaged/seeing another someone who was the long lost daughter/son/nephew/niece of some patriarch/matriarch/mayor/governor/gangster who was starting/returning/recovering from an African safari/world cruise/aircraft accident/U.N. sponsored peace mission/murder attempt after having met a new wife/husband/life partner who was much younger/older/of the same/opposite sex to the surprise of the entire neighborhood. Even the villains had done little but swap names. Zeb was fascinated with the shows and protested when Miles tuned to the World Information News Network to see if he could catch up on what had been happening in the world. It looked like the Middle East was heating up again.

§

Two days later, Miles was more than content with what he'd accomplished. Selling his gold had been as easy as walking in the door of the first souvenir shop he'd found. He found later he'd gotten fantastically lucky with his first choice. He might have started at the other end of the street and missed this store completely or wasted a lot of time in others.

Wandering through the narrow aisles for a while, he'd watched the clerk behind the tiny jewelry counter deal with a variety of customers. He was well into his sixties but he was active and sincerely cheerful. The man's only physical problem Miles could detect was a bad knee that gave way from time to time.

After a while, Miles decided the proprietor was that rarest of human beings--a naturally courteous and polite man. Miles decided almost immediately he liked the guy.

The owner, manager, and sales clerk--Charles was his name--had been excited at the size and quality of the nuggets Miles had. Miles had intended to sell only a couple to him and then find another store, but the man had insisted he had buyers for everything Miles could provide. Miles left one of the leather sacks with the store on consignment.

Charles had been almost as excited about the little pouch containing the nuggets as he was about the gold itself. It was one of Zeb's that the old mountain man had decorated with some Blackfoot sign. He'd learned the symbols when he'd wintered with the tribe for a couple years. Hidden in the airless crypt beneath the stone house's floor, the leather had survived superbly. Charles was disappointed when Miles had to say he didn't have a large supply of the pouches.

When Miles pedaled his bike to the little shop two days after his first visit, the owner met him at the door and fussed a little while Miles parked the bike. Miles had found the little town was a little more spread out than he'd thought so he got a used bicycle with large, tough wheels suitable for rough terrain from a store specializing in such transportation. Because it was the off-season, he'd gotten an excellent deal.

With Charles fairly dancing from one foot to the other, Miles perversely took his time locking a long chain through the frame struts and around the parking meter. He figured it would take a thief with real balls to cut it free from the chain in front of the shop.

He wasn't certain he needed to take these precautions though. Would anyone actually steal a bike that particular shade of purple? Measuring Charles's obvious excitement for a second, Miles filled the meter with a handful of coins. It appeared he would be here for a while.

Charles escorted Miles behind the counters with ill-concealed excitement and sat him in a chair in the cramped office. On his computer, he showed Miles what he'd gotten for the quartz-encrusted nuggets and went through some of the e-mail inquiries he'd received.

Dramatically, he counted out the twelve thousand dollars and change that was due Miles after the jeweler took out his percentage. The stack of bills did look pretty sitting on the desk, all green and crisp and new. The man was fairly dancing in his seat as Miles stuffed the fat envelope full of money inside his jacket.

How many more nuggets like that, he asked, did Miles have? When Miles countered with a suggestion that what he'd already given the man would be considered a fair summer's haul by anyone who regularly panned gold, the poor man was dejected. Smiling, Miles relented and asked how much the jeweler thought he could handle?

The head cocked to one side and expression of pleasure on the man's face seemed genuine--Charles was motivated less by greed than by the desire to have a quality product to sell. Miles took a chance and admitted he had about forty pounds worth.

They hadn't said anything to each other when Charles got up to close the door. His hands shook as he poured both Miles a cup of coffee from the urn in the corner.

Eventually they concluded a deal for the jewelry shop to handle all the gold Miles could bring in. It would be sold on the Internet as well as in the store. The commission for the store would drop to ten percent--a distinct improvement on the twenty percent Charles had charged for the initial consignment.

Charles lifted his cell phone to call his lawyer and instruct her to prepare an agreement in writing but Miles stopped him. Instead, he asked if they had a deal, holding out his hand as he spoke. The jeweler hesitated for a long moment. Then he smiled and shook Miles' hand firmly. He told Miles he'd never regret this and Miles assured him he didn't think so either. His voice had a little edge that hadn't been there before.

Looking into the man's eyes, Charles froze. For a tiny instant, something ancient and implacably violent had looked back at him.

Not many in town knew ... Charles didn't spend a lot of time talking about it ... but he had served two tours of duty in Viet Nam. A third had been cut short by shrapnel from an RPG that cracked his left kneecap. His wife had a shoebox full of medals and citations mixed with letters from old buddies that spoke of more valor than was officially known.

With the 101^st Airborne and later the 1^st Infantry Division, Charles had met a lot of men who were tough, hard fighters. Among them, he came across a very few--he could total them on one hand--who were true warriors ... solitary fighting men who slipped into Viet Cong held territory on missions no one ever explained.

He recalled one in particular from a single meeting. The man was so dangerous and destructive to their side the VC had an enormous bounty on his head. Curiously, the man carried firearms only when in garrison. When he was in the field, he was comfortable with a modified K-bar and its seven-inch fighting blade.

Charles had heard from a friend who'd stayed in the Army that no VC or North Vietnamese soldier ever claimed the reward for the man's capture or death. The old friend didn't know where the solitary fighter had gone.

This man, Kyle, didn't really remind Charles of that man; he was taller, heavier through the chest and older. In fact, Charles didn't know why the jungle fighter even came to mind but, for just a moment, he'd thought he'd seen something....

Soberly, Charles nodded his head in agreement with Miles and Miles instantly pressed the man's hand between both of his and shook it enthusiastically. Miles' eyes shone brightly once more as he smiled broadly. They talked for a while longer about details, both men becoming more comfortable with the other.

§

A few days later Charles deposited another sixteen thousand dollars in the bank account he'd set up for the venture. Miles used the cash he already had to get enough supplies to last out the winter but it quickly became clear he couldn't possible carry enough on his back to make it through the cold months to come.

The problem kept him awake all night and he'd almost admitted to himself he wouldn't be able to return to the valley. His breakfast was slow to be served the next morning and he picked up a mass of newspaper left by the booth's previous occupant. He didn't normally read newspapers but he had nothing else to do while he waited. Not expecting a solution to his problem of last night, a notice of bankruptcy for a ranch east of Santa Anita Springs caught his attention.

When he dispatched his ham and eggs, he walked to Charles's jewelry store. They made some phone calls.

Almost desperate to unload the property, the receiver for the bankruptcy was glad to sell Charles the whole operation, and quickly. Charles's name appeared on the deed, but the ranch was Miles'. He used virtually all of his current share of the gold sales toward the purchase.

Miles appropriated four packhorses from the ranch for his own use and hired a teenager from a small farm near town to take the animals to a pasture back in the hills and watch them for the next few days. Miles would pick them up when he got around to it--after collecting enough supplies for a long winter. Zeb said he'd show Miles how to load the packs on the animals, bragging that there had been a time when he throwed the finest diamond hitch in the southern Rockies.

At Miles' blank look, Zeb had sighed and muttered something about tenderfeet not knowing how to get a pack tied on good. Miles went to an outfitters shop and bought ropes, buckles and other equipment at Zeb's instruction. Over the next week, he quietly purchased enough flour, sugar, coffee, canned goods, and other supplies to make it through to spring in the valley. Using Charles's SUV, he carried the food and gear to a lean-to in the fenced meadow where his horses waited.

Though it had been temporarily depleted by the purchase of the ranch, Charles had since deposited more than thirty thousand dollars in an account at the bank he'd set up for Miles. Internet sales were brisk and getting better, Charles confided. He was even thinking of closing the little shop in Santa Anita Springs and doing all his business on-line.

And he wanted Miles to please see if he could find more of those beautifully detailed leather sacks. He could sell hundreds of them if Miles had them.

§

The little café was hard to find unless you knew exactly where it was. Charles had taken Miles to dinner there after concluding their deal and introduced him around. Now Miles ate at the little restaurant as often as he could, making himself popular with the older woman who was the owner and cook. She beamed at Miles' compliments while ladling more of the daily special onto his plate, sometimes over his protests that he couldn't eat another bite.

The two full-time waitresses appreciated a customer who didn't make a pass at them at first sight and who tipped well for the little extras that made meals that much more enjoyable. Irene, the older of the pair and pushing thirty, decided a few days later she wished he would make a pass at her and did everything she could think of to encourage one.

He was older than she but the summer without stress had smoothed most of the worry lines across his forehead and the crinkles at the corners of his wide-set, clear blue eyes showed a readiness to laugh. Though soft-spoken, his deep voice demanded attention and an unthreatening confidence commanded respect, both of which he got on the isolated occasions he spoke.

When asked a question of import, he invariably thought before speaking. Regulars in the restaurant learned to respect his opinions, though he offered them infrequently. Miles had already given the editor of the weekly newspaper ideas for op-ed pieces for the next two month.

About six feet tall and heavily built, there was power in his shoulders and chest. He walked as lightly as a cat, the two women thought. He'd come up behind each of them more than once without them having seen him or heard him but he always apologized at their surprised yelps, embarrassed at having startled them.

He never seemed to hurry, but when the younger waitress slipped on a dropped butter packet, Miles' right hand streaked to her upper arm to support her while she regained her footing. When a napkin-wrapped set of silverware slipped from Irene's fingers, Miles caught it before it hit the tabletop. There was idle speculation that with his reactions, Miles would have been a top gunfighter had he been born a hundred and fifty years earlier.

Then there were his thighs. Irene liked strong muscular thighs. She had confided to her waitress friend on more than one occasion that she had a real thing for men with strong thighs. Miles had come in one warm evening wearing hiking shorts but had been too embarrassed by Irene's attention to do it again. She redoubled her efforts to gain his interest.

Tonight he ordered the biggest steak they had--it covered the plate and then some. While he waited for it, Miles relaxed and watched the rest of the clientele arriving for their evening meals. He nodded to several as they caught his eye and they returned the salutation. It was a distinct change from the first few days he'd come in to eat.

The café catered to the permanent citizens in town and a few lucky travelers like Miles rather than to the normal run of tourists. Conversations tended to fade away when he walked in for the first couple of meals Miles had taken there but after a few days, the regulars accepted the quiet, unassuming man.

The restaurant was built so that the customer area was on two sides of the big, kitchen that was open for interested viewers who wanted to see their meal cooked while they chatted with the cook and her staff. Two rows of booths extended from front to back down the wall on the right of the entrance while a few dozen individual tables filled the front left.

The effect for every table and booth was that of a comfortable, homey kitchen where Grandma cooked and served uncomplicated meals directly to her family. Miles always sat in a booth at the rear, close to the emergency exit and positioned so he could watch the entrance--something he'd learned from Zeb. The old mountain man hadn't always been popular with some of the folks in the towns he passed through.

A little while after Irene took Miles' order an older man came in the door with a much younger woman slipping in behind him. Their entrance made the little bell attached at the top tinkle musically. The old man was greeted with loud shouts from the kitchen where the owner was doing her magic. He was an old friend.

Waving at the cook with the worn straw working cowboy's hat he took from his head, the older man escorted the young woman to a booth a short distance from where Miles sat, but on the opposite side of the aisle. Miles smiled to acknowledge the man's friendly nod and looked politely away from the pair to examine the old barbed wire, hand tools, rusted pistols, and carbines mounted on the wall along with other, less identifiable antiques that decorated the walls.

Most of the two-inch thick steak was eaten in record time. Miles had been hungry after having missed lunch. Most of the wonderfully fragrant steamed vegetables had been engulfed already and Irene had brought him a second helping knowing how much Miles liked them.

She'd stood beside him and made small talk for as long as she thought she could, her hand resting on Miles' right shoulder while he ate. It made him a little uncomfortable and it showed.

The old cowboy flashed a grin at Miles when Miles frowned reproachfully at Irene's back as she disappeared into the kitchen. Miles shrugged and grinned in return.

The sloppy-big man who slammed through the door had a mean expression on his face that had already scoured permanent lines in his young face. Most in the room looked up quickly and then away, hoping not to catch his eyes.

With instincts honed over the summer, Miles' first reaction was to make sure the pistol he wasn't wearing was loose in its holster. His right hand aborted its instinctive movement almost immediately, but not before it was noticed. The old cowboy saw Miles' reflex action and he watched Miles thoughtfully for a long moment.

The man posed at the front door, an arrogant expression ... not quite a sneer ... settling over his pudgy features. The old woman who ran the restaurant yelled an instruction from the kitchen but the man waved it off derisively. At a second, shaper, command from the owner, he pulled off a sweat-stained Stetson and held it insolently above his head for a moment before dropping it to his side.

He waited to make sure he had everyone's attention. Pleased that he did, he sauntered past the cash register and further into the restaurant. Spying the young woman with the cowboy--the conversation Miles had overheard showed the older man was the girl's uncle--the man made his way toward her.

Miles listened to the big man talk to the woman. At first he was decent enough but the conversation quickly deteriorated. Frustrated with her refusal to agree to go out with him no matter how he implored, the big man resorted to a more insulting tone of voice and implied the woman usually went with any man who asked. The young woman and replied with some words Miles didn't hear clearly. They had something to do with a man having to ask.

The man's face flushed an angry red and he appeared ready to crush the smaller woman. He turned away though, unfortunately catching Miles' frown as he swung. He took three quick steps to Miles' booth and bent to push his face close.

"You got a problem, bub?" he challenged. He reached out with a huge paw of a left hand and slapped at Miles' shoulder. Belligerent and still smarting from the perceived shame heaped on him by the young woman, he was anxious to redeem himself in a fight. The cowboy, too old and frail, wasn't a suitable target but Miles was a different proposition entirely.

A year ago ... even months ago ... Miles would have hoped to avoid a physical confrontation. He would have tried not to even see the interaction between the young woman and the man. He would have wondered if he should call 911 for the police but that would have been the extent of his involvement.

He hadn't interfered with what was going on, though he watched carefully. The young woman seemed more than capable of holding her own with the man; the big man hadn't offered to abuse her physically and Miles saw no reason to insert himself into the altercation, though he was troubled by the exchange.

His attitude changed with the insulting remark accompanying the blow to his shoulder.

The big man wanted to provoke a fight but he wasn't in a hurry. Intimidating Miles for a bit was part of the preliminaries that he intended to enjoy. After the unsatisfactory conversation with the young woman, he had a visceral need for some kind of relief--preferably something physical, something in which he could use his overwhelming strength.

On the other hand, Miles had nothing at all to say. He looked at the bully for a short time with no expression on his face. The bigger man should have been warned at Miles' lack of reaction--most men would have instinctively said something in reply or knocked the bigger man's hand away--but the bully was not as perceptive as Charles had been ... he missed the wolfish glint in Miles' eyes.

Miles' hand flashed up to grab the front of the heavy-set man's shirt at the collar. Bracing himself, and putting his weight into the move, Miles pulled down convulsively with arm and shoulder muscles toned by a summer's hard work.

The bigger man had already placed one big hand on Miles' table to support himself as he leaned over Miles but he wasn't ready to resist. His body jackknifed at the waist as Miles yanked him down and his outthrust chin was the first thing to hit the solid oak tabletop. The crack of the impact was loud in the little café.