Uncertain Justice

"Thing is, Great-Great Granpa made his way into this part of the country, started up a small ranch and lived a 'good Christian life'--those are his words again--from then on." He took puff on the pipe.

"I don't reckon one mistake makes a man any less than he is ... and if he didn't do anything a'tall, there's no call for me to get involved in the thing." Miles looked at the jeweler for a long moment and then nodded. Neither said anything for a while.

"Well?" Charles asked. Miles' eyebrows crooked in question.

"You gonna tell me who the hell you are?" demanded Charles cheerfully, his grin taking the sting from the words.

Miles relaxed. He had his friend back. He felt like a tumble into the dark abyss had been narrowly avoided. He told him the whole story, most of it over a delivery pizza they ordered an hour later, and they talked companionably long into the night.

In the end, they could find no way to change the way they'd been doing things all along. Charles would claim all of the income for tax purposes and pay those taxes scrupulously. If his CPA found he was being penalized financially from not splitting the money into two incomes, Miles would absorb the penalty from his share. He trusted Charles to tell him ... if and when.

By the end of Miles' stay in town, they were both comfortable using Miles' assumed name in public and his real name in private. They were careful to distinguish between privacy and public before they spoke.

§

Miles swallowed the last dregs of the diet cola and carried the debris from his lunch to the waste can. He pulled the straps of the nearly empty backpack over his shoulders and grabbed his new hiking stick. The new one featured a metal, eight-inch hollow cap that clicked into place over one end to hide the metallic spear point from curious passers-by and inquisitive police officers. Having a hard metal point made him feel a lot better than the fire hardened tip he'd fought the grizzly with.

Passing the door of the grocery, he stuck his head in the door to compliment the portly woman behind the counter on the fried chicken. Waving at her, he crossed the highway to hike north on the highway's gravel shoulder. If anyone asked, she would remember quite clearly which way he'd gone when he left.

§

Slipping into the trees a mile down the road, Miles tramped some distance through tangled underbrush and dense thickets. After a while, he stopped and pulled off the increasingly uncomfortable hiking boots and slipped into a pair of moccasins. The chipmunk on the branch over his head chattered his concurrence at Miles' loud sigh of relief.

Miles buckled on a gun belt newly purchased from a Santa Anita Springs leather shop and positioned the holster to his left front where it was made to be worn. He fastened the loop of rawhide over the hammer to keep the weapon in the holster if he stumbled or fell.

He turned southwest and began to make his way to the higher slopes where it was cooler and where there would be a lot less undergrowth. The going would be much, much easier. One of his Wolf Clan brothers nodded in agreement. A man could see enemies coming at him up there, the warrior added.

A small mountain of supplies, equipment, and food was waiting for him in a small lean-to sitting at the foot of a tall bluff a few miles across the shoulder of this mountain. Miles had bought Charles's share from him and arranged to keep the ranch unoccupied and unused. The south boundary line butted up against the national forest. That made it easy for Miles to come and go without anyone being the wiser.

He turned west into the sun and began to climb the long wooded slope. Tonight he would camp high up near the tree line and make his way up the pass tomorrow morning. The ranch was just a short ways down the other side and he'd be there by noon--plenty of time to organize the packs and round up the horses for the journey back to the valley of the People. Day after tomorrow, bright and early, he'd be on his way home.

§

The tires on the expensively equipped Jeep Cherokee screamed as the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid overrunning the parking lot for the trailhead. He yanked the steering wheel sharply to the right and the vehicle tilted dangerously to the left. Arrogantly fearless, all three of the husky young college football players inside howled appreciatively as the inside wheels slammed back to the pavement.

Tires spinning, the bright red Jeep slid sideways in the gravel, stopping facing away and six feet distant from the wood railing that marked the limits of the parking area. The driver decided the vehicle's position was good enough and leaped out.

Laughing and yelling, the three pulled small daypacks from the back of the Jeep and opened the tabs on one last beer before they got started. The last beer devolved into a last twelve-pack when they decided to kill the whole thing before hitting the trail.

Much of the beer dribbled through the stubble on their cheeks and down to already soaked shirts as they chugged the last six cans. Tossing the empties at the waste barrel, they struggled to get their arms through the straps on the packs. They had to help each other, but eventually got them on and walked up the trail. The reasonably level surface seemed full of dips and rises that made them to stumble often as they navigated their way through the trees. Their progress slowed precipitously when they reached a slight upslope.

A quarter hour after the college trio started up the trail, a dark blue Mercedes slowed and pulled off onto the gravel to find a space to park under the spreading branches of a tall pine. Retrieving daypacks packed with survival gear from the back seat, they stretched their leg muscles for a moment and started up the well-maintained path.

They smiled at each other more often than seemed called for. The conversation was a little stilted for a mother and daughter as close as they were, their laughter at small jokes painfully brittle. This was only their third trip to this part of Colorado in many years.

The older woman had spent many carefree days on the trails nearby, hiking and exploring the deep woods with her husband. Later they'd brought their daughter, a tiny baby with sharp eyes that seemed to look everywhere at once. Her bubbling laughter at every new thing she saw had made the hikes all that much more memorable.

Her husband was mercifully dead now, free from the agony of a rampaging cancer that had eaten away his insides. She'd refused for a long time to come here; it was too painful. Each branch in the trail had a precious memory that threatened to overwhelm her, but it was ... marginally easier this time. The scars weren't healed but they showed signs of eventual mending.

Farther up the trail, the three young men decided they'd gone far enough and found a deadfall where they could sit and boast of their prowess on the football field and the bedrooms of the girls dorm. After each made a trip behind a tree, they started down the trail. They wondered if the little grocery they'd passed had beer for sale.

§

Miles frowned as loud voices began to intrude on the comparative quiet of the forest. He heard a loud male bellow and a woman's piercing scream. Two people were talking loudly, but they were too far away for Miles to understand the words. Miles changed course and began to trot in their direction. The scream bothered him on a visceral level. A vivid picture of the grizzly he'd killed last year came to him. He ran faster.

Abruptly, the brush and forest thinned considerably and Miles could see through the trees to one of the established trails leading through the forest. Slowing, he saw three big men grouped around two women. While Miles walked toward the people, he heard them arguing.

"Common, don' be like that," coaxed the biggest of the three men. His voice, gruff to begin with, was so tainted by the alcohol that his words were almost unintelligible. He was holding a young girl by the shoulders and attempted to force her closer to his body. She was resisting, her hands braced on his wide chest as she tried to push him back.

"There's a lot of girls like you back ... on campus," he advised. "You don' have to be so shy ... I know you want it. Here, gimme a kiss and I'll ... I'll show you just how good it can be," suggested the biggest of the men. The women redoubled her efforts to free herself, digging in her heels and trying to pry his hand off her arm with her much smaller fingers.

"PIG!" yelled the woman. Miles was close enough to see she was little more than a girl ... late teens or early twenties, he guessed.

"Let go of me, asshole," she ordered the bigger man, struggling harder. The star offensive tackle for the exclusive eastern university outweighed the young woman by a good two hundred pounds and many years of weight training had given him strong hands that couldn't easily be shaken loose. He laughed, the beer making it more nearly a girlish giggle than a chuckle.

The older woman was trying hard to get in between the two, pulling at the man's arm and screaming at him all the while. One of the other young men, fifty pounds and a couple inches shorter than the gigantic all-conference tackle, held the woman's wrists behind her, laughing at the her attempts to help the girl. The remaining man, the smallest of the three, was a few yards uphill; worry painted on his features.

Outraged, a Wolf Brother pantomimed using a bow to shoot the two ruffians holding the females. Women were not treated in this fashion among the People.

The giant's hand pawed at the neck of the young girl but slipped. Instead, he found himself holding the collar of her shirt. With an explosive movement, he ripped open the shirt to expose young bra-clad breasts. He shook his head and leaned back to focus blurry eyes and study the results of his impromptu disrobing of the girl's upper body. He wasn't talking now; it took too much thought.

The look on his face had a new and more rapacious quality too it. He reached up, confusion briefly filtering through his expression as he wondered how best to get the bra off. Giving up, he dropped his hand to fumble at the zipper to his pants.

Suddenly the young woman's right hand flashed up to deliver a hard slap to the face of the young giant. As big and as inebriated as he was, it still hurt. The man let the woman's arm go while he explored the damage.

The man holding the older woman took one look at him and burst out laughing. He pointed to the red blotch on the big man's face, clearly the outline of a small hand. The giant football player wasn't laughing now as he stepped toward the young woman.

His advance brought him within range of the older woman. Stamping a boot-clad foot down on the instep of the slightly smaller football player behind her, she jerked her arm away from him. He jumped back instinctively and fell when his damaged instep wouldn't take his weight.

The older woman moved to intercept the big man. Her free hand darted out and long fingernails clawed his face, leaving bloody furrows behind that immediately began to drip blood on his jacket. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, leaping away.

At the edge of the trail, Miles had debated with himself for a brief moment, then pushed the pistol back around to his right rear where it wouldn't be obvious. He thumbed the loop of rawhide off the hammer and lifted the weapon to loosen it in the holster. He held the hiking stick/spear ready across his chest.

Unnoticed by any of the participants, Miles sprinted up the trail and across a bit of open ground until he was within a few yards of the big man who had his hand to his cheek. No one was laughing now.

"You BITCH!" screamed the huge man, his voice rising as pain penetrated the alcohol fog. He dropped his hand from the crimson, hand-shaped mark and shifted his feet. Doubling his fingers into a ham-sized fist, he drew back his arm to throw a roundhouse right that might have killed the older woman.

Before the blow landed, Miles brought the wrist-thick staff whistling around his body like a baseball bat, extending his arms and bending his knees as he swung. The blunt end of the hard wood was barely six inches off the ground when it smashed into the man's right leg just above the ankle, shattering bones, and ripping ligaments and tendons away from thick muscles.

The force of the blow knocked the man's right leg sideways into his left. They were propelled out from underneath him and he fell heavily.

He lay there staring up at the woman's face he had planned to smash, not yet comprehending what had happened. The pain of his injury finally made its way through to the booze soaked mind. He shrieked and quickly passed out.

Silence returned to the forest. Everyone still conscious turned to look at the unknown stranger who'd suddenly intervened in the conflict.

Miles got the women's attention simply by looking in their direction. They were already watching him. He held his right hand out to the side and making a "come here" gesture with his fingers to get them away from the two remaining young men before the would-be rapists recovered from their shock.

The older woman nodded and touched the younger one's elbow to get her moving. They eased behind Miles and down the trail a few yards. Relatively safe now, they turned to stare at the frozen tableau. The girl absently pushed her blouse back into position over her shoulder and zipped up her jacket to hold the material in place and to conceal what the shirt no longer covered.

Miles nodded to the women as they passed, then his attention returned to the two men standing a few yards away. He watched them carefully, waiting for the first sign one or both was ready to attack. He leaned casually on the hiking stick.

"What ... what the hell are you doing?" the slightly smaller version of the big tackle demanded. "We were just havin' some fun, mister. Why'd you go and do that?"

Arms akimbo, the boy-man edged forward, putting his hands up and pushing a left foot forward, mimicking a boxer's stance ... or perhaps one of the oriental self-defense disciplines. Miles couldn't be sure, but it didn't matter. He lifted the heavy pole and changed to a two-handed grip. His face was expressionless as he waited.

"Hey, you can't do that!" The alcohol still in the football player's system and the sound of his own voice stiffened his resolve. "Who do you think you are, you bastard?" he yelled. He shot a glance at the remaining football player and motioned him forward. The smaller man shuffled forward, apprehension plain on his face.

"Actually, I can do it--I did," replied Miles softly. "And my parents were married two years before I was born."

"Huh? Wha'?" The man's head wasn't clear enough to understand, even had he wanted to. He checked to make sure his reluctant teammate beside him and swung back to Miles, a triumphant look coming to the puffy face.

"Why don't you put that stick down," he blustered. "Put it down and we'll settle this man to man, okay?" Miles smiled and glided a few feet to his left across the trail. If both men charged together, he wanted to put something between himself and one of them while he dealt with the other. The sapling a yard off the trail would serve to separate the pair quite nicely as they advanced.

"You mean like you were settling it "man to woman" a little bit ago?" Miles goaded the young man. "I don't think you got the balls to come at me, boy." He shot a quick, implacably grim look at the relatively small man a little to the rear of the belligerent one.

"But if you do...." A harsher expression replaced the grimness. "Let's get on with it." Miles lifted the two-inch thick rod in both hands, equally ready for a quick swing or thrust.

"You think you can take both of us?" queried the big man incredulously. "You dumb bastard, I'm gonna rip your damn head off and piss down your neck."

"You've been watching too many movies," Miles retorted, "and I'm not going to tell you about my parents again." He slammed the butt of the oak staff on the hard packed path making the wood ring with the solid impact.

"Do what you wanta do, big boy ... do it now," he ordered. "I'm through talkin'." Miles' mouth snapped shut, his lips pressed into a tight line as he waited. He motioned the young man forward and crouched slightly. His weight came up on his toes in preparation for a move in any direction.

The two men looked at each other and then back to Miles. They didn't like what they saw. Slighter than either of them and older than both of them put together, the stranger wasn't backing off a single inch. He handled the thick, long pole like it was a toothpick and they had definitive evidence lying beside them showing he knew how to inflict damage with it.

At that moment, the gigantic football player on the ground regained consciousness and his groan penetrated the silence. He muscled himself up on one elbow to look at the splintered fibula in his right leg. The shattered bone had sliced through heavy muscle before tearing through the skin of his calf. It stood out starkly, an obscene, brilliant white stick gleaming through the crimson blood trickling onto the trail. He gasped with pain when a muscle contracted involuntarily in the leg.

Watching the other two and reading their body language, Miles straightened from the fighting crouch he'd assumed while inviting the duo to do their worst. When the motion drew the attention of the two men to him, he dropped the end of the staff to the ground. All three males knew the confrontation was over--all that remained was to disengage as best they could.

"He's hurt bad," complained the smaller of the two, motioning at the injured player. Miles snorted and looked to the side of the trail where the two women waited.

The man had the grace to be embarrassed when reminded of what the injured man had intended for the women. Miles didn't expect the discomfiture to last very long. By the time he repeated the story of the encounter a few times, righteous indignation would set in and it would become an unprovoked attack.

"What are we gonna do?" The big man was standing helplessly over his injured companion.

"I'm no expert," Miles replied. He gestured toward the nearby trees. "But I expect you better cut off a couple of branches and tie them on his leg as splints and then get him to a doctor as soon as you can.

"What are we gonna do about that bone stickin' out like that?" asked the smallest of the trio. Miles shrugged.

"Unless you're a paramedic or something, I'd leave it pretty much alone. You try and set it, you take a chance of cuttin' a blood vessel." The two men nodded their acceptance.

"We...." The big man cleared his throat, "...We don't have anything to cut with."

Miles shook his head in disgust. Leaning the pole against the tree trunk, he pulled the holster from behind his back and slid it around to his side. He took an extra second to adjust the gun belt comfortably around his waist so neither man could miss the weapon. Their faces blanched simultaneously, both of them obviously wishing they were anywhere but where they were.

Satisfied neither was going to bother him, Miles pulled the heavy-bladed knife out of its scabbard and found a low hanging branch. He hacked it down with a few blows and trimmed off the twigs. He repeated the process with a second branch and put the knife away. He tossed the branches beside the suffering man.

"Wha...."

"Use your belts and your shirts or jackets-make a stretcher for 'im." Seeing their hands fluttering helplessly, Miles answered the question before it could be framed.

Both men pulled their belts out of the loops and knelt over their wounded friend. Miles retrieved his hiking stick and walked along the trail to where the women stood. He gathered them up with his eyes, motioning them to precede him. Unless he was seriously lost, the road was in that direction and he wanted to get the women out to it as soon as possible.