The Broken Red Road

Hooting like a mad owl, the grungy rider’s chopped hog roared over the hill like a black streak of motorized lightning. Clinging to the ape-hangers of the big 1200, fierce winds clawed at him threatening to pluck him from his seat. He cut in and out of both lanes, placing himself on a collision course with the school bus coming down the highway in the opposite lane. The six kids riding the bus that Friday afternoon stared in terror at the crazed Harley rider speeding toward them. Ben Black Bull, the bus driver, cranked the wheel as the rider swerved in front of the bus and then crashed his black iron horse in the ditch beside the road. Clawing at the wheel, Ben sent the bus crashing into a pond in the pasture beyond the highway.

     At the back of the bus, thirteen-year-old Rain Nelson latched onto his little brother even as the bus dipped down into the pond. Wild tangles of black hair trailing over his shoulders, Rain did a faceplant on the seat in front of him. When his vision cleared, he saw his little brother writhing beside him in pain. “Rain,” Jessie cried, “my arm’s broke!”

     Rain grimaced as he stared down at the bone sticking out of Jessie’s left forearm. A sick feeling swept over him as he removed Jessie from the bus, seating him on a berm overlooking the pond. With blood leaking through the long strands of Jessie’s dark hair, Rain took off his flannel shirt. Standing there in a black T-shirt, an orange Harley-Davidson emblem dominating his chest, he used his shirt to dab at Jessie’s head wound. “Jack Holland!” Jessie whispered as the drunken biker staggered up out of the ditch.

     Rain turned to see the 17-year-old son of the president of the Elder’s Den moving toward Ben. Jack snarled, “Damn you, Chief! Should have let that dog fight! You interfered in Den business!”

     Jack stumbled across the road, his eyes locked on Ben Black Bull. He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He removed the lid from his bottle and took a big swig, his cheeks puffing out with the whiskey inside his mouth. Ben reached out to steady him, and Jack spat whiskey all over him, drenching his shirt with the liquid.

     “Now,” Jack said, “you are one drunk bastard, Bull.”

     Ben latched onto the bottle and tossed it to one side. Jack bent down and removed a knife from his boot top. Ben executed a palm strike that connected with Jack’s chest. The blow was so sudden, the kid was catapulted off of his feet and went flying backward. Jack clambered up from the ground, lunging at Ben with his knife. Seeing that Ben was in trouble, Rain snatched up a Coleman thermos bottle from the debris scattered behind the bus. He focused on Jack and let fly. The bottle struck Jack in the center of his forehead. The kid staggered back, the knife falling from his grasp. Jack turned and vanished into a nearby cornfield, a silver cigar tube landing on the ground behind him. Rain walked over and picked up the metal tube, sliding it into the top of his left boot.

     “What was that?” Ben asked him, curiously.

     “If I’m lucky,” Rain said, “a Swisher Sweet cigar.”

     Staring at him silently, Ben said nothing.

     Sheriff Mike Tory brought his cruiser screeching to a halt on the highway beside the pasture. Mike was a big man, whose beer-gut stretched his brown uniform shirt to the max. He sported a buzz cut and had a craggy face. As he heaved his bulk out of his cruiser, he growled, “What happened here, Bull?”

     Ben said, “I will explain that after we get these kids up on the road.”

     Sirens wailed, piercing the country air as the ambulance raced toward them. Several seconds later, the ambulance skidded to a stop behind the patrol car. The driver switched off his siren and a paramedic climbed out of the vehicle. As he assessed the injuries, thunderous rumbling came from Sprague just down the road as a Harley came roaring toward the place of the accident. “Chase,” Big Mike said. "He'll know who was riding this bike, won’t he, Rain?”

     Rain ignored him as his little brother was led away by a tech to the ambulance. Chase Nelson, father of Rain and Jessie, pulled his bike up behind the cruiser. At thirty, Chase was tall and lean, with long dark hair that fell past the collar of his black leather jacket. He sported a neatly-trimmed beard and his blue eyes missed nothing as he inspected the mangled hog in the ditch. “Do you know who that Harley belongs to?” Big Mike asked.

     Chase said, “Not a clue. Do you, son?”

     “No,” Rain said, lowering his gaze.

     “Jessie got a busted arm,” Mike said. “An ambulance took him to Crete. Give Jessie a ride home in the old wagon, Chase. The kid won’t be in any condition to ride behind you on that beast.”

     The sound of more thunder filled the air as a large bike flew past the ambulance on its way to Crete. Daws Holland rode his Harley up behind Big Mike’s cruiser. Daws, father of Jack and president of the Elder’s Den, was a large man in his early thirties. He had long, blond hair and was built like a tank, with broad shoulders and muscular arms. Daws and Chase had once fought. Rain cringed through the entire brawl. In the end, Chase had dislocated Daws’ jaw, and after delivering such a brutal blow, the President of the Outlaws had left Daws where he had fallen. Dazed and in pain, Daws barely managed to kick his bike over and weave his way out of Sprague.

     Daws killed his bike. He put the stand down and dismounted. Staring at the mangled bike in the nearby ditch, he walked over to Bobby Morris, looking down at his broken leg.

     Ben said, “Best not move this one. This is a bad break.”

     “Shut up, Bull!” said Daws. “I’m not touching him.”

     Rain said, “A maniac on that bike swerved in front of us.”

     Daws asked. “What club? Did you see his colors?”

     “Colors?” Rain said, trying to play dumb.

     Daws moved so fast that Rain had no chance to dodge his meaty hand as the big biker shoved his slender frame up against the side of the car. Rain shook back the long strands of his dark hair and glared back at him. “Whoa,” said Big Mike, “turn this down a notch, Daws.”

     Daws said, “Got a call from my son, Sheriff. He spotted this wreck and drove to a farmhouse to call in for help. Jack claims the Indian was swerving all over like he’d been drinking.”

     “Oh, hell, too!” burst from Rain’s lips.

     “Rain?” came from Chase. “Shut your mouth.”

     “But that just ain’t true,” Rain said.

     Daws focused his attention on Ben leaning against the patrol car. “Should be ashamed of yourself, Chief. Not a lot of folks around here take kindly to a drunken Indian putting their kids at such risk. I’d say you’ve got a lot to answer for. And you smell like a tavern.”

     To sit there and listen while Daws convinced Sheriff Tory that the bus crash had been due to the fact that Ben had been drinking, was causing Rain much distress. He groaned inwardly when Daws crossed the ditch and picked up the empty whiskey bottle. Rain’s stomach churned as Daws said, “Ben, now we gotta fish your bus out of Miller’s Pond all because you’ve been drinking in Whiskey River!”

     Purposely ignoring the president of his rival club, Chase ordered Rain to mount up behind him on his hog. Once he was certain his son was situated on the seat behind him, Chase gunned the bike and headed off down the highway to Sprague in lower Nebraska.