Sequoia Trail-A Bo Jon Littlehorse P.I. Novel. Second Edition Read online

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  It was warm that summer, as each in the last three-years. The Northern-western states were experiencing a dry season with storms coming, sporadically. In their course there were fires springing-up like dandelions. The Oregon state Elite-Brigade had seen fires come every seven-days. Running from site to-site from Oregon to Minnesota. Joe had ran the Unit, as an instructor; for incoming enlistees. David-had done an exemplary job, earlier that season he’d enjoyed being a spearhead in each fire-fight...

  He was an effective-coordinator. Gene and Tom were involved in the timberline-business; cutting lumber up-stream and sending it in large numbers down to the mill-works. That’s were Tom honed his treeing-skills; while Gene handled the bartering-side to lumbering and lucidity as a wise-ruralist… He had taken to caring for his brother, like the child he never had before. They were enlisted as optional volunteer-Elitists. Which they proved early that Spring. Tom was proud, as he was more reserving, and competent. They both had been passed-over every-other fire-event; as they were working and sought only under ‘under-siege’ circumstances, his basic job was simple, he did like the excitement almost as much as his younger brother…

  Sam was a conservationist, animalogist and environmental-researcher, who’d spent the summers in the same areas-of work… He was 16, when he worked through-out Helena State Park when seven-days later while his-parents were shuttling him home from his outing the mountain-exploded. He remembered how dark the sky became almost pitch-dark. He had never seen such disaster in his-life… The summer, for him was absorbed in planting tracking-scanners of animal-populations, and charting their-habits. He was also on an ever-involvement in the projects of ‘hit-and-miss’ forest-burning long a controversial idea… He gave in on that side of his-belief that was presented in Conservation-classes. Dave was in-and-out of the fighters’ brigade-barracks being on-call with the crew; that he marked his-helmet with scratched etchings of trees.

  Once a military-man, a Naval-man during the Vietnam-conflict...running defense and reconnaissance along the Macon-Delta with Naval gun-ships, and occasionally, assaulting Vietcong-reinsurgents. He was hand-picked to be an technical-ordinate to a unit; to take-charge of and be the leader of a crew... Although, he knew what he had to work with; an indigenous un-adept number-of men. He didn’t waste time. Although that summer, he went-over plans to make sure, the Elite-group had the performance-background, and a sense of the job. He’d been jumping with a number of groups, from Iowa to Minnesota... All the factors, issues and intricacies that he had to followed-through upon…

  He posted a regiments for what the profile his men would work under. Most of the men he encountered were good-firefighters. But he needed more basis for application and ability to focus on the strategy of ‘urgency’ and ‘reliability’. To deem men ‘worthy’ had taken a lot of proficient-research. With the coming of summer’s end he had 80-men, willing to join and 20-who were good-candidates. He made the last-decision by super-imposing them in each of the unique-circumstances. Of the 20, he narrowed-down to 8. Into Fall, he trained these-8, intensely. Finally, six were chosen… Patrick Wilcox was a helicopter-flyer for fires, vacationers, and wild-animal research; he loved his job.

  But one warm-summer day he was heading-up into the mountain-range with explorers; when his chopper crashed killing all men on-board. The bodies were found 75-miles into wilderness country. Patrick was buried as David Garr had just-approved the orders… It was down to five. The high-mountains were growing snow-capped and the Elk were working their way down valley. Early storms were not present until the air had cooled down valley, which acted like a trough keeping the trees dark and the Sun from being blocked. Fires, still-simmered as fighters exhaustively, accomplished their task. The last-fire to the many-corridors were being dousted. Although the air was still-dry the breeze up in the mountains blew in scarce-moisture. As the Sun-headed high-over forest-country.

  The animals were enjoying the late-constitution. The fighters knew this stalled-atmosphere could mean a chancy-potential that was very-hazardous. David was calling-in for all sites being-assessed...if any possible signs, of could be ‘initials’…to be turned-in contingently, to representative-statistics and agency data of the State Forestry Department.

  He’d become mildly, wealthy doing a job, highly-needed and feeling a chance to relax after putting-in his time. He was efficient at all his occupations; strong, intelligent and ‘well-seasoned’. He’d just been assigned as a direct-leader under a man from the U.S.F.S... He and David, were quite respectful of each-other they’d gotten along well and both corroborated on all aspects of hitch-firefighting. ...Sam was in advance of David in his ‘know-how’ of tenet-points and functionalities... So with a very-knowledgeable bestowal, he was made David’s right-hand 'go-to' man, directly under Al.

  ...Along a long-stretch of territory of remote-forest land; about 75-miles from what was now the burning fighting-point. The warm-sun had given way to southerly, menacing-storms that were approaching. Within two-hours, the call went out to the fighter-elite, there had been alerted several-units of regulars. Fighting-in differing-areas, they had caught-it early, but the flames went canopy-fast toward the thicker-woods. So they needed a ‘thrust-group' to fight. Until a fresh-installing of men could get ahead of it. Within an hour, five-men were activated into-flight over the area.

  ‘Okay, men we’ve been chosen for this mission: twofold…’ ‘…That is, to slow the fire and make a strategy for all future-fighters…’ ‘We are going-in at map-point 44o, 42o... Where the fire is expected to hit up-slope.’ ‘We’ll observe the area looking for weak-points, and to take significant-action’… ‘Okay, men drop at the near-ridge, and we will gather on the downward facing-hill, everyone synchronize watches and prepare for descent.’ Said Sam. Everyone concentrated-on the objective. The objective was all-important.

  Many-times, they’d been through the idea-of-objectives: ‘jump, join, justify and jam’... Alone, as they-were on the ground, they-had those intents, in-mind. The gathered-men had began their last-stage as they had Joe Sinkle the ‘Subordinate-spearhead’ had taken up the rear. All was accounted for, as Sam sent up the flare. David seemed quiet. There had been a stowaway-item in his-duffle-bag… The pick-up copter roamed a now-burnt woods looking for the six-men. There was no sign of them a search-trek, revealed four dead-bodies. And eventually, a fifth.

  ...The corpses, were shot through the neck twice as if struggling, the last had bleed-perfusedly. There lay beside one of them a number of pine-cones shaped in an ‘S’… This was strange. …The state-troopers, were brought-in. In Carson City, Nevada the morning-paper was read over a breakfast of hot-biscuits and fresh-butter. The dark, thick-hair that was pulled back into a pony-tail, dark-eyes that were guise on the page. Which fanned-across the text like a dear running-through the woods, leaping without losing a leap or-bound. ...He-sipped his coffee then ate a bite of soft-bread, savoring the tender baked-loaf moisture... And then continued-reading; as to not let ‘flavor’ nor the essence of odor or printed-ardor-‘escape’.

  He was native-American, in his regular-stint at the ‘EAT’ Café... Many of the patrons knew him as a quiet, yet studious-individual. Calm and silent, yet never unwelcoming, nor imposing in his-integrity. He was masculine and compassionately-gentle in spirit, and easy-going. Many of the regulars knew of his-warm and insightful-nature. ...‘Mr. Jon’. ‘…The new-market is showing-signs of decline, and its not being-helped by an incoming-President.’ ...Bo finished his four-biscuits, by wiping his plate of gravy with the last of his bread, and then eating. Bo was noticing the man across the street, while the bustle of uncaring traffic went-on.

  He continued to listen, while not-missing a beat. He folded the paper and put four-dollars underneath, placing it on his-plate. ‘It’s a bull-market, Mr. Lacing…’, whom he had known since the ‘84 Recession. ‘...Money-makers will soon sink-in; the ‘money-track�
� should then be Utilities, then consumers; and then, as the government should be ready to provide-shelters...as profiteers, who will be leading into the money-market.’ ‘So I suggest to have a heavy-service-sector, with a part-in manufacture…' Bo said, stoically, and with conciseness...

  He waited for an expression on the man’s face, who began to ‘glow’ with alluding. ...‘Thank you, Mr. Littlehorse.’ ‘...I see your point…’ He stood-up, excused himself, then left. He was contemplating the Oregon-incident then, how the now dead fire-fighters, were murdered-in a situation of intensely, crucial roles... It said that their-mission was perilous, yet murder wasn’t out of the question.

  …The bodies had to be identified; yet a ‘underhandedness‘ was thought to be increasingly, possible. Bo had seen the man across-the-street. He was seemingly, divorced from his mind. ...By something he-minded, deeply. Bo walked to him, quietly, he asked him several-questions of a helpful-nature. A Caucasian-man, tall perhaps a stranger, perhaps looking for trouble he didn’t need. ...Interesting enough, he seemed ‘lost’. Bo asked him several-questions about what he was looking for; perhaps, he could assist him. The man avoided eye-contact.

  He had agitation in his-voice, and seemed not to be listening. Bo noticed, his dress, he didn’t seem to be from the area. It was cool-out, so Bo Jon asked if he would like to have a cup-of-coffee. He was dressed-in a light-plaid tan-shirt, denim jeans and timber-boots. After several discreet inquiries, he learned that he was from California… He was there for his birthday. Bo eventually, talked him into going with him to the bureau of records. He agreed. On the drive over, he explained that his-car and fifty dollars, was all he had in the world. He hoped to find someone, in-town.

  Carson City was a large-town. His brother had probably registered with license or housing, where he might be able to find-him. His name was Chris Garr. He’d called ahead but could not reach him. Driving from L.A. he’d hoped to meet him. ..His brother was a federal-officer, working under some federal rural-system. Bo then asked him some questions about him; and a few polite-inquiries about his-concerns. Bo was very cordial, about his brother’s history. He was honest, and open… They arrived at the Bureau office was up-town, Bo helped him follow-up; and he learned he-lived in a large-apartment in a suburban neighborhood.

  They-drove to his villa which was well-cared for. David was always at-work. He was well-competent and excellent at whatever he did, a graduate in bachelors from Harvard. A doctoral-graduate of Princeton, and by the last ten-years, he was asked to become a program-steward with U.S.F.S... He’d grown-up with only he and his brother were the only children of his-parents, who’d taken them on long-treks skiing-up in the high-mountains of Colorado during vacations. His father, had been a military-man…