The pickthorn chronicles

The Pickthorn
Chronicles
By

Gary W. Lemon
www.pickthorn’scorner.com

a.pickthorn@yahoo.com

Introduction
I have been writing short stories for a good many years, mostly for my
own pleasure and therapy. But, a number of friends and associates, in my
recent past, have suggested that I share some of my work, that has evolved
over the years, with the reading public.
After dwelling on this possibility for some months I decided to take the
plunge and in September, of 2011, I released my first book entitled, ‘Short
Stories By Pickthorn.’ I was pleasantly surprised by how the reception of
this simple book of tall tales was embraced by many short story enthusiasts.
After receiving some modest monetary reward for my effort, the thought
occurred to me that maybe I could put my over stimulated imagination to
some use in what some refer to as the literary world. ‘The Pickthorn
Chronicles’ is the second product of short stories that I offer to those who
have expressed a pleasurable experience in reading my stories and to those
who are reading these words for the first time.

I understand that there are many who prefer the standard full length novel
with as many pages and words as possible. I have read many novels, over
the years, but I have probably laid aside many more because my interest
level waned and could not be revived. I prefer short stories that can grab the
readers interests from the story’s beginning to the exciting conclusion.
I know there are many people who share this reading preference.
Most of my stories, you will find, are fast paced and easy to read. I try to
keep the interest level at a maximum throughout each narrative, with a
minimum of superfluous wording. The ‘twist’ or surprise ending is another
trademark I use to baffle the reader, whenever possible.
I try to offer a wide range of reading interest. Horror and suspense, laced
with a little humor is my favorite genre, and you will see these emotions
come to life in our first story, “Horror In Alaska.” But whatever your
reading pleasure, I hope you find it here within these pages. I do sincerely
hope you will enjoy, ‘The Pickthorn Chronicles.’
Gary Lemon
FOREWORD
Pickthorn has selected some great stories as a sequel to his first book, “Short Stories By
Pickthorn.” “The Pickthorn Chronicles” brings us new accounts of horrific, blood
chilling adventures as well as heart warming stories that may bring forth a tear or two.
Suspense, mystery, humor, and intrigue are a few adjectives that describe the highly
entertaining narratives that we have come to expect from of Alfred J. Pickthorn.
‘Horror In Alaska’ describes the terrible ordeal three people face after their plane crashes
in the Alaskan wilderness. The fight for survival takes an evil twist as the wife of the
injured pilot and her lover, the pilot’s junior partner, decide to leave the injured man at
the crash site, believing that he would soon die from his injuries and the freezing
temperature. The conniving lovers manage to reach freedom and safety and they then
divert the rescue mission, to a different location, far from the actual crash site. Confident,
their dastardly plot would never be discovered, the villainous pair would now take over a
thriving business and live a life of luxury, or so they thought.
From the ‘Horror In Alaska’ the author treats the reader to another murder mystery with
the grisly murder of two prominent citizens, who are the parents of a young man who has
a burning ambition to succeed in life but prefers to inherit his wealth rather than to work
for it; he engages a mentally impaired girl to help him reach that goal. The young girl is
known as ‘Dumb Dora.’
If you prefer a nostalgic, warm and neighborly story, then you should enjoy the adventure
of a young lad, who risks the displeasure of an old man and his bulldog, by stealing

plums from the tree in the man’s backyard. The ‘old geezer’ protects his plums and his
property by shooting trespassers with his BB gun and then lets Spike (his bulldog) chase
the intruder away. The confrontation between the father of the young boy, who had been
shot with a BB, and the old man, was one of the highlights of this story titled “Old
Spike.”
A pulsating, heart wrenching, drama is offered in the suspenseful story of a young twelve
year old who is heir to a sizable fortune. He has been kidnapped by a pair of clever and
diabolical characters who are intent on executing the boy after the ransom has been paid.
A shocking and unexpected ending to this story called, “Kidnapped.”
In my opinion, each of these stories could be and should be made into a feature length
film, they are that riveting and entertaining. Now sit back, relax and enjoy, “The
Pickthorn Chronicles.”
Sir Jacob R. Malone
Cabot Institute of

Fine Arts

Contents
Horror In Alaska
Dumb Dora
Duel In The Sky
Left Wing - Right Wing
Garden Of Evil - Sherlock Holmes
Old Spike
Shawnee Lynch Mob
Killer Korpis
A Day Soon Forgotten
Death Before Dishonor
Flight 301
Death Watch
Death At Four AM

Page

Kidnapped
Festus Leghorn

Pic Alas Horror

Horror In Alaska

In March of 1981, Thad McSwain, became owner of the newly established
McSwain Oil & Gas Development Company. He had high hopes for his new
company. Since childhood, everything about the Alaskan petroleum industry
fascinated Thad. Now, his life-long dream of owning his own company and
marketing his own products had come true.
It took every penny of his savings and all he could borrow to start a new
company, but now he was wheeling and dealing as the new owner of an up
and coming oil development and exploration company in Fairbanks, Alaska.
Rick Killtrain, Thad's friend since high school, became a junior partner in
the company by investing his life savings in the venture.
Roseanne, Thad's wife, decided at the last moment that she wanted to
accompany Thad and Rick on their business trip to Vancouver, British
Columbia in Thad's new Cessna 340. Thad had been a bush pilot for several
years in Alaska before his opportunity to enter the business world.
Thad didn't think it necessary to file a flight plan, but planned to keep a
close check on weather reports for the area through the airport in Vancouver.
They left Fairbanks at seven o'clock that evening. About thirty minutes into
their flight, Thad called in to the Vancouver Airport:
"Vancouver Tower, this is CSA-One, what's the latest on that front moving
in from the southwest?"
"CSA-One.....Vancouver Tower..... this 'bad boy' is getting dicey here. You
are right on the edge, but coming your way pretty fast. Recommend you
return to CS Municipal or divert to Cordova."
"Negative Vancouver. We are only three hundred miles east of you, going

to try to make it on in. Can you give me a new heading?
"Roger that, CSA-one, come right to course 126, maintain altitude of
15,000, speed 200 knots."
As they came closer to Vancouver, Thad peered out the side window,
hoping to see the glow of city lights below. His gaze focused on the droplets
of water dancing across his window. Farther out on the wing, he noticed tiny
horizontal icicles growing on various projections. "Hey Rick, check out the
wings... think we should de-ice?"
"Yeah, good idea," Rick replied. Thad loosened his grip from the yoke and
flipped the wing deicer switch. Instantly the cockpit lights went out. Soon,
an overpowering odor of burning plastic filled the cramped cabin of the
aircraft..
"What the hell!" said Thad. "Rick! Get the breakers!" Rick fumbled in the
darkness until he found the breaker console and began pressing. The
instrument lights flickered back to life and glowed dimly, followed by the
interior lights which revealed the source of the burning odor. Hazy smoke
filled the cabin.
Thad radioed Vancouver, "Mayday, Mayday! This is CSA-one. We are
approximately a hundred miles southeast of Juneau, experiencing heavy ice
storm, smoke in the cockpit, electrical system going out, one engine
smoking, losing altitude."
Thad heard a few garbled words, interrupted with static but couldn't
decipher the message. Seconds later, the lights flickered off again. "Turn off
the deicer!" said Thad. "We'll have to take a chance of icing up or we're
going burn up the damn plane."
Roseanne became hysterical. "Isn't there any place we can land?" she
screamed. "I don't want to die in this airplane." She knew before she asked
that they were flying over some of the roughest terrain in the Alaskan
wilderness.
"We need to set this crate down someplace. Keep looking for lights!" Thad
shouted. Snow and tiny pellets of ice could be seen bombarding the windshield. The Cessna continued its westerly course, being buffeted by fifty-

mile-per-hour winds.
Rick yelled, "Thad! You're going to have to think about landing this thing,
whether you want to or not!" All three were panic stricken. They knew they
were going down.
"Oh my God!! I don't want to die!!" screamed Roseanne. She began crying
uncontrollably. Rick moved from the co-pilot's seat into the back of the
plane next to Roseanne. He held her close, trying to calm her and protect her
should they crash. The plane began a rapid descent.
"Both of you hold on tight.... and pray! We're going down. There's nothing
I can do! God.. let there be something besides the wall of a mountain there
when we touch down!" Thad struggled, trying to keep the plane level.
Suddenly, his eyes widened as he saw a dark object through the falling snow,
directly in front of them... then blackness.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The skies were clear the next day when Rick regained conscious . He
propped himself up on his left elbow and with his right hand, shaded his
eyes from the brightness of the sun shining on mounds of snow all around
him. He remembered his last thoughts just before the plane crashed and
wondered how long they had been there. He saw a large Aspen tree broken
in two. The sheered off top of the Aspen could be seen, lying under the
fuselage of the Cessna and the tail of the plane, upside down about 100 feet
to the east of it. After sheering off the top of the tree, the nose of the plane
had miraculously plunged into a snow drift which softened the impact.
Rick struggled to his feet and staggered over to examine the remaining
wreckage of the plane. He saw Thad lying on his side, still in the cockpit, his
left leg twisted and mangled, his pants soaked in blood. He saw Roseanne,
lying unconscious, still strapped in her seat behind Thad. Roseanne looked
unharmed and breathing normally. He went to her and patted her cheek
lightly and spoke her name. "Roseanne.. wake up.... It's Rick."
A frown came upon her face as she began to move her head and flutter
her eyes. "Rick... Rick.. Is that you? Where are we? What happened?"
"Shhhh... don't talk. We crashed. I have no idea where we are, but it
appears that we are on the side of a mountain. I can see a lot of trees below,
so we aren't that high up. There's a lot of snow out there. You better stay

right here inside the plane. It will keep the cold wind off of you. Thad is
lying there in the cockpit. I don't know if he's dead or not. There's a lot of
blood on his clothes." Rick heard a moan from the cockpit. He went to check
on Thad.
After struggling with debris of limbs and bent fuselage structure, Rick
finally managed to free Thad from the wreckage. Feeling excruciating pain
in his leg, he told Rick to break out the survival kit in the cockpit under the
pilot's seat, which contained 10 syringes of morphine, a mirror, matches and
a flashlight. Thad injected his injured leg with a shot of morphine. A three
day supply of food, enough for three people, remained safe under the
passenger seats.
Thad, wincing with pain, assessed the situation; "The radio has no power.
We are about a hundred miles east of Juneau. We don't know if the airport
got a clear copy of our Mayday. They may not have any idea about where
we are or that we are down. We can't count on Air Rescue finding us up here
any time soon ... and maybe never." He turned to Rick. "It's up to you,
buddy. You're the only one able to go for help. You need to start out on your
own as soon as possible and get us some help. Show them the way back
here. You're our only chance."
Rick immediately packed some food and a sleeping bag in a backpack and
strapped it on his back. Thad told him to keep on a westerly course and he
should be able to find a house or road somewhere, since they were so close
to Juneau. Rick could see the morphine taking effect on Thad, as he fell back
into the reclined seat next to Roseanne and closed his eyes.
As Rick started to leave Roseanne followed him, then threw her arms
around him and kissed his lips. "Come back to me, darling." she said, with
tears in her eyes.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. Everything is going to be all right," he said, then
proceeded down the mountain. Rick covered a lot of ground that first day
and he soon reached the valley below the crash site. Being on level ground,
he walked, stumbled and crawled about five miles through the deep snow
before darkness set in.
Rick found a place away from the wind where he could throw down his
sleeping bag for the night. He chose a snow drift by a narrow frozen river he

had been following and used a small digging tool from the survival kit to dig
a deep hole in the drift, then put the sleeping bag inside and curled up for the
night.
He couldn't sleep because of his thoughts of dying there in the wilderness
and thoughts of Roseanne. His affair with her had started about six months
earlier. They were now deeply in love.
If I can just get help and get back up the mountain, what a stroke of luck it
would be if I could find that Thad had died of his injuries. Roseanne and I
could be married as we planned and my wife would not only be my partner
for life, but we would be joint owners of the company. And Thad would
never have to know about the affair. The exhaustion of his body soon won
over the anxiety in his mind and he drifted off to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rick awoke early the next morning and started out again on his westward
trek. After three hours of trudging through knee-deep snow, his optimism
began to wane. Depression took its place when he realized that he had only
covered a half-mile and needed desperately to rest. As he lay down in the
snow, looking up at the blue sky and the snow covered mountains, he
thought, what a beautiful day to die.
He couldn't hold his eyes open and succumbed to his need for sleep. After
dozing for about forty-five minutes, he suddenly sat up with a look of
bewilderment on his face. Am I going crazy...or do I smell bacon frying?
Looking around, off to his right he saw a plume of smoke rising above the
ridge. A new wave of energy swept over him as he scrambled up the ridge.
At the crest of the ridge, he looked down and saw a small shack with two
mules tied up outside.
Ten minutes later, Rick stood at the door of the old shack. Without
knocking, he barged through the door. He saw an old man who looked to be
about seventy, with a gray frizzy beard sitting at his table eating breakfast.
Startled, the old man dropped a fork with a clump of scrambled eggs on it
and jumped up from the table yelling, "What the hell are you doin' in my
house? And who are you? What do you want? "
"Look mister, we were in a plane crash about ten miles from here.. up on

the side of the mountain. I have two friends at the crash site and one is hurt
bad. I need a little food and water to take back to them and I need those two
mules outside to get back up there."
"You ain't gettin' my mules. That's for dang sure. And I ain't got but barely
enough vittles to last out the winter. So just get the hell on out of here and
get on about your business. You can follow Roaring Fork River for about a
mile and right where it turns back west... there's a village just north of there
about two miles. You can make it in about three days... Now get out of my
cabin."
The old man went over to an old kitchen cabinet and opened the drawer.
He took out a .45 Smith and Wesson and aimed it at Rick. His hand shook as
he said, "Get on out now, young feller. I mean business!
Rick lunged at the old man and grabbed his hand that held the gun. Afraid
the weapon would go off, Rick turned the barrel away from him, pointing it
toward the old man. The old fellow's hand squeezed the trigger as he tried to
pull the gun away from Rick.
The gun discharged. The old man screamed, his face frozen in pain and
terror as he placed his wrinkled hand over the gaping wound in his chest.
"Oh, Lord, you killed me boy,...I'm goin!"
Oh my God. What have I done! Rick watched as the man fell to the floor.
The old man gasped a few times then his breathing stopped, his sightless
eyes staring at the cracks in the wooden floor.
Rick dragged the old man's body out near a stream about fifty yards from
the cabin, expecting that some wild animal would dispose of it in a short
time. He hurried back to the cabin, gathered all the food he could carry and
untied both of the mules. Climbing atop one of the mules and leading the
other one, he made his way back up the trail to the site of the crash.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Rick tied the mules to a tree at the base of the mountain. Then he started
climbing up the slope. As he approached the fallen plane, he could see
Roseanne smiling and running to meet him.

Thad was lying on the frozen ground outside the plane on a makeshift bed
made from his sleeping bag and other clothing they had brought on the trip.
He had been drifting in and out of consciousness all morning and he thought
he must be dreaming when he saw his wife embracing and passionately
kissing his best friend and partner.
Thad knew he had not been dreaming when Rick and Roseanne were now
standing there looking down at him.
"Is help on the way, Rick? I don't think I can last much longer." Thad was
wincing in pain, not only from his mangled leg and broken ribs but from the
realization that his wife and partner had betrayed him and were now lovers.
"No, old buddy, helps not on the way, not for you, anyway. I didn't want it
to end this way, Thad, but you would have found out anyway. Me and
Roseanne love each other and we've been in love for some time now."
Roseanne felt that she had to explain to her husband her true feelings.
"I was going to divorce you, Thad, but now that won't be necessary. Being
a widow is much better and a lot more profitable than a messy divorce."
Thad could feel the rage building within his tortured body. "So that's
what's been going on behind my back, huh? Do you plan on leaving me here
to die or will you send help."
"I wouldn't expect any help, if I were you, Thad. We got plans for a life
together and they don't include you, old buddy. We just need a few things
from the plane then we'll be on our way."
Rick took the flashlight, the only matches in the aircraft and some
navigation maps. Rick paused for a moment when he came across Thad's .
357 magnum in the console. "Thad I'm going to leave your Magnum, you
may need it if the pain gets to much for you. Well, I guess this is goodbye,
old chum. Don't worry about Roseanne, I will take good care of her."
"Thad, I want you to know that I did love you at one time, but that was a
long time ago, and don't worry about the company, me and Rick will run it
better than you ever could. We have to go now."

Thad watched his wife and partner walk away without looking back. The
rage and adrenalin surging through his body gave him strength to rise to his
feet. Luckily he found a severed limb from a pine tree a few feet away that
was perfectly shaped and could be used as a crutch.
With his makeshift crutch he hobbled over to the starboard engine of the
aircraft, partially buried in the snow. The cowling had been ripped away
from the engine at the point of impact and the wiring and fuel lines were
exposed.
Thad knew that he had to hurry to have any chance to save his life. He
frantically began ripping out the wiring from the engine with his bare hands.
Using a ten foot piece of wire he wrapped his broken leg. White pain shot
through his brain and he fought to keep from blacking out, but it didn't slow
his preparation to leave the crash site.
He removed his upper clothing and stood shivering in the zero degrees
weather as he pulled on a quarter inch fuel line that lead to the engine
induction system. The line came loose from it's housing and a stream of
avgas came spewing from the broken line.
Thad caught large amounts of the gas and began applying the liquid all
over his body. He knew that the heat given off from the fuel would offer
some protection from the bitter cold. Then, with his sleeping bag and a few
items strapped to his back he started out in his painful pursuit of Rick and
Roseanne.
The fresh tracks left by the pair were easy to follow in the snow covered
mountain side, but every step was like torture to his badly broken leg and
ribs.
It took Thad an hour to descend to the valley below. At this point he
became momentarily confused because the two tracks he was following
became two tracks of some kind of animal, either horses or mules. He
became even more discouraged because the thought of tracking two people
riding mules or horses while hobbling along on a broken leg seemed like an
impossible and futile exercise.
Soon darkness began to settle over the valley and Thad knew he had to
give up the pursuit until morning. He chose a spot between two large

boulders to pitch his sleeping bag. He prayed that it wouldn't snow during
the night and cover the tracks he had been following.
His luck held out, at sunrise, the sky was clear and the mule tracks were
still visible. Six hours later he had painfully trudged another mile. The
thought of his unfaithful wife and his longtime friend and partner leaving
him to die at the crash site gave him a strong will to carry on until he found
them or died trying.
Near sundown, Thad found another excellent location to spend his second
night alone in the Alaskan wilderness a small cave that was only a few feet
deep in the side of a small rise along side a frozen stream. After entering the
cave and zipping up his sleeping bag he was ready to spend his second night
alone in the unforgiving cold northern winter. His breakfast consisted of two
candy bars that Roseanne and Rick had left him that were in the survival kit.
At sunrise the next morning Thad was ready once again to resume his
pursuit of the treacherous pair. Again the weather had cooperated and the
tracks he had been following were still visible.
Around noon after covering another torturous two miles, Thad, couldn't
believe his eyes, about a half mile ahead he could see the old man's cabin
and two mules were walking around near the cabin.
It took Thad another hour to reach the cabin. He was totally exhausted and
his body was wracked with pain. He quickly discovered the dead prospector
that had been shot and left by the side of the creek.
After entering the cabin, he found that Rick and Roseanne were gone. He
had noticed the tracks of two people leading away from the cabin. All he
wanted to do at that moment was to rest and recuperate from his arduous
trek of the last two days.
There was still some food left in the cabin and Thad decided to give up the
pursuit of his betrayers until his wounds were healed.
As Thad slept in the miners cabin, big news was taking place forty miles to
the southwest. Roseanne McSwain and Richard Killtrain had somehow
survived a plane crash and walked 50 or 60 miles through the Alaskan
wilderness to the small Eskimo village of Umiak.

Television and radio news media descended on the small village and air
rescue began an immediate search for the badly injured owner and pilot of
the downed aircraft. Richard Killtrain, insisted on joining the air search for
his injured partner and close friend.
The location of the crash site according to Killtrain, was approximately
fifty miles northeast of Umiak, but the actual location was thirty miles
southeast of the village. The last act of betraying his former friend had now
taken place.
After three weeks of daily searching a hundred mile radius of the area
indicated by Killtrain, no sign of the airplane or Thad was found.. After two
weeks the search was called off and Thad McSwain was presumed to be
dead.
Three months later Thad McSwain was officially declared "deceased" by
the state of Alaska and Roseanne and Rick were married the following
Sunday. Roseanne and Rick didn't have time to think much about the man
they left on the mountain to die a horrible death. The McSwain oil com-pany
was expanding and profits were soaring. Life couldn't be better for the
newlyweds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
The months following the plane crash passed quickly for Rick and
Roseanne. There was great excitement within the company. Another gusher
had been capped down in the lower valley. It was the fourth well brought in
by the company since Rick and Roseanne became the new owners.
Today was their first anniversary of their marriage and Roseanne had
promised Rick a nice surprise when he came home from the office.
The first thing Rick noticed, when he came through the door, was the
delectable smell of baked pheasant, Rick’s favorite dish. Soft, romantic
music was playing on the stereo system and was heard throughout the house.
The dining room was dark except for two candles lit and glowing on the
dining room table.
Rick began looking around the house for his lovely Roseanne. He kept

expecting her to leap out from her hiding place, in a scanty clad negligee, or
something, but she was no where to be found.
The little darling must be upstairs, I bet she's waiting for me in the
bedroom. His anticipation of a session of unrestrained and steamy sex was
racing through his mind. He opened the door to their bedroom, the sound of
running water was coming from the bathroom. Ah, she's taking a shower, I'll
just check and see if she's ready to rumble.
Rick slowly opened the bathroom door, "A-AAA-IIIE-EAGH." Rick
couldn't control the blood chilling scream coming from deep within his
being.. He had come face to face with the severed head of his wife,
Roseanne.
It was hanging by a cord from the ceiling. A look of unspeakable horror
was frozen on the face. Rick had recoiled in a state of shock, he had backed
up against the wall, whimpering like a small child, trying to comprehend
what was happening. The head was slowly turning to the right and then back
left again, the lifeless eyes seemed to be staring at him as if accusing him of
the terrible fate she had suffered, blood was still dripping from the severed
head, now beginning to coagulate in a large pool on the tile floor.
Then Rick heard a familiar voice.
"Aren't you going to kiss your wife, Rick... it's your anniversary, isn't it?"
Rick couldn't believe his eyes. He was looking at a slender figure of a man
with a scraggly beard and shoulder length hair and a crooked left leg. He had
stepped out of the closet where he had been in hiding, waiting for Rick. He
was holding a .357 magnum in his right hand
“My God! Thad, is that you? I th-thought y-you were d-d-dead!! Oh,
Thad, it was Roseanne, who wanted to leave you out there, not me!!! Don't
kill me, Thad... we've been friends a long time."
"I'm not going to kill you Rick, we're going to be partners again, just like
before, but without Roseanne. What do you say.....?"
"Y-yeah, you bet Th-Thad, it will like old times. Ju-just put the gun down,
please."

"I better not do that, Rick, I'm not sure I can trust you. You may try to kill
me again."
"No, no, Thad, like I said, it was Roseanne who wanted to leave you at the
crash site, not me."
"Come over here and sit down at your desk, Rick. I want you to write an
apology. I'll have it framed and put on the wall in my office."
"Sure, sure, Thad. I'll do that.... what do you want me to say?"
Rick sat down at his desk and picked up a pen, a note pad was placed in
front of him. Thad was standing next to him, still holding the magnum
pointed at Rick's head.
"Just say, I'm sorry for what I done, then sign it, Rick."
Rick nervously wrote the message dictated by Thad and signed it.
"Now will you please"......Those were the last words ever spoken by Rick,
the sound of the explosion was deafening.
Thad was surprised at the size of the hole in the side of Rick's head caused
by the discharge of the magnum. Blood, brain tissue, and skull fragments
sprayed the wall, floor and even the ceiling.
Thad, who was wearing his gloves, then placed the magnum in the right
hand of the deceased, then quietly left the premises.
The following day, the horror of the murder and suicide was headlined in
the morning paper. The police were at a loss to explain why Richard
Killtrain would sever the head of his wife and leave her headless body in the
shower with the water running. They concluded that there must have been a
terrible argument between the couple that led to the grisly murder and
suicide. Killtrain's note left no doubt as to what occurred. There was no
evidence of foul play and the case was closed.
Two weeks after this tragedy, another sensational "miracle" occurred. Thad
McSwain was found "alive" in the small village of Umiak. He explained to

the police and news media how he had managed to leave the crash site, over
a year earlier, with severe injuries and miraculously found the prospectors
cabin in the wilderness. There is where he stayed and lived for over a year,
subsisting on mule meat and food left in the cabin. He explained how he
found the skeletal remains of the old prospector after wild animals had
devoured most of the man's body.
McSwain said he was anxious to see his wife Roseanne and get back to
work running his company. When told of his wife's murder and the suicide
of his partner--- McSwain wept bitterly.
It was obvious, he was heartbroken after hearing the shocking news.

pic 6420108 blonde

Dumb Dora

Charles Van Norton was president and CEO of Van Norton Enterprises
of Scarsdale, New York. The Van Nortons owned three of the largest
supermarkets in Scarsdale. The grocery business was very profitable for the
Van Nortons and those profits exceeded over two million dollars per year for
the last fifteen years.
But, money could not buy happiness for Charles and Emily Van Norton.
Their one and only son, twenty-year-old Robert, a Princeton dropout, was
continually getting into serious trouble with his drug use. He had a pen-

chant for making the headlines of the daily paper with his drunken
escapades. The Van Nortons, once considered the royalty in Scarsdale's
society circles, were now being shunned by Scarsdale's elite community
leaders.
The situation in the Van Norton household had reached a boiling point.
Charles decided that Robert was a hopeless case. The time had come to
inform him that he could no longer expect to be supported by his parents
and would have to move out on his own and survive as best he could.
"Did you want to see me, Pop?" Robert asked his father, who was waiting
for him at the bottom of the stairway.
"That's right, Bob. Come into my study. I want to talk to you."
"Well make it quick, Pop. I got a date in about twenty minutes."
"Are you still seeing that stripper down at the Nitty Gritty Club?"
"Yeah, Pop. Roxy is the hottest babe in town and she's nuts about me.
I guess I'm the most eligible bachelor in town, eh ?" Robert had an irritating
laugh that made his father wince.
"I'll get right to the point, Bobby. Your mother and I want you out of
here and out of our lives. You have been nothing but an embarrassment to us
and a royal pain in the ass. I've given you every opportunity to make
something of yourself and you have let me down every time."
"Oh yeah, Pop. I appreciated the offer of a position in your company, but
I don't want to be a lousy stock clerk in one of your lousy grocery stores."
"Let me tell you something, smart ass. I started out in this business as a
stock clerk and you sure as hell aren't any better than me."
"So you're kicking me out eh, Pop? Just when I'm getting ready to close a
deal that will make me a few million bucks."
"I'm not interested in your pipe dreams, son. Here's a thousand bucks.
You can blow it anyway you want to, but I want you out of this house by the
first of the month."

Robert angrily snatched the money from his father's hand and stormed out
of the room, slamming the door behind him.
He was still fuming over the fight he had with his father, while waiting
for Roxy to finish her number at the Nitty Gritty Club. After Roxy
completed her striptease act, she walked over to Robert's table, ignoring the
whistles and wolf calls from the male patrons.
As she sat down next to Robert, she sensed that something was terribly
wrong. "What is it, sweetie? You look like you're ready to explode."
"The old man is kicking me out. I got to be out of there by the first of
the month. That gives us two weeks to pull this off."
She leaned close and whispered, "Oh honey, do you really plan on killing
both your parents? Isn't there some other way?"
"No, there's no other way. I'll take over the business and you will be
the wife of a multi-millionaire. How does that sound?"
"Oh, darling. That sounds wonderful, but I'm so scared."
Robert could feel the adrenalin surging through his body, as he envisioned
taking over his father's company and being in control of millions of dollars.
"Don't be scared. It will be a cinch. Do you remember Dora Plunkett?
She's been madly in love with me since high school. She has agreed to do
the killing" because I kind of let her believe that I would marry her after
this was all over. Heh, heh. I gave her two hundred bucks to buy a pistol at
the pawn shop. I'm going to meet her in a little while, after she gets off
from work."
"You mean 'Dumb Dora', that works at the Dairy Queen? She dropped out
of school after spending two years in the eleventh grade," Roxy said, in
disbelief.
"Yeah, I know Dora ain't too bright, but the way I got this planned,
nothing can go wrong. Trust me, baby. I got to go now." Robert kissed
Roxy and hurriedly left the club to see Dora at the Dairy Queen.

At 10:30 that evening, Robert was parked down the street from the Dairy
Queen in his Ford Mustang. Five minutes later, the lights went out and
Dora soon came out, walking briskly toward his car.
She opened the door on the passenger side and slid in beside Robert. He
kissed her very passionately and said, "Did you get the gun, baby?"
Dora opened her purse and withdrew a .38 snub nose revolver and
said, "Will this do, Bobby?"
"Hell yes, this will do just fine." Robert examined the weapon. "Ah good,
it's fully loaded. We may need those extra bullets."
"Oh Bobby, I'm so scared. I don't know if I can do this," she whimpered.
"Look, darling, I know you can do this. It's our only chance of having a
life together. Just think, baby " you are going to be the wife of a
millionaire."
"Bobby, I love you so much. You know I will do anything for you."
"Okay, that's settled. Let's go over this again. After you get off work
tomorrow night, you wait until eleven-fifteen before you enter the house.
I'll leave the outside door to the pantry unlocked before I leave for the
club. I'll be at the Nitty Gritty, that will be my alibi. My parents go to
bed at ten o'clock every night and will be sound asleep by eleven fifteen."
He could see that Dora was shaking badly as he went over the details of
the murder plot he had planned.
"Now calm down, Dora. You are a big girl now. Think of what's at stake
here. Once you're in the house, quietly go upstairs, then go to their bedroom
and open the door. Walk over to the bed and hold the gun close to the old
man's head and pull the trigger, then turn the gun on mom and shoot her in
the head. Make sure they are both dead then go to mom's jewelry box on the
dresser and take all of her jewelry. We have to make this look like a robbery"
and be sure to wear those latex gloves I gave you. We don't want to leave
any fingerprints for the cops to find. Do you understand, baby? We don't
want any screw-ups. I know you will pull this off just as we planned."

"I'll do it, Bobby. Just as you say." Robert leaned over and kissed Dora
again. There was no turning back now.
The next night, Dora parked her ten-year-old Chevy Cavalier two blocks
down the street from the Van Norton two-story residence.
The poor girl was scared out of her wits, but she knew she could not fight
the spell that she was under. Bobby Van Norton had complete control of her
mind and body.
The pantry door was unlocked, just as Bobby said it would be. Dora had
the pistol in her pocket and was wearing the latex gloves he had given her.
She slowly climbed the staircase leading to his parents' bedroom.
Standing at the bedroom door, Dora hesitated. She was trying desperately to muster the courage to enter the room and carry out the plan of
taking two innocent lives.
Finally, she opened the door and stepped inside. She could make out the
darkened figures of a man and woman, sleeping side by side on a king size
bed. They were both sleeping soundly. Dora took the .38 pistol from her
pocket and approached the bed. She was trembling and fighting back tears as
she stood over Mr. Van Norton, aiming her pistol at a spot just over his right
ear. Dora slowly squeezed the trigger. The loud sound of the gunshot echoed
throughout the house.
Mrs. Van Norton raised up in bed and screamed at the horror taking place
in the sanctity of her bedroom. Dora was sobbing loudly and said, "I'm so
sorry, Mrs. Van Norton," and pulled the trigger again. The bullet struck the
woman in the forehead and she fell backward and died instantly.
In a robotic trance, Dora went to the jewelry box on the dresser and
stuffed the diamond necklace, bracelets and rings in her pockets, then ran
down the stairs with tears streaming down her face.
When Dora entered the darkened pantry, ready to bolt through the door, a
hand reached out from behind her and covered her mouth to muffle a
scream. She was pulled back into the arms of the person behind her.
"Don't be afraid. It's me, Bobby," he whispered in her ear. "I left the

club a little early. I wanted to make sure everything went off as planned.
Are they both dead and did you get the jewelry?"
"Yes, they are both dead and I got the jewelry. Let's get out of here."
"You did great, baby. Give me the gun and I'll get rid of it." Dora handed
him the gun. The barrel was still warm after being fired twice.

Bobby said, "Kiss me, darling."
Dora came into his arms and their lips met. At that instant, Dora knew
that the terrible deed she had done was worth it. She would soon be Mrs.
Dora Van Norton and her life with Bobby would be wonderful.
But that ecstatic thought was vanished when she felt the barrel of the
pistol Bobby was holding being pressed against her throat. For a split
second she realized what was happening. She pleaded, "Oh no, Bobby...
don't."
The gun fired and Dora fell to the floor. She died instantly. The bullet
entered under her chin and exited through the top of her head.
Bobby flicked on the lights in the pantry and looked down at the pathetic
young girl lying on the floor at his feet. Blood was still gushing from the
wound in her head. He noticed the diamond necklace that was partially
hanging from her pocket.
He dropped the gun and went to the phone and dialed 911. "Send an
ambulance and the police to number 64, Brentwood Street. Please hurry. I
came home and found a burglar in the house. The burglar has been
accidentally shot.”
The police arrived within minutes of the call. They found a distraught
young man sobbing uncontrollably. He had found the bodies of his parents
after he called 911.
Bobby Van Norton explained to the police that he had returned from the
Nitty Gritty Club at approximately eleven-thirty. He heard someone running
through the house and he knew it must have been an intruder. He caught the
person in the pantry and there was a struggle for the gun. The gun

accidentally discharged and the intruder fell to the floor. He was shocked
when he saw that it was a female he had been struggling with. The morning
paper in Scarsdale ran this banner headline in its morning edition:
"VAN NORTONS ARE KILLED BY
BURGLAR; SON KILLS BURGLAR"
The mayor of Scarsdale, Anthony Bergman, released this statement to the
news media: "We are shocked and saddened by the brutal murder of Charles
and Emily Van Norton. Mr. and Mrs. Van Norton were two of our most
honored and respected citizens and business leaders. They will be sorely
missed by all. On behalf of our fair city, I wish to express my heartfelt
sympathy to Robert Van Norton and the Van Norton family. I would like to
publicly thank Robert for his heroic effort in subduing the person that killed
his parents."
Robert was having a hard time suppressing the feeling of elation and
playing the role of a heartbroken son who had just lost both of his parents.
At ten o'clock, on the morning after the murders, Robert was giving an
interview to a reporter from WLRZ TV. After the interview, he was met by
two detectives from homicide division of the Scarsdale Police Department.
"Robert, would you mind coming down to the station with us and clear
up a few things?" said lead detective, Vincent Marconi.
"No, I don't mind. But I have another interview at noon, so I don't have
much time."
Robert was reveling in his newly acquired fame as a hero who had
avenged the death of his parents.
"It won't take long Robert, let's go." Detective Marconi didn't seem
impressed with Robert's celebrity status.
At the police station, Robert was led to an interrogation room and was
seated at a small table opposite the two detectives.
"What's this all about, boys? I ain't got all day, you know." Robert
was getting a little testy.

"I want you to explain something for us," said Marconi, as he placed a
small tape recorder on the table and pressed the 'play' button.
The words coming from that little recorder caused shock waves to
reverberate in Robert's brain. His body began to shake as he heard his own
voice coming through that small speaker on the table. "Baby, did you get the
gun?"
Then he heard the voice of Dora, "Will this do, Bobby?"
His voice replied, "Hell, yes. This will do just fine. Ah, good! It's
fully loaded."
Robert sat listening in stunned silence, to the incriminating words coming
from the tape player. The last words heard on the tape were" "Oh no,...
Bobby don't." then the sound of a gunshot.
When detective Marconi turned off the tape, Robert meekly asked, "Where
did you get that, sir?"
"Your friend, Dora, had this recorder taped to her chest. Evidently, she
didn't trust you and she was going to use this tape to force you to carry out
your pledge to marry her. She wasn't as dumb as you thought. Her biggest
mistake was getting involved with a loser like you."
Robert's head was spinning and he felt faint. Within a matter of minutes
he went from millionaire and town hero, to a detestable, vicious murderer,
facing death in the electric chair.
As Marconi placed the cuffs on Robert's wrists, he said, "You know you're
going to fry, don't you, son?"
"Yeah, I know that, and the sooner the better," Robert said with a sigh.

pic dogfight

Duel In The Sky

Major Peter Dietrich eyed the fuel gauge of his P-51 anxiously. He
knew his squadron was approaching the maximum range of their aircraft and
would soon have to return to England.
The U.S. 152nd Fighter Group, comprised of forty one P-51 Mustangs,
was flying escort for the 4th Bombardment Wing. The 4th B.W. included
seven different bomb groups, totaling 146 B-17 flying fortresses. Their
target was the Messerschmitt aircraft plant located in the Bavarian city of
Regensberg.
This plant turned out two hundred deadly ME-109 and ME-110s, each
month, nearly thirty percent of the German single-engine fighter production.
Far ahead of their formation, Dietrich could see swarms of tiny specks in
the sky. He knew that these were German fighter planes; ME-109s, ME110s and Foch Wolfe-190s. They were out of the range of the U.S. P-51s
and were patiently waiting to pounce on the American bombers, as soon as
their P-51 fighter escort was forced to turn back.
Ten miles before reaching the German border city of Aachen, Col. Robert
McDowell, commander of the fighter escort, radioed the bomb group
leader, "Redbird Leader to Rainbow One. Breaking off. Good luck, men."
The American bombers were on their own. They would now be escorted
by hundreds of German fighters, attacking in relays, all the way to
Regensberg and again on their return home.
At this moment, Major Dietrich noticed four ME-109s, far below,
streaking upward and hellbent on attacking the last bombers in the
formation. "Redbird One to Redbird Leader. Jerries at 2 o'clock ! Low,
going down."

"Roger, Pete, watch your fuel gauge, don't stay too long."
As the rest of the fighter group turned back to their base in England,
Major Dietrich and his two wingmen, dove down from 23,000 feet to
intercept the German attack. The range between the fighters closed rapidly.
At two hundred yards, the P-51s, using the three 50 caliber machine guns,
mounted on each wing, opened up on the German MEs.
The surprised Germans never had a chance. The lead ME-109 exploded
in a massive ball of flame. Another began to fall away, showing a trail of
black smoke. The other two MEs broke off and scattered in different
directions.
Peter Dietrich had recorded his eleventh kill. His major concern now,
was whether he would be able to return, with his two wingmen, Lt. Carl
Buel and Lt. Ed Durking, back to their base in England on their sparse
amount of rapidly depleting fuel.
The sky was now clear of all other aircraft. The rest of their fighter
wing was far ahead on their easterly course to England and the bombers
were now deep into Germany, fighting off hordes of German fighters.
Major Dietrich wasn't too concerned about meeting any other German
fighters on his return trip. He knew that three hundred forty six heavy
bombers, in the 1st Bombardment Wing, should be crossing into France
about that time. They were on their way to bomb the ball bearing factories at
Schwienfurt, Germany. Any German fighters in the area would, no doubt, be
there to meet that challenge .
On his return trip home, Peter Dietrich had time to reflect on the unusual
events in his own life. He had been born in Germany, but in 1926, when he
was two years old, his American mother had taken him to the United States.
His mother had married Herr Dietrich, a German business man. After the
birth of three children, one girl and two boys, she had divorced her German
husband and returned to the United States. She was successful in gaining
permission to bring only Peter to America with her. Pete's mother had
written to him earlier that year, that his father, brother, and sister had been
killed in the British bombing raid on Hamburg in November of 1942. Peter
felt sorry for his mother, but he could feel no remorse for the rest of his
family that he never knew.

He did feel compassion, however, for his fellow pilots who were falling
in increasing numbers before German guns over France and Germany.
There were many empty bunks in his barracks, once owned by good friends,
who had failed to return.
The three P-51s were cruising at three thousand feet. They were only
fifteen miles from the English Channel and only thirty minutes from landing
at their base near Hiwycome. Then, disaster struck. "Look out Pete!!
Bogey two-o'clock high," came the frantic scream through the headphones
of Dietrich.
The warning had come from Carl Buel, flying off the starboard wing. The
warning came too late. A single FW-190 was diving directly out of the sun
toward the three American fighters. There was too little time for evasive
action.
At point blank range, the German opened up with his 20 MM cannon. One
20 MM shell penetrated the fuel tank of Ed Dierking's P-51 and the plane
exploded violently. The force of the explosion lifted Dietrich's plane one
hundred feet straight up in the air and Pete momentarily lost conscious.
Seconds later, Dietrich's mind cleared and by instinct, he immediately
banked his plane to the right, searching the sky for the FW.
After the initial attack, the German fighter pulled out of his dive and
started climbing again in a wide, 180 degree arc. As Dietrich leveled off, he
could see the action taking place below. The Foch Wulf had completed the
180 and was now directly beneath Carl Buel. Dietrich called frantically for
Buel to dive, but it was too late. One short burst was all that was necessary.
The stricken P-51 was riddled and immediately began to trail black
smoke, as it nosed over and started falling out of control. Dietrich marveled
at the flying skill of this German pilot! He had never seen such a
performance in aerobatics.
Dietrich was quickly shocked back to reality. The FW suddenly flipped
over, while making a 90 degree turn and then leveled out again. Dietrich
now realized that the German pilot was flying on a collision course, directly
toward him. He pressed the firing button and he could feel the vibration, as
the 50 caliber machine guns on each wing, began firing at the oncoming FW.

Dietrich could see the black puffs of smoke coming from the German
plane that was bearing down on him at fifty knots. He knew that his enemy
was answering back with his deadly 20 MM cannons. Suddenly, Dietrich's
plane was rocked by the impact of a 20 MM shell, that hit the engine of the
Mustang. At that instant, Dietrich was aware of the FW flashing by. The P51 began to vibrate violently and the cockpit began to fill with smoke. Pete
knew he had to get out, before the plane exploded. He slid the canopy back
and a few seconds later, he was falling free from the aircraft. A sense of
relief swept over him as his chute blossomed out above him.
As Pete drifted earthward, he anxiously searched for the FW and the
German pilot, who had successfully gunned down the three P-51s. Far to
the left he could see the FW swinging around. Though the plane was trailing
smoke, the pilot was very much in control of the aircraft.
Hanging helplessly in his parachute while drifting to the ground, Pete
suddenly realized that the German was maneuvering his plane to make a
firing pass at him.
Pete Dietrich watched in horror, as the smoking German fighter plane,
came bearing down on him. At a distance of about two hundred yards, the
German fired a short burst at the American pilot, descending in his
parachute.
Pete felt a 30 caliber round tear through his flight jacket and several
others pass by his ear, but miracuously, he was not seriously hit. Before he
had time to think about being alive and unhurt, the FW zoomed by within
thirty feet of Dietrich, and for a split second, he saw the German pilot
staring back at him, curiously.
Dietrich finally hit the ground, landing in a French cornfield. He
quickly unharnessed his chute and looked around. To his complete surprise,
he saw the F-190 coming in very low, at the edge of the same cornfield. The
pilot appeared to be attempting a forced landing with his landing gear up.
Dietrich watched as the plane hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust
and corn stalks, high into the air.
Pete watched in awe, as the German FW bounced across the field. Still
smoking badly, it nosed over slightly, then settled back. The plane had
stopped only fifty feet from where Pete was standing. The canopy on the

FW was thrown back and the pilot struggled to free himself from the burning
plane. Pete withdrew his 45 automatic from his holster and approached the
burning plane.
As the German stepped out, onto the wing of his plane, he saw Pete
coming toward him. He reached for the Luger at his side, but this time he
was not fast enough. Pete squeezed off two rounds. The German pilot
pitched forward onto the wing. He slowly rolled over and then over once
more, before falling to the ground.
Pete rushed over to where the German was lying face down on the
ground. He had his gun raised, ready to put another slug into the bastard who
had killed his two wingmen. Pete angrily kicked the German pilot's side,
and nudged him over on his back. At that moment his knees buckled. He
felt a wave of nausea sweep over his body, as he looked into the lifeless eyes
of Lieutenant Herman Joseph Dietrich ......... his twin brother.

pic

Left Wing - Right Wing

Lieutenant Ryan Jennings, Bravo Company, 76th Combat Regiment, 101st
Airborne, could not wait for the last week of his third deployment to Iraq to
finally end. On Friday, August 6th, 2011, he would be winging his way back
to Medford, Long Island, New York.
Ryan was deliriously happy because of his upcoming wedding to his
high school and college sweetheart, Jennifer Bledsoe. Ryan had saved every

letter he had received from Jennifer. He read and re-read them dozens of
time. He considered himself the luckiest guy in the world.
Jennifer's Dad ran a large insurance firm in Medford and he, had
promised Ryan a good position in the firm that paid six figures, but Ryan
was undecided about the offer. He didn't feel like he was cut out to sell
insurance.
His homecoming finally arrived, and all his family, his mom and dad and
little brother Billy, were waiting for him when his MAC flight landed at
McGuire AFB in New Jersey. He was glad to see his folks but, the one he
was most anxious to see was the beautiful girl who flew into his arms and
kissed him with passion and a burning desire, his beloved Jennifer.
The wedding was set for October 16th in St. Marks Chapel. The
Bledsoe’s had sent invitations to all of the elite, upper class residents of
Medford that always attended the social gatherings of the rich and famous.
With all the hustle and bustle, just three weeks away, Ryan and
Jennifer, had not much time to get re-acquainted, and relax and discuss their
future together. Ryan was determined to remedy that problem that very
night. He suggested a movie, then a little dancing, then a drive to some
romantic spot on the island where they could just talk and enjoy each other's
company.
Jennifer said, "That's a splendid idea Ryan, we do need a little down
time. I've been on cloud nine since your return."
After the movie and an hour at the 'Club Divine, Ryan drove out to
Montauk Point at the northern end of Long Island. He parked on a bluff
overlooking Long Island Sound where the inland waterway joined the
Atlantic Ocean. It was 1.30 am.
"Oh, Ryan, what a lovely view. There goes the ferry over to Nantucket;
I wonder if any of those people are as happy as we are?"
"I doubt it, darling, I don't know about you, but, I don't think anyone
could be as happy as I am right now.... A full moon tonight, it looks like
the man up there is smiling down at us, with his blessings. That's a good
sign."
"Ryan, sweetie, I wonder if you would do something for me tomorrow?"

"Why sure my love, your wish is my command, what is it, darling?
"I would like for you to come with me to Wall Street tomorrow to show
our support for the 'occupiers,' and Ryan, I want you to wear your uniform."
Ryan's jaw became rigid. He had an incredulous look on his face.
"Jennifer, I can't believe you said that. You want me to join those
maggot, infested protestors, and wear my uniform? HELL NO! I won't do
that. Those people are the scum of the Earth. Don't you understand, those
low life, nut jobs are what's wrong with this country. I don't want anything
to do with those freaks and I'm surprised that you would ask me to do
something like that."
"Ryan, I'm shocked! Are you, one of those right wing, George Bush,
ass-kissin, idiots, who wants to turn the clock back to the good old days of
segregation, keeping the wife home, barefoot and pregnant with the kids?"
"Now calm down, Jenn, let's not get too emotional. We may have
different ways of looking at things, but I love you. We're going to be
married in a couple of weeks."
"I'm not so sure about that,....... . I guess you're against a woman's right
to choose too, huh?"
"A right to kill her unborn child!! Hell yes, I'm against that, and I'm
against spending this country into oblivion with one hair brained scheme
after another, adding trillions to the national debt. I can't wait until
November, 2012 to get rid of this radical crackpot, Obama!"
"I just realized something, Ryan....... I hate your guts! I am on the
Medford committee to re-elect Barrack Obama. One more thing, you
redneck piece of crap!....I want you out of my life and out of my sight."
Jennifer opened the car door and stepped out onto the ground. "How
many babies did you kill over there in Iraq, you miserable creep?"
"So now I'm a baby killer, am I?"
"I don't know what you are, but I know one thing for sure....you won't
be my husband. I must have been nuts to fall in love with you."

"Get back in the car, Jenn, I'll take you home or I'll drop you off on
Wall Street and you can join your lunatic friends, just get back in the car."
"No, leave me alone. Go, already, I have my cell phone, I'll call
somebody."
Ryan opened the car door and got out. Before Jennifer could run from
him he had his arms around her waist. She fought like a woman possessed.
Her right hand grabbed his hair and with her left hand she dug her
fingernails deep in the side of his face.
He stepped back for a second, then suddenly slapped her hard across the
mouth and nose, from which blood started gushing. Grabbing the struggling
girl, he tried to drag her back into the car. Jennifer's face was buried in his
chest, her blood was creating a large stain on his sport shirt.
Ryan cried out in pain as Jennifer sank her teeth into the flesh of his
chest. He released his grip on his ex fiance and she turned and ran. He
grabbed her blouse, but the fabric tore away and he was left holding a strip
of torn cloth. He watched as she ran off into the darkness.
"Well to hell with you, I'm leaving."
Ryan threw his car into reverse and then into forward drive and with
spinning wheels, leaving gravel and rocks flying in his wake, he gunned his
2006 Mustang and left the scene without looking back.
Ryan pulled into a VFW club that he knew would be open at three
o'clock in the morning. After four or five scotch and sodas he headed back
to his apartment, feeling terrible over what had happened at Montauk Point.
Ryan had a puzzled look on his face when he saw two police cars
waiting for him in front of his apartment building.
"Are you Ryan Jennings?" A balding detective with a thick moustache
asked while he was shining a flashlight in Ryan's face.
"That's right, I'm Jennings, what's this all about?"
"I'm Lt. Marquard and this is detective Mallard. We'd like to ask you a
few questions, if you don't mind."
"Go ahead, what do you want to know? Make it fast, I've had a rough

night and I want to hit the sack."
"How did you get those scratches on your face, and this looks like blood
on your shirt. Where did that come from?"
"Me and my girl had a little fight tonight. She became violent and I
tried to slap some sense into her and maybe she bled on me a little bit."
"I think maybe you better come down to the station with us, son,....Your
girlfriend is dead."
Ryan was in a state of shock, as he sat in the back of the police car on
his way to the Medford police station. He knew Jennifer was alive and well
when he left her after their fight.
After they sat down in the interrogation room, Ryan learned more details
of Jennifer's death.
"We found Miss Bledsoe at the base of a sixty foot bluff. Her neck was
broken, and she had bruises about her face and part of her clothing had been
torn away."
"We were engaged to be married. I love Jennifer, we found out tonight
that we weren't suited for each other. She loves Obama and I can't stand the
son of a bit... uh, son of a gun."
"Well I won't lie to you, Ryan, this looks really bad for you. You admit
you fought with this girl and you slapped her around and tore her clothing
didn't you."
"Yes, I told you that, but I didn't kill her. Don't you believe me?"
"No, we don't believe you. You admit that you fought with this girl,
slapped her around and tore her clothing. THEN YOU THREW HER OFF
THAT CLIFF, DIDN'T YOU?"
"No, no...HELL NO! I loved Jennifer. I wouldn't hurt her. I want a
lawyer."
Ryan Jennings was read his Miranda rights and was later charged with
the murder of Jennifer Bledsoe.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Harold Meredith, the Jennings family lawyer, was retained to defend
Ryan at his murder trial. Ryan was charged with first degree murder
The evidence was overwhelming. The jury only took thirty six minutes
to find Ryan guilty of murder. He was sentenced to life without parole in
Attica state prison.
Before Ryan was taken from the courthouse and transported to prison
he asked to have a private meeting with Jennifer's Father, George Allen
Bledsoe. He wanted desperately to convince him that he had nothing to do
with Jennifer's death.
The court allowed the meeting to be held after George Bledsoe agreed to
the private meeting, where only he and Ryan were present in the room.
Ryan was in tears as he explained what happened on that dreadful
morning that Jennifer died, and concluded his remarks with this appeal:
"Mr. Bledsoe, I know I will spend the rest of my life in prison and maybe I
deserve the fate that I have received, but I want you to know, sir, I did not
kill Jennifer."
George Bledsoe looked a bit uneasy after listening to Ryan's pitiful
explanation, concerning Jennifer's death. He cleared his throat and then
said:
"Ryan, I know you didn't kill Jennifer, but you are the reason she is
dead and you must pay a price for that. Jennifer called me on her cell phone
after you left her out there on Montauk Point. She asked me to come and get
her. I hopped in my car and went as fast as I could out to the Point but I
didn't see her. After searching for five or ten minutes I found her body at
the base of the cliff, she was still clutching her cell phone. She probably
fell off the cliff while stumbling around in the dark. I removed the cell
phone from her hand, then called 911, using my own cell phone."
"So, like you said Ryan, maybe you deserve the fate you have received.
I hope you fair well up there in Attica. I must go now....good day."

pic

Sherlock Holmes In The Garden Of Evil

Looking back on those years I was privileged to assist Sherlock Holmes
in his investigations, I have frequently been asked; which of the many cases
of the master sleuth intrigued me the most?'
This is indeed a difficult question. As you know, Holmes disdained the
commonplace and mundane. He only accepted a case that offered a test to
his extraordinaire reasoning power and his analytical mind.
One comes to mind that did indeed test the wit and cunning prowess of
the great logician of Baker Street. It was a most unusual case, a case of
intrigue to be sure.
I had just returned from a safari in East Africa... in February of '92, as I
recall. An expedition in which I was fortunate to claim several magnificent
trophies.
After a month-long absence, I was anxious to pay a call on my old friend
Sherlock at his 221-B Baker Street quarters.
After entering Holmes quarters I was introduced to a very distinguished
gentleman who had been discussing, with Holmes, a subject of some
urgency and of a delicate nature.
"Doctor Watson, I would like you to meet the world renowned mystery
writer, Sir George Mumphry."
"I'm an ardent admirer of yours, Sir George. I've read much of your
work," I said, after shaking hands with the gentleman.
"Thank you, Doctor, and I am well aware of the great service you have
rendered Mr. Holmes during these past years."
"Sir George, I received your letter yesterday recounting the disturbing
events recently befalling you. With your permission, I would like to relate
the details you have given me thus far to Dr. Watson. I would like for him

To assist me on this case.
"By all means, Mr. Holmes. Please feel free to conduct this investigation
as you please, you have my complete cooperation, I assure you."
With that, Holmes recounted the facts of the case as told to him by Sir
George Mumphry.
"The wife of Sir George has apparently been abducted by unknown
assailants. Lady Catherine disappeared from the Mumphry estate April
second, four weeks ago. The following day, this ransom note was found in
the letter box of Sir George." Holmes handed the note to me; it read:
'WE HAVE YOUR WIFE. DON'T GO TO THE POLICE, SHE WILL
SURELY DIE. LEAVE FIFTY-THOUSAND POUNDS OF UNMARKED
CURRENCY OUTSIDE YOUR FRONT DOOR, AT MIDNIGHT
TONIGHT. ANY FUNNY BUSINESS AND WE SLIT HER THROAT.
YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.'
Holmes continued, "Sir George paid the ransom as instructed but Lady
Catherine has not been returned. He fears for her life. There is another aspect
to this case, Watson. The gardener of the estate, Albert Drue, has not been
seen since the disappearance of Lady Catherine."
"Sir George, would you kindly give me any information about Lady
Catherine you feel is pertinent to this case?"
"Of course, Mr. Holmes. My wife is an American lady from Boston. Her
father was a diplomat at the embassy here in London. That is how we met.
We were wed almost three years ago. Happily married, I might add."
Sir George Mumphry paused to re-light his pipe, then continued, "My
wife is twenty-one years of age and I have reached my fortieth year. Yes, I
know of the age disparity and the gossip bantered around the social circles in
London but we are not concerned with such drivel, I can assure you."
Holmes interjected, "Very interesting, but if you please, Sir George, give
me a description of your wife and a photograph would be most helpful."
"Of course, Mr. Holmes. She is five-foot six-inches tall and about
one-hundred-ten pounds. She has long red hair about shoulder length and
she wears spectacles to correct a condition of near-sightedness. Here is a
recent photograph that I believe captures her radiant beauty. Don't you agree,

Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, I do agree, quite a striking young lady. Quite striking, indeed.
Now, sir, pray tell me about Mr. Drue, your gardener."
"Yes Drue, a loathsome chap. I wanted to discharge the fellow sometime
ago, but Catherine wouldn't hear of it. For some odd reason she was quite
taken with the man. He is about thirty-five or thirty-six years of age, about
my height and built. Drue has a full neatly-trimmed beard, black hair and
brown eyes. I hired the man about six months ago to look after my garden
and take care of the grounds. Actually, I don't know where the man came
from or anything else about him except that Catherine seemed foolishly
attracted to him."
"And you have not seen Drue since the night your wife was abducted?"
"That is correct. I must say, I fear the worst, Mr. Holmes." Tears welled
in the eyes of Mumphry. "My poor wife. She did so want to return to Boston
to visit family and friends, but I would not allow it. Now I fear that she will
never see Boston again."
"Let's not be too hasty in our conclusions, Sir George. Lady Catherine
may be alive and well. We must wait and see where this investigation leads."
Holmes checked his timepiece. " The hour is late. May I suggest that we
continue in the morning, Sir George? Watson and I will meet you at your
home at eight a.m. ."
"Very good, gentlemen. I will see you then. Good day."
Inspector Holmes examined the ransom note and studied the picture of
Lady Catherine. On the back of the photo was written: "To my darling
husband, Kate."
"This ransom note was most assuredly written by a feminine hand but
definitely not the hand of Lady Catherine." Holmes mused. "This could be a
most interesting case."
We arrived the next morning at the Mumphry Manor. We were admitted
by Sir George himself. "Did you sleep well?" Holmes asked.
"No, Mr. Holmes, I haven't slept well since my wife was abducted. I'm
afraid I will never see her again."

"You must not fret, Sir George, I feel that I will have answers within the
week." Holmes placed his hand on the shoulder of the shaken man. We then
proceeded to look over the house, escorted by George Mumphry. Holmes
busied himself taking notes and asking questions, completely engrossed in
his work.
Later, we were shown the magnificent garden of Sir George. We came
to a long row of yellow flowers and Holmes took an immediate interest in
this particular group.
"A lovely assortment of marigolds, Sir George, but something is odd
here. The marigolds in this section are two inches shorter than the rest. Why
do you suppose that is, Sir George?"
"I couldn't say, unless they were planted at a later date, let's move on."
After returning to Holmes' Baker Street address, I spoke to him as we
relaxed in his study. "I'm afraid not much was learned from our visit to the
Mumphry Manor today."
"On the contrary, my dear Watson, a great deal has been learnt. For
instance, our friend Sir George is keeping company with another woman, a
woman with yellow hair."
"My word, how do you know of this?"
Holmes produced a single strand of blond hair and began studying the
follicle with his magnifying glass. "I lifted this from the shoulder of Sir
George this morning when he believed I was trying to console him. An
incriminating piece of evidence, no doubt. But as yet, I have not gathered all
the missing pieces to this puzzle.”
“I know you have many patients in need of your service, Watson, so I
will let you return to your practice. I expect to be quite busy for the next few
days and I expect to have this matter resolved before the week's end."
During the next few days an outbreak of measles gave me cause for great
concern. For a time, my work did not allow thought of Holmes' investigation of the case. Then on Friday, I received a summons from Holmes to
meet him at his Baker Street quarters. I wondered what progress the great
detective had made since our last meeting.

"Well Doctor, I trust that the absence from your practice has not
tarnished your skill," said Holmes upon our meeting.
"Not in the least, Holmes. But how is your investigation proceeding, pray
tell?"
"Splendidly. The day following our visit to the Mumphry Manor I
checked with several shipping lines and discovered that a Mr. and Mrs. A.
Drue booked passage on the 'British Star'. It sailed for Boston on April 4th,
two days after the abduction of Lady Catherine. The ticket agent recalled
that Mrs. Drue had long, red hair and wore spectacles. Mr. Drue, likewise
was the same age and description as Sir George gave of him... black hair and
beard, about thirty five years old. He further identified the photograph of
Lady Catherine as the identical red-haired lady who booked passage, Mrs.
Drue."
"Well, there you have it, Holmes. This fellow Drue and Lady Catherine
obviously faked her abduction, robbed Sir George of fifty-thousand pounds
and off to Boston they went. Dastardly deed, just dastardly. I say, Holmes, I
suspected as much."
"Well now, Watson, you may be correct in your conjecture. But I must
caution you... sometimes things are not always as they appear."
Sherlock Holmes lit his pipe and inhaled deeply. His demeanor was that
of a man in deep thought and a troubled mind. "Watson, I would like for you
to accompany me to the Mumphry estate tonight. I hope to have this matter
cleared up by morning, and Watson, if you please...bring your pistol."
Not knowing what to expect, I went with Holmes after sunset, to the
home of Sir George Mumphry. We secretly made our way to the garden
where we found a place of hiding among the wisteria bushes. Ominouslooking clouds were moving in from the east. Flashes of lightning and
rumbling thunder disrupted the silence of the evening. Hours passed and all
became still. I began to think that we might be on a lark, but I should have
known that it was not wise to doubt Holmes reasoning or his methods.
I whispered to Holmes, "The hour is getting late. It's almost midnight."
"Patience, have patience, old friend."
Suddenly, we noticed a movement near the rear of the manor. Two dark

figures were moving in our direction. As they drew closer, we could see they
were carrying spades. They stopped near the row of marigolds and began
digging rapidly. Within minutes they had uncovered what they were looking
for.
"Have your pistol ready, Watson," Holmes whispered, then stepped out
from our hiding place. We then confronted the two mysterious intruders.
"The game is up, Sir George. Do not you, or your lady friend, move a
muscle. Doctor Watson has his pistol aimed directly at your murderous
heart."
Sir George gasped, "You!... Sherlock Homes!"
Holmes then moved closer to see what had been uncovered by Mumphry
and the woman with the yellow hair.
"Well now, Sir George. I see that you have found your beloved
Catherine...and Albert Drue as well. If you and the lady will be good enough
to accompany us to Scotland Yard, I'm sure they will be pleased to have such
distinguished guests to honor their establishment."
Sir George Mumphry and his accomplice, Annabelle Simmons, were
charged with the murder of Catherine Mumphry and Albert Drue and were
securely locked away.
We departed from the Yard in the early morning hours, feeling exhausted
from the long ordeal.
A dense fog had descended upon the city as we guided our carriage
through the deserted streets of London. I was most anxious to learn of the
facts that led Holmes to the apprehension of our quarry.
"Well, Holmes, you have done it again," said I. "Brilliant work, simply
brilliant. But how was the case solved, pray tell? I believed that Mrs
Mumphry and Drue were in Boston having a jolly time, whence all the while
the poor souls were lying, murdered, beneath the marigolds."
Sherlock leaned back in his seat and lit his pipe before answering.
Simple deduction, my dear Watson, very simple. Remember when we visited
the garden of Sir George? It was quite obvious that the soil beneath the
flowers had been disturbed. The marigolds, being two inches shorter than the
other flowers, indicated something was buried there. When asked about this

oddity, I became suspicious of Sir George's nervous response."
He correctly assumed that my investigation would discover that a man
and woman answering the description of Lady Catherine and Albert Drue
had booked passage for Boston on the British Star. He assumed that my
investigation would end at that point after I surmised Lady Catherine and
Albert Drue had staged the abduction, received the ransom and sailed for
America. That was not my assumption, however.
I was quite sure that the two who purchased the tickets to
Boston were actually, George Mumphry and his mistress, Annabelle
Simmons, in disguise. Miss Simmons, wearing a red wig and spectacles,
bore a striking resemblance to Lady Catherine, and George Mumphry
wearing a fake black beard, was mistaken for Albert Drue."
"No doubt you garnered some solid evidence other than speculation,
Holmes."
"How right you are, Watson. I could not call his hand until his guilt had
been established without a doubt, so I decided to play Mumphry's little
game.
On Thursday morning, wearing the disguise of an elderly gentleman with
a slight limp, I followed Mumphry from his home to Chelsey Station. I
watched as he boarded a train for Wickerbee. Undetected, I boarded the
same train.
In Wickerbee, I followed him to the home of Annabelle Simmons. After
several hours, they left the residence. I quickly gained entrance to the home
using a pass key. I soon discovered what I was looking for. Hidden in a
hatbox in Annabelle's wardrobe, I found the red wig and fake beard. I also
found a Sterling-Wright revolver, which I am sure will prove to be the
murder weapon."
"Remarkable! But how was the murder committed?"
"Oh yes, the murder. Sir George spoke the truth when he mentioned that
Catherine was attracted to Drue. Being a man of intense jealousy, Sir George
could not abide his wife having an affair with another man, even though he
was guilty of the same indiscretion with Annabelle Simmons.
Mumphry waited for his opportunity. On the night of the murder, he hid

in the shadows, watching his wife slip off to be with Drue in the servants'
quarters. Moments later, he burst through the door and fired a lethal charge,
killing his wife and her lover, then burying them in the most convenient
place, beneath the marigolds."
"Brilliant, Holmes. Simply brilliant!"
"Ah, but the evidence was not conclusive at that point, Watson. It was
necessary to induce Sir George to place his own head in the noose, you
might say. After returning from Wickerbee with the evidence I found at the
home of Miss Simmons, I again paid a visit to Mumphry manor. This time, I
secretly left a notice in the letter box. It stated that I, as well as Scotland
Yard, would arrive at his estate the following day for the purpose of
searching his garden and that we were particularly interested in the
marigolds."
Sir George knew after reading my note that he would have to move fast
to remove the evidence buried in the garden. To accomplish this task, he
would need the service of his accomplice, Annabelle Simmons. Naturally,
removing the remains of Lady Catherine and Albert Drue was risky. It could
only be done under the cover of darkness...
And that, my dear Watson, is why we were hiding in the wisteria bush,
catching a chill, no doubt."

Pic. old spike

Old Spike

When I was a young lad, about eight years old, we moved to Argenta,
Arkansas. We were very poor, but my daddy managed to pay $200 down on
an old house on 31st Street. The house was badly in need of repair. I didn't
mind too much though, because out in the backyard, mounted on a telephone
pole by the alley, was a real basketball goal.
I was so excited to have my own basketball court! I just had to have a
basketball. After a few weeks, Mama finally became tired of listening to my
continuous begging. It was the happiest day of my life when she relented
and bought me a brand new Voit basketball.
School was out and I had two months of free time to do what I wanted. I
expected to be in the backyard, shooting hoops every day until I started back
to school in September.
Directly behind us, and across the alley from our backyard, was a house
that faced 32nd Street. The house had a big backyard, with a white picket
fence completely surrounding it. It didn't take long for me to spot a big plum
tree on the other side of that fence, right across the alley from my basketball
court. There was a sign on the fence that said: 'PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO
TRESPASSING'. Another sign warned: 'BEWARE OF DOG'.
It just so happened that plums were my favorite fruit and that tree was
loaded with fat juicy plums. I began thinking, How can I get some of those
plums?
My new friend, Jimmy Tucker, who lived next door, was reading my
thoughts.
"Don't even think about getting a plum from that tree. The old man who
lives in that house will shoot you with his BB gun if he catches you in his
yard... and that ain't all. He's got a little bulldog named 'Spike' that will bite
your leg off if he catches you in there."

"What's the old man's name?" I asked.
"His name's Caldwell, but we call him 'old man BB gun'. He's got a bad
leg. He hobbles around with a crutch under his arm, but he can still shoot
that gun."
"Well I ain't scared of some old man with a bum leg. How'd he get
crippled?"
"Well, Pa says he was shot up during the war. Other folks say he was shot
by a revenuer one time when he was making whiskey up in the hills.
Nobody really knows for sure. He don't talk to nobody and nobody talks to
him. He's just a mean, grouchy old man."
The next morning I was in the backyard by myself, shooting hoops. I kept
eyeing the plum tree across the alley. My mouth was watering for one of
those juicy plums. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I left my basketball on
the ground and ventured over to the picket fence. No one was around and I
didn't see a dog anywhere. Hopping over that fence was easy as pie. In no
time, I was in Mr. Caldwell's backyard, sneaking over to his plum tree, and
feeling a bit cocky.
I plucked a nice big purple plum from a low hanging limb and took a big
bite. Boy, was that good! It was the best thing I had ever tasted. After
finishing off the first plum, I was ready for another one. I was reaching for
another plum when I heard a 'zing', then felt a sharp, stinging pain in my
right shoulder. At first I thought I had been stung by a giant wasp or a bee,
then I realized that I had been the target of old man Caldwell's BB gun.
I was about to turn and jump the picket fence, when I heard someone say,
"Get him, Spike!"
I glanced back in time to see a small bulldog coming at me as fast as his
little legs would carry him. He was growling and showing me a bunch of his
sharp little teeth. I was terrified, but that didn't stop me from making a
beeline for that picket fence. Two feet from the fence, I became airborne and
sailed headfirst over the fence. Spike had managed to nip the heel of my left
bare foot, before I could make it over the fence.
I lay sprawled in the alley for a few seconds, looking back at the fence.
Spike was going crazy, frantically clawing at the ground, trying to find a

way to get through the fence and take another bite. I limped back home with
my shoulder still stinging from the BB wound.
I had to tell Mama what happened, even though I expected to get a
whippin' for stealing those plums. "Mama, Mr. Caldwell shot me with his
BB gun and his little dog bit me on the heel."
"Oh, my Lord," she cried in a loud voice. She raised my tee shirt and
examined the spot where the BB had hit me. Only a small red spot was
visible.
"That doesn't look too bad," she said. "Where did the dog bite you?"
I showed her where the dog had nipped the back of my heel.
"It looks like he barely broke the skin. You are lucky, young man... but you
may not be so lucky when your daddy gets home. I'm going to have to tell
him what you did and what Mr. Caldwell did to you."
My luck held out. My old man's favorite verse in the Bible was, 'spare the
rod... spoil the child.' He usually didn't need a good reason to take me to
the woodshed. This time, he was more angry at Mr. Caldwell for having the
audacity to shoot a little kid with a BB gun, even though the kid was on his
property, stealing plums.
Daddy said, "I think I'll go over and have a little talk with Caldwell after
supper."
Sure enough, Daddy was hell-bent on having it out with Mr. Caldwell. I
had to go with him after we had supper. As we approached the house, we
saw Mr. Caldwell sitting in his porch swing, reading the paper.
Daddy unlatched the fence gate and started to push the gate open.
"Caldwell, I want to talk to you," he said, in a menacing voice.
"I wouldn't come through that gate, mister, unless you want to get dog
bit."
Spike, who had been asleep on the porch, was now on his feet snarling
and baring those sharp little teeth. "Simmer down, Spike." Caldwell patted
his dog on the head.
Daddy stepped back and closed the gate. "If that dog ever bites me, you're

gonna have a dead dog on your hands, Caldwell."
"Well, who are you and what the hell do you want?"
"My name is Larkin. I bought the house behind you last week and I want to
know why you shot my boy with a BB gun. Just who do you think you are,
anyway?"
"You need to teach that boy how to read, mister. I have three or four signs
on my fence, warning people to stay off my property. Your boy was
trespassing and stealing my plums. I got a right to protect what's mine."
"You ain't got a right to shoot anybody, especially an eight year old boy...
No matter what he's done. If you weren't a crippled old man I would take
that BB gun and wrap it around your neck."
"Okay, you said your piece. Now get on out of here and leave me be."
"You've been warned, Caldwell." Daddy said, as we turned to leave. "Let's
go, son."
I saw Jimmy in his yard the next day, with his cousin, Jerry Bajorek, and I
couldn't wait to tell them what happened. "Me and Pa scared the dickens out
of old man Caldwell, I don't think he will be shooting any more kids with
his BB gun after the bawling out Daddy gave him."
A few days after our confrontation with Mr. Caldwell, I saw Spike running
around in his backyard, chasing a butterfly. I decided to taunt the little
devil for biting my foot. I walked over to the fence and started barking like
a dog, "Arf, arf, arf," I said, then growled a little. Spike looked up to see
where the noise was coming from. He spotted me looking through the picket
fence at him, acting like a fool.
Spike didn't hesitate. He came at me as fast as he could, barking and
growling at the same time. I wasn't scared. I knew he couldn't get
through the fence.
When he was about thirty feet away from me, I picked up a rock and threw
it in his direction. I was horrified when I saw the rock hit Spike right above
his left eye. He let out a loud yelp of pain, then rolled over and over. He
stood up but then fell down again and lay on his side. His little legs were
still running, but the rest of him wasn't moving. A few seconds later, after a
final twitching of his hind legs, he wasn't moving at all.

"Oh, no! What have I done?" I cried. "Get up, Spike. Please get up. I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
But Spike didn't move. I knew he was dead. Panic took hold of me. I knew
I had to get away from there... and fast. I began to run and I kept running
until I was so tired, I couldn't run anymore. I realized then, I couldn't run
away from what I had done. So, feeling like a murderer, I went back home.
"Billy Joe, where have you been?" my mother asked, as I stumbled up the
steps with my head down.
"I've been down to Bajorek's house," I mumbled, not looking up.
"Someone killed Mr. Caldwell's dog. That poor old man. You could hear
him crying and wailing all over the neighborhood when he found his dog in
the backyard. I felt so sorry for him. It was a pitiful sight to see."
Mama knew me so well. When she looked at me, she sensed that I already
knew what she was talking about. "Billy Joe, do you know who killed that
dog?"
I couldn't keep the tears inside any longer and began to sob. "I done it,
Mama. I didn't mean to hurt Spike I just wanted to scare him a little bit.
Please don't tell anybody I killed Spike."
She could see how much I was hurting inside. She put her arm around me
and said, "I know you didn't mean to kill him, Billy Joe. You love all
animals.
This will be our secret. I won't tell anyone what you've done." Mama kept
our secret for forty-one years... until the day she died.
Three days after the death of Spike, I was shooting hoops in the backyard
when I noticed a big, black hearse pull up in front of Mr. Caldwell's house.
Two men got out and with a stretcher went inside.
It didn't take long for some curious neighbors to gather at the house next
door to the Caldwell house. Daddy always called them a bunch of 'cackling
old hens'.
I saw the two men come out of the house, carrying Mr. Caldwell's body on
the stretcher. It was covered with a sheet. As they carried his body to the

hearse and placed it inside, I heard Mrs. Tucker say, "Poor old feller. I guess
after his dog got killed, he figured it was his time to go too. That old man
didn't have a friend in the world... 'cept that little dog. He was the only friend
or companion old Caldwell had for the last ten years."
The day after Mr. Caldwell's funeral, five or six other kids were playing
basketball with me in the backyard. We stopped playing when we saw a
gray-haired lady in the backyard at Caldwell's house, waving at us. She
beckoned to us and said, "Boys, would you come over here for a minute? "
We all went over to see what she wanted.
"My name is Mildred. Mr. Caldwell was my father. I will be living here for
awhile. I'd just like to meet and get to know some of my neighbors. Would
you all like some plums? I'll open the back gate and you can have all the
plums you want."
A joyous shout went up from all the kids. "Oh boy, plums! Let's get 'em."
The lady unlocked the back gate and we all rushed in like a pack of hungry
dogs. There was no need to fight over plums because there were hundreds
of juicy plums in that tree and each kid had a hand full of them.
I took a couple of bites of the plum I picked, then I noticed a little dog
house sitting by Mr. Caldwell's back porch. Over the entrance of the dog
house was written, 'SPIKE'.
The memory of the terrible deed I had done came back to me in a flash. I
dropped the half-eaten plum, then turned and walked away. The kind lady
asked, "What's the matter, son, don't you like plums?"
"I used to like 'em," I said. "I liked 'em a lot... but not anymore."
I walked back across the alley, picked up my basketball and went in the
house. From that day on, I never played much on my basketball court. It
seemed like shooting hoops was just not as much fun as it used to be.

pic noose

Shawnee Lynch Mob

Oklahoma Territory had an unbelievably hot summer in the year of 1892.
Folks in the town of Shawnee, had another reason for being hot under the
collar. Tempers were flaring among many of the populace who were wanting
to lynch an old negro named Rufus Millweed, who worked for Luke
Crenshaw at the livery stable.
Rufus had been arrested the previous Friday because of accusations made
by the widow Simpson. She swore, "That nigger meant to break in my
house and have his way with me! He wanted to rape me!"
Rufus denied any such intentions. He told Sheriff Forrest Malone,
"Nawsuh, Sheriff. I'as jus' walkin' by the wida's house, so hot I was spittin'
cotton. I only stopped to get a drink of water from the wida's well."
The circuit judge was scheduled to be in Shawnee on Thursday. Sheriff
Malone planned to bring Rufus before Judge Mumphry to be tried for
trespassing on the widow's property. The Sledge brothers and other irate
citizens of Shawnee had other plans for Rufus. They wanted to string him up
to the nearest tree to warn other negroes in the area what would happen to
them if they ever got out of line.
Jack and Bob Sledge were cattle barons in central Oklahoma. It was widely

known that they acquired most of their cattle by rustling them from other
ranchers in the territory. No one ever mentioned that fact, because both
Sledge brothers were mean as rattlesnakes and lightning fast with a sixshooter. Jack Sledge had spent six months in jail at Fort Smith for killing
two Pima Indians in a barroom brawl.
The Sledge brothers were at the Rotgut Saloon on Monday evening,
organizing a lynch mob. The brothers soon incited the members of the mob
into a frenzy. They were ready to storm the jail and take Rufus down the
street to the hanging tree.
Sheriff Malone was aware of the unrest in town, but he thought the talk of
lynching would die down before the judge arrived on Thursday. Suddenly,
the door flew open and the sheriff's son, Jake, ran in screaming, "There's a
lynch mob down at the Rotgut and they are coming for Rufus!"
From his jail cell, Rufus could hear what was being said in the sheriff's
office, "Lawdy mercy! Don't let 'em git me, Sheriff ! I swears I ain't done
nothin' wrong. I swears, I ain't."
"Shut up in there, Rufus. Ain't nobody gonna hang you. Them boys is just
blowin' off a little steam."
The sheriff turned to his deputy, Jess Edwards, and said, "Jess, you will
have to handle things here. I have to ride over to Okemah and settle that
water rights squabble. I need to see that things don't get out of hand over
there."
"But what about the lynch mob?" Jess asked.
"Aw, them boys ain't gonna hang Rufus. That's just talk." With that
assurance, Sheriff Malone mounted his horse and rode out of town in a cloud
of dust.
Jake said, "What are we gonna do now? Do you think he will be back in
time to stop the mob."
"Hell no! Didn't you see him skeedaddle out of here? He ain't gonna stand
up to them Sledge boys! Go out to the ranch and tell Snake what's
happening here."
"Snake? Are you crazy? Snake Corley retired 20 years ago! He's almost as
old as Rufus."

"Do like I told you, Jake!... and hurry! I'll try and hold them off as long as
I can."
Rufus could see from his jail cell window, the lynch mob was coming
down the street. "Lawdy, Lawdy. Dem folks is sho 'nuff gwine to hang ol'
Rufus. Oh, help me, Lawd."
Jack Sledge approached the sheriff's office, holding a long rope with a
noose on the end. About thirty townsfolk were with him and they were all
ready for a necktie party.
"We want Rufus! Bring him out here and no one will get hurt."
From behind the bolted door, Jess replied, "I can't do that, Sledge. Y'all get
on out of here. Rufus is going to stand trial. The law will see that justice is
done."
"Damn the law! We gonna see that justice is done. Okay, boys. Let's break
this door down."
Jess was helpless against the angry mob. Within minutes, they had Rufus
and were heading down the street to the hanging tree. Jess could hear Rufus
pleading, crying and praying, all at the same time, "Lawd, help ol' Rufus.
Don't let 'em hang me! I aint nevah done nothin' bad."
When the mob reached the hanging tree, one man tossed the rope over a
lower limb and six other citizens of Shawnee volunteered to hoist old Rufus
skyward.
The widow Simpson was part of the lynch mob. She urged the lynch
party to do their duty. "Alright, get on with it! I want to see that nigger
swinging in the breeze."
"Now, calm down, Rosemary. We ain't barbarians here. We gonna let
Rufus speak his last words. Go ahead, Rufus. What have you got to say?"
"Mistah Sledge, suh... I swear I ain't evah done no hawm to nobody. Pleeze
don't hang ol' Rufus."
"Okay, boys... let's get on with it," Sledge said, with a cruel smile.
The noose was placed around the neck of the trembling black man and six
citizens were waiting for the signal to hoist Rufus into the tree.

Suddenly, two shots rang out in rapid succession. The crowd turned in the
direction of the gunshots.
Riding slowly toward the lynch mob, was Snake Corley. Dan 'The Snake'
Corley was still a handsome figure of a man, with a no-nonsense, takecharge, aura about him. In his younger days, he had been a federal marshal,
overseeing the Central District of Oklahoma. It had been twenty years since
he hung up his guns and retired to his ranch, just outside of Shawnee.
Boot Hill was populated with outlaws and renegade Indians who were
foolish enough to test Dan's quick draw and pinpoint marksmanship. He had
been given the name 'Snake' because of his fast draw. People said he was
'quicker than the strike of a rattlesnake and twice as deadly'. It had been
many years since he had kept the peace in Indian Territory and he had not
picked up his guns in all those years. But here he was, now close to seventyyears-old, and facing the fastest guns in the territory.
As Snake slowly stepped down from his horse, he holstered one of the two
Colt forty-fours, worn at his hips. He never took his steely-gray eyes off the
Sledge brothers.
"Alright, you boys have had your fun. Now, take that rope off of Rufus and
get out of here," Snake said, with grim determination.
"Corley, we gonna hang Ol Rufus and there ain't a damn thing you can do
about it! You ain't the law around here no more. You may live a little longer
if you mind your own business."
"I'm gonna kill you boys in about one minute unless you take that rope off
Rufus and get the hell out of here."
Out of the corner of his eye, Snake saw Tom Donlevy go for his gun. At
the same time, the Sledge brothers began their draw. Seven or eight shots
rang out in the next two seconds.
When the smoke cleared away, Jack and Bob Sledge lay dead on the
ground. Jack had taken a bullet in both eyes and the back of his head was
missing. Bob had taken one slug right between the eyes and Donlevy had
taken a round in the belly and one near his heart. Tom was writhing in pain,
as he took his last few breaths.

Snake had been shot once through his upper right arm but the bullet
missed the bone. One bullet had grazed his right cheekbone and another slug
had passed through his new Stetson hat. He survived this shootout, as he
had many times before. With blood oozing from the wound in his arm,
Snake walked over to Rufus and removed the noose from around his neck.
Rufus was in a state of shock as his eyes looked toward heaven and he
said, "I is still alive! I is still alive! Lawd, Almighty! I is still alive! Thank
ya, Mistah Snake. I'll be yo slave fo as long as I live."
"You ain't gonna be nobody's slave, Rufus. Them days are gone forever.
You go on back to work at the livery stable. Tell Luke to let me know if
there's anymore trouble down here."
The undertaker, Roy Barcroft, with the help of Jake Malone and Jess
Edwards, were loading the three dead men onto a buckboard, when the
widow Simpson came up to Corley.
"Oh, Snake! I tried to stop them Sledge boys from hangin' Rufus. They
just wouldn't listen to me. You know me, Snake. I ain't evah had no bad
feelings toward them nig... uh, black folks."
Dan climbed back in the saddle and looked down at the widow Simpson
and said, "Rosemary, you go on home now. You've caused enough trouble
for one day."
With a tip of his hat and a twinkle in his eye, Snake turned Ol' Scudder
around and headed back to his ranch.

The pickthorn chronicles

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