Ya Never Know...do Ya?
Chapter 11

Copyright© 2015 by Old Man with a Pen

I felt for my wallet. It was there ... so was my money, credit cards, and bank debit card. I flicked out 20 bucks and paid tubby.

The Chief nodded at the 17 year old.

"Frank, you fucked her ... you pay."

"Next lesson is double."

"Shit," I said. "20 bucks is cheaper." I flicked out another 20 and headed for my pickup. It was on blocks and all four tires were gone. I looked in the cab ... the radio, tape deck and speakers were ripped out and the bucket seats were gone.

I called home. The insurance agent asked where I was.

"Fort Peck Rez," I said.

"Your policy doesn't cover the Rez," she said.

"Great ... I'm in Nashua ... and it's not on the Rez. The truck is totaled."

"I'm not coming up there ... explain it to me," she said.

"Starting off ... it's on blocks."

"Wheels and tires," she said as I could hear her writing. "Next?"

"The radio, tape player and speakers are torn out ... not unbolted ... ripped out of the dash."

"Big jagged holes in the dash," writing it down as she said it.

"The bucket seats were torn out, seat mounts and deck ... big holes."

"What else?"

"The grill, headlights, all four corner lights, the wood from the box floor, the spare..."

"Stop ... stop ... it's totaled. Find a dealer and call me."

I walked out and noticed an old wrecker hooked up to the engine and the biggest indian I'd ever seen was jerking the engine, trans and transfer case out ... nothing unbolted ... just tore it out. If a wire hung up he cut it ... damn big bowie knife ... looked sharp too.

Well ... if it wasn't totaled before ... it sure was now.

He saw me looking, grinned and waved.

Of course I waved back.

All that rust water? I was never so glad I looked like an indian. I started walking into town. I found a Dodge dealer, he had a suitable replacement, so I called the agent in Lewistown and handed the phone to the dealer.

Words were said ... and pretty soon I had a registered Dodge pickup truck and the keys were in the ignition.

I drove back to the motel ... the old truck was just a shell now.

The driveline was gone; the doors, windshield ... even the stainless trim. It was stripped to a hulk.

The gas tank was still there but it had a big hole where somebody had got the gas ... no slow siphon for these guys.

And they did it in broad daylight.

The sheriff pulled up while I was looking it it.

"That your truck?" He had his ticket book in his hand.

"Nope ... too fancy for me."

So he looked on the dash by the windshield, "Shit ... the numberplate's gone. Well it's an eyesore ... the county gets the scrap."

He got on the radio and called somebody. Sure enough, the big indian with the old wrecker pulled up and hauled the junk away.

How about that.

The Chief and I went back to the Fort Peck airfield and had another lesson.

"Ok ... plot you a course, call in a flight plan and fly it. See ya when you get back. I'll sign off and you can apply for your license."

So ... flight plan set for Lewistown, I called it in and went for the Cub.

"Where do you think you're going with my airplane?"

"Solo cross-country to Lewistown and back ... just like you said."

"Not with MY aircraft ... use yours."

And that's how it all began.

 
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