PRELUDE
He had no use for people, with their twisted little minds and subjective sense of order. This so called "society" of fornication, greed and self importance. If they only realized that what they were full of, besides themselves, was of no more importance to the balance than they themselves. Not that he hated them, he wouldn’t waste the energy to hate. He despised them, in all their pettiness.
Standing there, staring out through the bay windows toward the horizon, with the "thump, thump, thump" of the stereo bass reverberating through his body. He smiled, a smirking thin dark smile, Black Sabbath’s old hit "Iron Man" seemed so appropriate right now.
Picking up his mug of coffee, he barely noticed that it had become cold, as his thoughts swirled with the aimless wanderings of a lost man. Life’s questions fluttered through his mind, likes birds on the wing without a destination. Hovering about this tepid pond of life, searching for the safest place to land.
His face showed few indications of his thoughts. Not unpleasant, not strikingly handsome, it was the face of anyone in a crowd. The wavy, brown hair on his head was slowly thinning, though not really noticeable to anyone other than himself. Now and then a stray white hair unsuccessfully attempted to hide itself within the mass of brown. His face was worn but not yet wrinkled, except with noticeable humor lines around the corners of his eyes. His brown mustache needed clipping, as it wandered timidly around the corners of his mouth. The three day stubble on his face gave him an unkempt look. "Scruffy" was the endearing term his wife had used and had teasingly nicknamed him with. But that was long ago, before the trials and tribulations, before the end had come.
Not wanting to dwell further into the past at this moment, he put out a hand palm side down. Soft, warm fur filled it as one of his current companions walked slowly by him, arching her back. Immediately a warmth enveloped his heart, as if by touch alone these two were connected. Nothing seemed to find it’s way into the deep, dark chasms of his so called heart anymore, except the company of these companions.
Callie Sue, a three year old pure bread Australian Shepherd, now stood beside him, watching in the same direction his eyes seemed to be pointing, quietly waiting for him to make any move that would show an intent. Behind her, curled up next to the fireplace, lay another companion. Benjiman Bear had been the first. His eyes, even as a puppy those seven years ago, had held a look of wisdom and knowledge that far surpassed his time on this earth. Now, the Husky/Malamute/Somoyed cross, waited patiently for a sign of travel. His eyes too, seemed to follow the path of the man’s.
To an onlooker, the three of them might seem to have things in common. Quiet, thoughtful looks in their eyes. A noticeable firm leanness to their bodies, as those who eat only to survive. A hidden sense of undetermined strength, as if in each a timber wolf was waiting to pounce upon the unsuspecting.
He knew that the time had come for another journey, another lesson to be taught and learned. In town they had a name for him, whispered behind his back and maliciously, they called him "Dogman".
CHAPTER ONE
The autumn breeze had been given the chill of a winter soon to come. Large, wet droplets of rain pelted the windshield of the Jeep as he followed the multitude of dirt switch backs that ran toward town. The odors of damp fur, to him not unpleasant, permeated the inside of the vehicle. Dog hair unsuccessfully hid itself everywhere, sticking to the wet spots on the rear and side windows, where "Bear" and "Callie" continued to nose the glass.
Bumping through another mud filled rut in the road, everyone inside jerked back and forth. His cigarette ash, which he had been attempting to worm past the gear shift handles on the floor toward the ash tray so inconveniently installed down there by the manufacturer, fell amongst the many others that hadn’t completed this trip, onto the floor mat below.
In the far back, packed with great concern for the limited amount of space, were two sleeping bags, a backpack with three days extra clothing and other necessities for survival in the outdoors, plus two one gallon plastic jugs filled with water from his well. All of these items he carried whenever he drove anywhere, not one to take chances on natures tendencies. Above the right rear window, squeezed tightly into the saddle scabbard mounted there, he carried a Winchester 94 rifle. This was a 45 caliber with an 18 inch barrel, allowing him to use it’s ammunition in the Colt 45 Peacemaker he had stashed between the front seat and the console. He also carried a 9 millimeter automatic on his person, in a left-handed shoulder holster slung under his right armpit. You couldn’t be too careful these days. This world was full of crazies. Fact was, most people figured him for one!
As he hit the last major rut in the road, bouncing onto the pavement that had been stopped 15 miles from his driveway, he patted the shoulder piece and quickly tested his ability to draw the weapon while driving. Nothing fast, just making sure nothing hindered it while being drawn over to his left side, just below the window. You never knew when a certain jacket or vest might inadvertently catch the hammer or sight, causing the loss of valuable seconds. It pulled out cleanly and swiftly without obstruction. He slipped it back into the holster, now satisfied that should the need arise he had the situation covered.
He did not consider himself a violent man, just one not to be surprised by the violence of others. This caution had saved his life more than once in the past, while dealing a kind of "frontier justice" to the perpetrators. The local law enforcement agencies had dubbed him a vigilante, but he just considered himself a "survivalist". Today’s society was already perceiving anyone who carried a gun as a criminal. So much for "innocent until proven guilty".
The media had rewritten the constitution to fit it’s own purpose of exploitative grandeur. The media enhanced society version had become "Guilty unless proven innocent." Find one man who might be guilty of any one crime and then stack all related outstanding crimes in the area of the same type into his docket. This was considered "good police work". After all, it made law enforcement seem so efficient. It didn’t matter that the real criminals involved in all of those other crimes had gotten away, it only mattered that the politics of it showed complete success within our so civilized grand society. "Freedom Of Speech" was only allowed when it didn’t stir up curiosity or the Feds. Otherwise, you’d find yourself behind bars in the blink of an eye, with your home being disintegrated by uncaring government agents who personally hold no sense of responsibility toward anyone. So is the USA that we’ve built for ourselves today. You either play the game or ride the tempest of this society’s justice.
He played "their" game most of the time, for now. Yet he did his best to play it alone, in the solitude of companions he could trust. His thoughts were broken up by the appearance of the "Stop & Go" just outside of the town limits. "Welcome to civilization", he spat out beneath his breath as he flipped on the left turn signal and scooted into the two way left turn lane of the highway. There was no traffic to obstruct his swing across the road, so he shot across toward the nearest open gas pump. Out of the four available, only one inside pump was occupied. An old green Chevy pickup, with an abused off white camper, sat there with the pump hose dangling out of it’s side like a snake. The vehicle had local plates and looked empty, so he assumed it’s driver had gone inside the store.
His demeanor changed as he stepped from the vehicle, while quickly putting on the already damp Stetson. His disarming smile, which most folks found to be his biggest asset, creased his face and his eyes started to glow with the true humor within. Thank goodness for self pay pumps, he thought, at least you don’t need to start a meaningless conversation with an overworked, underpaid clerk. He thought of the minor frustration his gas card company must have with his account balance, which monthly returned to zero. They made their profit, however small, from it anyway. It was the price he was willing to pay to avoid human contact.
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