CHOOSE "A" OR "B"

Hebrews 9: 1-28     Jesus’ Last Will and Testament is our New Covenant. The earthly copy established that blood must be shed because of sin. Jesus’ blood was the final, ultimate offering for sin. THAT is why you must surrender your life to Christ.

PRECIPICE CHAPTER 11

Eleven

Yosemite National Park

TUESDAY MORNING

Drake slept poorly, awaking late with a nagging Megan hangover. All night long his mind had churned a chaotic whirl, puzzling over the conflict within. He had never considered himself a man overly-impressed by flashy women. Although, he thought, Linda hadn’t exactly been the stereotypical, mousy preacher’s wife, had she? Maybe you just received some divine insight about yourself. Still, he knew there could never be anything serious between them. Megan is an unbeliever, and—despite this present weakness—you are committed to serving Christ. Yet, she’s an undeniably attractive woman. And you’re not the only man around who found her so. She reminded the preacher in him of that line from St. John’s Revelation: Sweet to the taste, bitter on the stomach.

            After tossing fitfully all night, the clock hands stood at past eight in the morning when he finally crawled out of the sack, bleary-eyed and cranky. His aching body felt unrested, as if he had slept on a lumpy pile of snow chains. Mechanically, he began going through his morning routine; turn on the coffee, take the dog out for a quick run, prepare a light breakfast and check his e-mail for messages.

            When he flipped on the notebook computer however, the low-battery Icon flashed red. He plugged in the wall cord and decided he had better charge the spare as well. But, after rummaging fruitlessly for ten minutes, he decided he must have left the spare battery and charger in the truck.

“Hank stay, I’ll be right back. Good dog.” Hank glanced incuriously from his dog dish and resumed his pressing engagement with breakfast. As Drake scrambled barefoot out to the Suburban, confused thoughts of Megan continued to rattle around his mind like an irritating piece of grit in a shoe. He unlocked the driver’s door and reached in to unplug the charger from the truck’s ashtray.

“That doctor! and that Hollingshead guy too,” he grumped aloud. “What could she possibly see in them?” He groped around the cab, searching for his computer kit bag. It contained his extra gear, backup software, and a small cache of tools and repair parts.

“There it is.” Drake reached over the back seat, almost climbing over the untidy pile of camping gear, and managed to retrieve the kit with its spare battery. That done, he relocked the Chevy and headed back to the cabin. The chilled morning air and his bare feet stumbling over parking lot gravel reminded him of Megan. Beautiful, yet uncomfortable. Okay, so she’s not a Christian… yet, He kidded himself. But why should I take a back seat to some clown from the Sacred Earth Society?  

…Back seat?

Forehead wrinkled in concentration, he experienced a momentary mental logjam, filling him with a confused and disoriented certainty. You have just had an incredibly important thought, his brain told him. Drake slowly came to a stop in the middle of the parking lot. He had the absolute conviction that something of importance had just gone right over his head. Something was not as it should be—as he had left it—and that thought whacked his wandering subconscious like the proverbial two-by-four up-side the head. Back seat… Something about the backseat of Gene’s truck…  Hey, wait a minute… It suddenly came to him. He had definitely not stored his camping gear in the back seat of the Suburban. He positively remembered leaving it in the rear cargo area behind the back seat.

Trudging back to the truck he pulled out the keys again and unlocked the double cargo doors at the back, swinging them wide open. Inside he found some sort of wire enclosure taking up the cargo space. It looked for all the world like a giant hamster cage constructed out of heavy-gauge steel. The rear of the cage held a large wire hatch, facing the doors of the truck. The enclosure had been inexpertly secured into the plastic liner panels of the Suburban. Whoever it was had done a sloppy job, leaving bent and not-quite-seated screw heads sticking up crookedly. The vehicle’s forest-green plastic panels were scarred and cracked by somebody’s clumsy work. On the bed of the cargo area laid a torn, filthy blanket with piles of dried animal droppings.

Drake had a sudden mental image of Gene biting nails in two when he saw the damage to his classic vehicle. As the confusing thoughts began to combine in some sort of rational order though, he realized he was in deep trouble with more than just one angry deacon. In his mind’s eye he saw this cage superimposed over the bullet riddled carcass of the mountain lion at Happy Isles. The implication was clear. This truck had delivered the big cat to Yosemite Valley; making the Reverend Stanley A. Drake, BA, MDiv, and most of the rest of the alphabet, someone with whom the authorities would dearly love to have a long serious chat. What am I going to do? He thought; visions of humiliation and worse jumping up to frighten him. How about you stop the pity party and start praying?

“God please deliver me from the evil one and those who are useful instruments in his hand. Tear down their walls and render their weapons useless. Give me wisdom and guide my decisions. Amen.”

Afterward, Drake decided that it might be wise to get properly shaved and dressed; just in case he needed to look good for a mug shot or something. He realized he would have to confront Megan about this. While shaving, it suddenly dawned on him; she had worked awfully hard for the last two days. She had kept him busy, bouncing all over Yosemite. Maybe she had insisted on using her own car just to keep him away from his truck so somebody could mess with it.

Setting me up. That’s a pleasant thought.

She had looked awfully guilt-ridden running away from that mountain lion shooting.

“She must have some part of whatever is going on,” he told his reflection. “Perhaps her hot and cold behavior comes from plain old-fashioned guilt over fooling me.”

*          *          *

The sign at Bridalveil Gift Shop announced the store hours as 10:00 AM to 5:00 PM. Drake’s watch read 9:03. I wonder if I can still catch her at home? Hah! The way she sleeps in? It’s a cinch. Drake drove down the road to the little village where Megan and Paige shared a cottage, hoping to catch her before she left. He strode up to the front door and pounded on it a little too vigorously, all the while telling himself—with minimal success—to control his anger and embarrassment.

You’re already in enough trouble, brother. You don’t need to manufacture anymore.

But the fact remained, Drake had been a perfect fool. Again.

Once again Stan Drake had been a sucker for his own blindness. Coming as it did on the heels of Linda’s death, Drake found it nearly impossible to reign-in his runaway emotions. He wanted to lash out, to hurt somebody, but that was just wounded pride talking. Allowing himself to degenerate into a drooling, homicidal maniac wasn’t going to help.

When Megan opened the door Drake stormed right past her, not waiting for an invitation.

“Stan!” she seemed alarmed. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

“You know why I’m here!” he snapped. “You and your fine earth-happy friends set me up. This whole Park is an armed camp ready to blow like the Middle East. So what happens? you and your noble, Sacred Earth friends set me up as the guy responsible for it all! Thank you very much!

Megan stood unmoving beside the open door. Her face had turned deathly pale.

“Stan,” she said desperately, “please, please listen to me. You don’t understand what’s going on and I can’t tell you either. You must leave here, right now. Please, please go. You have to trust me.”

            “Trust you? Trust you to land me in a Federal Penitentiary, you mean? Look, I know about Sacred Earth’s political objective. I had a nice long chat with Doctor Hollingshead and his groupies the other night. You guys want to boot everybody from Yosemite but your own click. And apparently your high moral principles don’t prohibit you from capturing and killing animals or betraying friendships. If you were willing to kill a cougar, I don’t suppose I should expect any kind of mercy. So, exactly how much trust do you think I can afford to put in you?”

            “That’s not fair!” she cried. “The mountain lion wasn’t supposed to die. It was only supposed to be seen. We naturally expected it to make its way back into the high country, where it belonged. The Mariposa Militia killed the poor thing! Do you really believe that Sacred Earth would have anything to do with the murder of a sentient being?”

            “Yeah, yeah. You’re fine humanitarians, every dedicated one of you. I’m sure you were perfectly devastated when the Militia goons showed up and started blasting the poor critter to pieces. But the fact remains you people did set a dangerous wild animal loose in a National Park full of people. What if it had gotten really ticked off over being tranquilized, trapped and caged, and then maybe mauled or killed some little kid? Did you stop to consider that possibility? I mean,” he continued sarcastically, “wild creatures have no way of figuring out your saintly agenda on their behalf. They don’t understand the part they are supposed to play in your clever plan. Mercy! Don’t you people ever think about the consequences of your actions?”

Megan fought with her own anger. Apparently she decided to swallow her pride, for her attitude changed instantly. She snuggled up to Drake and said; “You’re right Stan, it’s gotten absolutely insane; beyond control. Let’s leave. We could take off right now. Leave everything behind. We could go someplace far away; back to your town maybe, or” she said seductively, “my private loft on the Bay.”

“In Sausalito?” Drake inquired acidly.

Her face paled instantly, “How do you know that? Have you been spying on me?” she demanded.

“How do I know?” Drake laughed derisively. “You’re a walking artist’s cliché, Megan!” She stared at him suspiciously. He returned her look with a level stare. “Look,” he explained, “I went to graduate school right across the water from Sausalito, over on Strawberry Point. I had a view from my dinky little apartment of yacht studded water and a hill full of artist lofts. Where else on ‘the Bay’ would you have your place? No, I’m sorry, I really don’t want to run away with you anywhere. I guess… I guess I just wanted you to tell me how wrong I am. But… I’m not. Am I?”

Drake turned abruptly and walked out the door, closing it behind him. He wanted to get away before he managed make an even bigger fool of himself; weeping piteously or something. He felt drained of all anger, overwhelmed by the gnawing return of black depression and re-awakened loss. Walking numbly back to the truck he decided to check out of the cabin and go on back to his empty home where he belonged. Go home, He told himself. Just go back to work. Immerse yourself in church, maybe write a book, and try very, very hard to forget about this whole humiliating week.

Hank jumped to greet his master in his usual enthusiastic manner. This time Drake surrendered himself to his dog’s genuine devotion, allowing himself to be mauled and slobbered over. “Thanks Pal,” he said, stroking Hank’s golden coat. “I really needed that. Man’s best friend at his best and friendliest, huh?”

He eventually drew back from Hank’s affections. While starting the Suburban though, another truck came roaring around the corner. It caught Drake’s eye, primarily because it was the same older model Suburban as Gene’s. This one, however, was dramatically thrashed, scraped and dented. It looked like something a kid might have salvaged from a wrecking yard. Drake’s mouth dropped when the driver rudely parked his shabby truck right in the middle of Megan’s little patch of yard, gouging deep ugly ruts in the lawn.

He sat, flabbergasted, as two roughly dressed men got out of the truck and stomped to the door. To his amazement, Megan politely opened the door and invited them inside. Megan Cameron? The dedicated Sacred Earther? Entertaining Militia types? It doesn’t make any sense. Paige said that Megan surrounded herself with odd types of men, he mused. That’s the truth.

The whole crazy predicament suddenly became too much for Drake. No way could he simply turn his back and drive away. He snapped off the ignition, again leaving poor Hank to himself. Walking stealthily he made his way to the shaded side of Megan’s bungalow, feeling like a deranged stalker or something. Guilt pangs teased him as he stood beneath her open living room window. He visualized himself standing full face and profile for the police camera. His imagination supplied the resulting banner headlines: Peeping Thomas! Drake Ducks in Window-Gooses Girl! Passionate Priest or Pastor Pervert?

            Drake’s paranoid musings abruptly stopped. He could hear snatches of conversation from inside; rumbling masculine tones interspersed with Megan’s lighter, feminine inflection. He heard Megan, plaintively saying, “But I did exactly what you told me to do.”

A gruff male voice cursed. “What I told you do was to keep an eye on the Feds, not cozy up to those whiny little Save-the-World nuts!”

Obviously the Sacred Earth Society isn’t making any friends at all this week, Drake’s angry face twisted into a smile. Not that I’m a big fan of the militia movement either, he assured himself with a grimace.

Megan’s voice suddenly rose shrilly from inside the room, “You used the information I gave you,” she accused, “You killed that poor defenseless mountain lion!”

            Her accusation was answered by what sounded like a sharp, full-hand slap. The sound of the blow, and Megan’s accompanying cry of pain angered Drake, goading him into unthinking action. He quickly moved down the walkway to the rear of the house to the kitchen door. It stood open, blocked only by a wood-framed screen. Drake grabbed the handle and pulled, immediately horrified by the horrendous squealing from the ancient spring hinges. He froze, disoriented, one thought clear in his mind; certain discovery was imminent.

            Drake froze, rooted for what seemed an eternity. Distant signals from his brain—seemingly light years away—urgently reached his hand, directing it to gently shut the door. He did, taking one giant step backward behind a storage cabinet on the porch. Drake wiped the sweat from his brow, congratulating himself for not getting caught. The sound of heavy footsteps clomping their way across the kitchen floor forced him to melt into the cabinet as much as possible. The screen door screeched open. At that moment fear of physical danger was not uppermost in his mind. Incredibly, his single ambition in life had become the desire to avoid looking silly. He froze in place, awaiting his discomfiture.

            The unseen footsteps moved onto the wooden porch. Drake held his breath. On the next house over the back door swung open with a similar squeal. A man walked out, dumped a plastic trash bag into a bear-proof garbage can, and strolled back inside to the repeated sound of tortured metal. After a moment’s pause Megan’s own door slammed shut again. The sound of heavy footsteps receded and Drake heard a muffled male voice announce, “It aint nothin’ to worry about General Taylor sir, just some old jerk from next door.”

            Drake had not realized he was holding his breath until his empty lungs began to signal an urgent reminder. As quietly as possible, he let out his stale breath and gulped in several deep draughts of air. This enabled him to relax and think about his next move. That problem was solved rather easily. The window beside him stood wide open, its curtains gently swaying in the morning breeze. By stepping over the low sill, Drake found himself inside, no muss, no fuss. It looked like Paige’s bedroom. The practical clothes were enough to establish that.

            Tiptoeing to the door he felt incredibly sly for having crept in, right under everyone’s nose. He might learn incredibly important information; facts he’d be able to turn over to the ATF boys. That would get him out of the jam Megan and her fine friends had caused. He would save a National Park and be a big hero. Hooray!  

“Where is it?” he heard a demanding male voice snarl, followed by violent scuffling sounds. Heavy breathing and high pitched sobs came from the other side of the door. Drake grimly shoved aside his petty, self-serving daydreams. Another sharp slap and convinced him enough was enough. Drake made a quick check of the door and found, though shut, it was not latched. Through a crack between the door and jamb he could see a man standing in front of the door. Taking a silent step back, he violently hurled himself against the door, feeling it smash against the unprepared character on the other side. The man dropped a small automatic pistol as he lost his footing. Drake wrestled for the gun, dropping it as he hit the man with the heavy door. The pistol fell to the floor without discharging. Giving silent thanks, Drake concentrated on disabling the man. He heard a harsh, high pitched, shout of “No!” from Megan. On the heels of the cry came the sharp BLAM of a heavy pistol. Fired in the confined space, the gunshot assaulted his eardrums like a hammer. He waited for a surge of pain, but felt nothing.

A lifetime of TV viewing had prepared Drake for this moment. He knew exactly what to do. He dove for the floor snatched up the fallen pistol and rolled to his feet as graceful as an Olympic gymnast. Then, like any red-blooded, bone-headed, television hero he thrust his pistol out at two-handed arm’s length. He had time to notice it was a dinky little Colt .380. The man he had wrested it from slowly shoved the bedroom door shut and shakily pushed himself upright against the wall. Drake prudently moved to one side in order to cover both militiamen. The second man, the loudmouthed one—General Taylor—the guy who had slapped Megan around, stood over her prostrate body lying on the floor in the middle of the room. The bearded giant stood breathing hard, dressed in dirty, camouflaged coveralls. He stared down at Megan’s body, a look of disbelief on his ugly face.

Crouched over his newly confiscated weapon, knees bent in the approved mayhem stance, Drake yelled, “Freeze, Suckers!” That is when the television script got tossed out the window.

            Out on the front porch an unseen hand began pounding on the door. Simultaneously the two militia goons moved apart, making it impossible for Drake to cover them both at the same time. To Drake’s stunned surprise, being a card-carrying, certified member of the TV generation had not prepared him for reality. Everything happened in that absurd, slow-motion state of awareness required of painfully idiotic situations. The two gunmen acted as if they hadn’t even heard him yell “freeze!”

It’s not supposed to happen this way! His mind raged. I’m holding a gun. They have to obey me! In an instant of exquisite clarity it dawned on him that he was acting incredibly stupid, like a kid arguing over the rules of cops and robbers. A gun does not possess any mystical power. It is not some sort of a talisman, a shining crucifix to hold before Count Dracula’s pasty face. It lacks the requisite supernatural ability to wield omnipotent power over other people’s wills. It became painfully obvious to Drake that the only way to accomplish anything useful with a gun is to pull the trigger. And these two clowns were forcing him—against his will!—to do it.

            “Open the door! What’s going on in there?” Paige’s muffled voice reached them from beyond outside. Her voice dropped to a guarded whisper. “…Megan, why is the door locked? What are you doing in there?”

            Drake knew he had to act before his stupidity got Paige killed as well, but he was already too late. Loudmouth, slaphappy Taylor, had walked forward, calmly standing in front of Drake. The muzzle of Drake’s liberated .380 actually brushed the rough cloth of the man’s camouflage coverall. Drake’s brain sent the belated message to his finger but he found that he couldn’t just shoot a man in cold blood. He was a pastor for heaven’s sake!

Big Vince Taylor laughed in his face. The General looked Stan Drake him in the eye. Without warning, Taylor slammed his .45 against the left side of Drake’s fat head, causing the pathetic charade to reach a merciful conclusion.

BEAUTIFUL DREAMER

From the Album "Tiptoe Through The Tithers" by Dan McBride. Dan knows exactly where to stick the needle.

Beautiful Dreamer wake unto me

I'm speaking to you there in Pew #3

Sleeping in church is not for a Deacon

'specially when I am up here and speakin'

Beautiful Dreamer don't start to snore

I've covered three points but I've got four more

If you'll excuse me I'll go ahead

But next Sunday why don't you stay home in bed?

A NEW TESTAMENT

We use the term New Testament mainly to refer to the Christian scriptures.

However, the term "testament" actually means “covenant” or “contract.” It is a deliberate contrast to the Old Covenant—or Old Testament. 

PRECIPICE CHAPTER 10

Ten

Yosemite HIGH COUNTRY

TUESDAY MORNING

            A biting North wind blew, stirring the tops of tall evergreens, bringing a chill to Ted Parker’s exposed left cheek. He shivered. The lonely sigh of the wind drifting through swaying pine boughs turned the completely familiar forest into a surreal setting for an unbelievable nightmare. For the past two hours he and Mullins, the other new guy, had been making their way through the dense forest, moving as quietly as possible. More concerned with stealth than direction they had stuck to heavy cover avoiding clearly marked trails. The sharp wind helped. Aside from cutting through his heavy coat, it kept him properly oriented, facing east. Thirty yards away, across the Forest Service trail, Mullins starred back at him. With a silent nod Parker signaled his readiness. Parker steeled himself to spring their trap.

            At the militia campfire a few nights back General Taylor had charged them with the task they were embarked on today. In a gross parody of the Native American vision quests of old they had been entrusted with a challenge to prove their manhood and worth as militiamen. Mullins and Parker had orders to ambush a park ranger. They were to kill the ranger and deliver the badge as a trophy of victory to the militia council.

Fearful but determined the two rookies had staked out a high-country trail connecting the campgrounds at Vogelsang and Merced Lakes. Militia intelligence reported rangers used this trail for their daily rounds. I wonder how we ever got such precise information?

He and Mullins sat, huddled miserably in their trail side brush. They were armed, dressed in camouflage clothing, and war paint. They were prepared to commit cold-blooded murder in a United States National Park. …And Ted Parker suddenly found his commitment wavering. Just remember, he goaded himself, this is the same government that took your business and destroyed your life without a qualm. Why should you care what happens to any of them? His private pep talk helped to harden his resolve. Parker glanced across the trail. Mullins seemed tense and fidgety, obviously entertaining similar thoughts.

*          *          *

On the hillside above them Sergeant Buck Larson watched the kill zone through a beat up pair of binoculars. He watched as Parker and Mullins choose their ambush spot, straddling the trail where it crossed a Creek. Sergeant Larson had a squad of militiamen positioned to back-up the two rookies should they blow their assignment. The presence of this backup team was unknown to Parker and Mullins. The General wanted them to gain confidence from the operation. The rookies needed seasoning. But they also needed watching. The Mariposa Battalion could not afford to leave Forest Rangers alive to talk about an ambush.

Down on the trail, Larson saw Parker stiffen involuntarily, his head cocked to one side as he sought to interpret sounds he had heard over the rustling of the trees. Mullins noted Parker’s attentive pose and turned to look up-trail. Two Forest Rangers were coming toward them, already close. The noisy wind had masked the sounds of their progress. They were casually proceeding toward the ambush point, apparently unaware. Mullins and Parker nervously shifted their weapons and prepared to execute the attack.

*          *          *

Rudy Gutierrez called a halt, gratefully settling on a trailside stump. With an audible, theatrical sigh he massaged his aching knee.

“How you doing, Rudy?” asked his partner, Rod Weatherly.

“Oh, a little stiff. Still walkin’ the kinks out.” Two days out of the infirmary and you’re already volunteering for high-country duty, he scolded himself. Man, gotta get this leg back in shape. Besides, if anyone gets the idea ol’ Rudy can’t hack it, they’ll stick me behind some desk. Rudy found the idea of being chained to a desk intolerable. Yeah, they’d have me processing toilet paper requisitions and pinecone disbursements for the rest of my career.

Rod Weatherly did not appear upset over the break. He leaned comfortably against a towering Sequoia, arms crossed. “Think we ought to report those German tourists up at Vogelsang?”

 “Nah,” said Gutierrez, “We told ‘em to stay in approved campgrounds. It was just, y’know, a simple language mix-up, amigo. Hey, you heard ‘em. ‘It looks chust like Einschlagenberg—or something—in Bavaria.’ Man, they were really, really home sick.”

“Okay, by me,” said Weatherly, “Less paperwork for yours truly. And, when you get right down to it, that puts the members of the U.S. Forest Service out there on the cutting edge, promoting International Good Will.”

“Right!” laughed Gutierrez.

Weatherly glanced casually down the trail, “I keep hearing rustling noises in the bushes. And I don’t think it’s just wind; it’s something else. You hear anything?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I been hearin’ noise for a while. It’s probably Boy Scouts stalking us for practice. Hey, no animal makes that kind of racket.”

*          *          *

Mullins kept his eyes on Parker for the go signal. Parker held up his right hand, three fingers extended. Deliberately, he closed one finger, a second, and then the third, returning his hand to the stock of his weapon. Both Militiamen stood from behind concealment, deliberately taking aim.

Sighting down the barrel of his light, semi-automatic carbine, Parker saw a startled expression on the face of his target. He fought back a sudden surge of humanity and concentrated on making the shot. The weapon fired—three quick pops. Twenty yards to his right he heard Mullins’ shotgun discharge with an authoritative BOOM. He watched Mullins rack the slide of the bucking shotgun, ejecting the spent shell and feeding a fresh one into the chamber.

*          *          *

            Ranger Rudy Gutierrez felt as much as heard the tragically remembered sound of lead striking flesh. He knew without looking that high velocity rounds had impacted his partner, mere feet from him. Without hesitation he rolled backwards off his tree stump. Though caught by surprise his combat instincts were still functioning after a twenty-five year hiatus. Horrified he saw his partner slump to the ground in a bloody heap. His mind automatically analyzed the situation. First, evade the ambush: Gutierrez remembered to keep moving, as he scrambled through heavy brush. Second, evaluate the opposition: obviously more than one, two weapons had been fired. Third, decide whether counterattack and/or evacuation of Weatherly is possible. Fourth, execute plan.

            He paused to get a look at Weatherly. Though badly wounded, he could see Rod still breathing; albeit raggedly. Too fast, he thought. He thought briefly about dragging his partner to cover. That would only get both of them dead. There was no time to help anyway, Gutierrez heard heavy boots thumping along the trail. Weatherly seemed unconscious by that time. Rudy whispered a short prayer for him anyway. I’ll be back for you man, he promised. Hang on. As he began to move, Gutierrez thought with regret of Weatherly’s revolver and spare ammunition. Too late now, Man. Nothing you can do about it. He didn’t want to leave Weatherly, but he was awfully exposed there at the trailside.

            Gutierrez quickly belly crawled into the dense cover offered by the forest. Combat instincts or not, his body rebelled against the physical abuse. His body did what his mind commanded though, and he managed to resist the temptation to run. That would only give the enemy a clear target to shoot at.

            Gutierrez stopped to catch his breath in the cover of a thick stand of trees. He rolled over, pulled his pistol, and prepared to defend the position. He watched two armed men appear, slamming to a halt upon reaching Weatherly. They had erred badly, Gutierrez knew, both men shooting the same target. The jerk with the carbine stood looking down at the wounded man. With brutal precision he aimed and shot Weatherly through the head. Gutierrez’ knuckles gleamed bone white as his hand tightened on the pistol. He resisted the urge to shoot. The thick brush would certainly deflect a bullet. He decided to wait patiently for a clear shot. The murderer with the shotgun began to search the area. He showed caution, knowing an armed ranger was somewhere nearby.

            “Yo, Mullins!” Hissed Weatherly’s killer, “Look sharp. We better not let the other one get away or the General is gonna have our hides.”

Thanks for the information boys, thought Gutierrez, that means Mullins is the one with the shotgun. He had a name to track down should he survive. He watched as Mullins probed the bushes in widening circles. These killers may be dopes, he thought, but nothing so terrified the soldier in Rudy Gutierrez as a scattergun in the brush. Without remorse he raised his pistol, took aim from thirty-yards, and loosed two quick shots—a double-tap—at Mullins. Mullins yelped, more in alarm than pain. He dropped the shotgun, awkwardly hugging his side. Nuts, thought Gutierrez as the target rolled out of sight.

            From up on the hillside Rudy Gutierrez heard the sound of men crashing downhill through the forest. He realized that he had to move before they had him flanked. That meant he must vacate his present spot and get someplace where he could call for help. But first he had to evade or eliminate the two killers in front of him.

            Crouching low, Gutierrez carefully wove through the underbrush, angling west. He needed to cross both the trail and the creek to reach the shelter of the forest beyond. Perhaps, he thought, by God’s good grace there are no bad guys on the other side yet. A movement to his right caused him to fire off several unaimed covering shots in that direction while he kept moving. Gutierrez continued pulling the trigger until his pistol ran dry, rendering the weapon temporarily useless. He dumped the empty magazine and fed a loaded one from his belt. Then he slipped the Beretta into its holster. Changing direction He moved left, but that didn’t help either. As Gutierrez rushed through the undergrowth Mullins suddenly confronted him. The wounded man popped out from behind a tree, painfully raising his heavy weapon to bear on Gutierrez.

            A mental image flashed through Rudy’s mind across thirty-some years of space and time. Lance Corporal Gutierrez had been leading a squad of Marines in a flanking maneuver around a Viet Cong position. Directly in front of him, a black-pajama clad guerrilla had magically appeared from the ground right at his feet. Rudy had broken the composite stock of his M-16, clothes-lining the guy in the soft spot under his chin. He then proceeded to stomp right over the dumbfounded VC like an enraged bull trampling a hapless matador.

Without pause Gutierrez leaped forward, surprising the killer. Grabbing Mullin’s twelve-gauge with both hands, Gutierrez slammed the weapon into the man’s startled face. Mullins, though stunned, stubbornly refused to relinquish his weapon. So, using it as leverage, Gutierrez kicked him in the chest and proceeded to walk right over the guy, finally breaking his grip; real Jackie Chan stuff, he thought.

Gutierrez knew the brief scuffle had undoubtedly attracted the attention of the rest of the militiamen. Experience made him hit the ground rolling. He grabbed the shotgun and a shoulder bag from the fallen militiaman, hoping it contained ammunition.  Crawling to the other side of the trail Gutierrez cleared the known location. Mullins had not experienced the tough, on-the-job training Rudy had been through. He angrily drew a large revolver from his belt and painfully staggered to his feet to pursue the ranger. In doing so he stood up right into the line of fire from his own militia buddies. Haphazard gunfire sprayed the forest with lead. The militiamen weren’t aiming, they were simply counting on the law of averages to work for them. Mullins died, messily perforated by multitudes of ‘friendly’ rounds.

            The event had a sense of black humor to it, but Rudy managed to restrain himself from laughing maniacally. Though he experienced the euphoria that accompanies a narrow, successful escape from death, he was not a psychotic killer. Another man had died of course and in the normal scheme of life that was a bad thing. But, since this particular dead guy happened to be a ranger-murdering jerk, engaged in hunting Gutierrez at the time of his death, se la guerre!

Rudy splashed across Lewis Creek and ran straight into the forest for five minutes. Badly winded, he stopped to catch his breath. On the plus side he found a good place to belly-up for a while. He holed up in the hollow of a burned-out giant Sequoia left over from some ancient fire. What remained of the stump stood upright to a height of about fifty feet. The forest was filled with similar snags. Around the sequoia several trees and a mass of shrubs had grown in a clump, masking the burned-out scar. Gutierrez crawled inside, finding about as much room as an old-fashioned phone booth with unlimited headroom. Through the concealing foliage, he had a clear view of the steep hillside which he had just climbed.

            While his lungs were busy replenishing their depleted oxygen supply, Gutierrez inventoried his assets. First, Mullins bag contained fifteen double-ought shotgun shells. Second, he had his personal radio, not much more than a good walkie-talkie. With it, he had intermittent contact with the Park Service radio network, depending on the terrain. His present location in a valley rendered it useless. He had to reach higher ground. A quick check brought nothing but static. Not that he could afford to make that much noise yet, anyway.

Finally, Gutierrez checked his sidearm, after ejecting the spent magazine and loading a spare he had two full mags left. Each magazine carried fifteen rounds. The Beretta 92F could carry a sixteenth cartridge, safely loaded in the chamber, but he’d fired that one back down the trail.Gutierrez quietly pulled the slide back to ensure a round was chambered. He checked the leather pouch on his belt. Yep; one more magazine of nine-millimeter ammunition to fall back on.

Next he looked over the liberated shotgun with a professional eye: Remington Model eight-seventy, twelve-gauge, pump-action shotgun with a twenty-inch slug barrel. He unscrewed the magazine cap to see that the wooden bird plug had been removed, making room for five shot shells. There were two rounds of number 2 buckshot in the magazine and an extra bonus round in the chamber. The late Mr. Mullins had been way too slow. Too bad for you, Gringo.

Outside his cozy little nook the woods were being combed in a sloppy manner that would have had any good sergeant apoplectic with rage. That was okay with Gutierrez. These guys were just toy soldiers as far as he was concerned. They even had their facial camouflage wrong; more the scary-war-paint variety rather than actual protective coloration. Real camouflage is supposed to disguise the natural highlights of the face until it no longer looks like a human face at all.

He couldn’t allow himself to get too cocky though. Surely these clowns had some men among them who knew how to act in the woods; probably some of them had military training. They can’t all be clumsy city-boys, can they? If he allowed himself to feel smug and superior he would be much more likely to get popped by accident.

What a way to go; survive the VC so I can get wasted by play-acting amateurs.

When he judged the militia’s search party had moved past his position he forced himself to wait another thirty minutes by the clock. Gutierrez found it a necessary, but grating exercise in self-control, expecting every moment a shout of discovery. More likely a sudden bullet would smash through the side of the rotten tree stump. An event he would never even know about in this life. However, in his heart he really didn’t believe a bunch of greenhorns would have the patience or discipline to wait him out properly.

Time’s up. Rudy Gutierrez slithered out of his shelter on knees and elbows, shotgun cradled in the crook of his arms. He planned to double-back and head south over a saddle in the hills to Washburn lake. He expected to use his radio when he reached higher ground.

He decided to avoid the site of the original ambush. After all, two men had been shot at that location and others might still be hanging around. He crawled down the hillside to a bend in the trail where the view was obstructed from both directions. After waiting, listening, and watching for another ten interminable minutes, Gutierrez silently rolled across the trail and back into the undergrowth.

Gutierrez cautiously made his way up the rocky slope on the other side of the trail. As he had been trained so many years before, he used the natural cover and concealment offered by the terrain to mask his movement. But the higher he went the thinner the trees got until finally he faced a jumbled expanse of fractured, treeless granite forming the top of the ridge. This is where things get tough. He went to ground again, thinking the problem through, mapping a wandering route offering the best cover.