People Who Get In My Way Get Killed

Bunkhouse, Montana

When the Indians dropped me off, I limped into the gas station where I
was greeted by Todd and Mike. When Tom came out to the bunkhouse to
see me, and after I had told him what happened, he just smiled. I
think he wanted to laugh. I'm glad he held it in. Sitting on my bed in
that cold room, with no bicycle or radio to keep me company (my radio
was on my bike), and with every joint and muscle in my body reeking
with pain, I was not in the best of moods. I could have been in a lot
worse shape, though. After Mead ran over me, Bev screamed at him to
stop the truck. At the time nobody knew how bad I was hurt. His
response was, "People who get in my way get killed. If he's not dead,
he should be."

I was not surprised by Mead's cavalier attitude towards death. Now,
nursing my own pain, I had a deeper appreciation of what until then
were only entertaining stories. This part of Montana was rough. Babb
had a reputation for "taking no prisoners." Sitting in the bar, you
could amuse yourself (if that's the right word) by counting the bullet
holes in the walls and ceiling. Sonny, the Indian I worked with, had
his own story about that bar. One night he got drunk and ended up in
an argument with the bartender. After Sonny threatened him with his
knife, the bartender pulled a gun from behind the bar and shot Sonny
in the head. To this day Sonny carries an ugly scare that cuts through
his mouth, nose, and cheek. It's no wonder Bruce walks around with a
six-gun strapped to his side when he pumps gas. (Bruce was one half of
the husband and wife team from Chicago that ran the café/gas station
next to where I worked.) I had never seen Bruce without his six-gun
strapped to his side. I guess he wasn't just showing-off.

June 21

The cops came through. They found my bicycle, and they're going to
drop it off soon. They also found Mead and wanted to know if I was
going to press charges. I wanted to press charges, but, in the middle
of Indian Territory with no cavalry, I thought better of it. Everybody
I talked with agreed that it wasn't a good idea to press charges. I
was just glad to get my bike back. And, speaking about my bike, I was
a little anxious. My seven hits of acid (what was left of them) were
hidden in the radio attached to my handlebars. I hoped the batteries
in my radio held steady. I didn't want some nice cop to giving me new
batteries.

I'd been in sorry shape the last couple of days. My hand had gotten
infected. It was now three times normal size. I was soaking it in
Epson salts continually. I hoped I could ride out of here when I got
my bike back. Tom hadn't said anything to me about my hanging around
yet. He was a pretty straightforward guy though. I knew he didn't like
giving out unsolicited charity. This morning he paid me $92. It came
out to $2. per hour, instead of the $1.65 we had agreed upon. He must
have liked my work. I asked him if I could stay another night. After a
pause, he said, "I want you to stay until you can travel and by the
looks of things, that won't be for a while yet." I guess I made a
pretty sight, with all my cuts and bruises showing, not to mention my
hand, which I hoped wouldn't get sawed off.