MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE 21
BY: CADLIN
Blackhawk Rider
Scotty ambled around the corner of the garage pushing a wheeled mop bucket with the mop handle in one hand and a tray filled with rags and cleansers in the other. He ambled on past the office door and into the open service bay of the shop. The sharp scent of a pine cleaner wafted behind him.
From up the road a staccato, throbbing bass punched through the air. A moment later, a 1952 Indian Blackhawk Chief wheeled off the road and stopped in front of Fat Sally's. The V-twin engine idled in a deep throated grumble. The rider kicked the parking leg out with his left boot heel and leaned the machine onto it. He pulled a leather glove from a hand with his teeth, then removed the other glove and hit the kill switch. He wore a small, leather riding cap with a short visor. The chin strap looped behind his ears and around the back of his neck. A beaded raven feather hung from the center of the strap.
The tall, slender rider stepped a leg over the saddle seat and dismounted. He was dressed-out in riding leathers. Oddly they were not the dyed black popular among most cyclers, but a deep butternut brown. Leather fringe along the sleeves and legs matched the fringe around the saddle seat. Fringed saddle bags were mounted, one on each side of the rear wheel. He tucked his riding gloves into the epaulet strap atop a shoulder and walked into the diner.
Back across the road, Scotty stepped into the office through the side door from the shop. The legs of his coverall had splotches of wet from having washed and mopped the restrooms.
"Looks like the Kids back in town," Scotty said.
"Sure does, now don't it," Cadlin said as he swung his legs down from the desk top.
"Sure a nice lookin' machine," Scotty smiled. "What you reckon that is Cad? One of them new model Indians with the telescoping forks?"
"Sure enough looks and sounds like it," Cadlin offered. "That boy sure knows quality machines. But then quality usually always does."
Over at the diner, the rider came back out with a sack lunch and two bottles--a coke and a tall neck Lucky Larger beer. The cooling engine gave off a crinkling sound. He unbuckled and open the saddle bag on the left side and set the bag and bottles inside. He buckled the bag up and pulled his riding gloves from under the shoulder strap. He swung a leg over the machine and mounted into the seat, pulling his gloves on. He place a foot atop the kick starter, bent the opposite leg a bit then leapt up. His full weight came down on the kick starter and the V-twin engine roared to life.
The rider cycled towards the road. Suddenly he locked the rear wheel and slid the cycle sideways.
"Ay, gato," he said to an arched and hissing cat he'd almost run over. "Don't be so hurried to spend those lives, gato."
The rider throttled up, and shot out onto the road towards town. Inside the diner, Robbie had her eyes and hands all but glued to the front window watching the rider roar away. In just a short ways, he laid the bike over and motored onto a graveled road. He throttled up through the gears and fairly flew in a cloud of dust up towards the stone wall ruins of the old Workshop and Asylum.
"Wonder why the Kid headed up to the monoliths," Scotty asked to no one in particular. Of course, since no one else was there but Cadlin the question would have to have been to no one particular.
"Scotty, I find it best to enjoy the Kid and not ask too many questions."
"Can't fault you there, Cad." Scotty turned and headed towards the shop door. "Best get to work on that special project, especially since I already got me the twenty bucks."
"What the hell you studyin' on back there?" Cadlin asked.
"Radio," Scotty answered. "That Federal fella Coleman brought it by. Gave me twenty bucks and said to fix it or get a new one."
"Radio?" Cadlin asked.
"Yeah. It's outta Miss Abbey's Hitler-mobile." Scotty rubbed the back of a hand under his chin. "Gotta keep mum about it. That Coleman told Miss Abbey he was fixin' it." Scotty gave Cad a wink and went on into the back of the shop.
* * *
Up at the ruins of the old Workshop and Asylum, the rider sat eating his sandwich on the front steps. Behind him, the stone walls of the ruins were filled with tumble weeds and range grass. The roofs and windows had long ago been scavengered. A good number of the little houses in the Over Creek neighborhood were fashioned from the timbers and windows of the old place. The wind sliced in and around the ruins. The scent of creosote and sage drifted through the sunlit spaces.
The rider finished his sandwich and Coke. He pulled a church key from his jacket pocket and popped the lid from the beer bottle. He took a drink and sighed. The bitter yeasty taste pleased him.
Down below, across the road and up on a series of pleasing, gentle hills stood the new Poets and Writers Colony. Unlike these old institutional stone ruins, the new colony was laid out like a campus. Individual bungalows and common rooms were situated around a central quad towered over by large cottonwoods. To the north and partially surrounding the hills was an idylic little lake.
In front of one of the residences, an elderly Charles Rhyme sat in a high backed rocking chair with a woolen comforter over his lap. His thin, wispy white hair tousled up and down in the breeze. A dignified, severe-looking, elderly woman rocked rhythmically a few feet away. About these two was the smell of mothballs and camphor.
Back up at the ruins, the rider finished his beer. He stood, and stepped up to the lichen flaked stone wall. He placed the palm of a hand onto the stones. The rock felt curiously warm to his touch. The wind whipped at the collar of his jacket, and played with the fringe along his sleeves and pant legs. "Hey Dad," he thought silently.
Down at the Colony, Charles Rhyme looked up and smiled. "Our boy's home, mother."
The old lady looked up. "Yes, I know," she smiled without opening her eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment