Chapter 1

Special thanks to Phil Gorman 2015 for his expertise in editing and proofing.

It was early in September of 2009 when I become a hero to Ennis Rogers.

I've been driving an eighteen-wheeler for the last fourteen years as an owner/operator; hell, to be truthful, I live in my truck! I maintain a room at a boarding house in Calhoun, Tennessee so that I can have a mailing address. I've an arrangement with my landlord: he places any boxes or large envelops in a container on my small bureau in the room when I am on the road. For the last few years I have been driving a 2013 Kenworth. It has a large Cummins ISX15, it generates up to 600 horsepower. It gives me the freedom to pick loads of any size or weight; I have a reputation for hauling anything, anywhere, and on time, if the money is right!

On the day I became a reluctant hero. I was hauling a heavy load on I-24 just outside of Shelbyville; there is one section of the highway that gets a bit dicey when the conditions are a bit unsettled. There had been a surprise snowfall, and the road was slippery in places; it was taking all of my concentration to keep the drive wheels from spinning. As I approached a curve in the road, which I knew could be a bastard, I saw, on my right, a transport, which appeared to have lost control; the tractor had mounted the guardrail and seemed to be hanging in space. The only thing holding the tractor from dropping into the abyss below, a good one hundred feet or more of rock face, was the connection between the tractor and the trailer, the kingpin and the fifth wheel. I pulled over, tight to the left shoulder, turned on my four-ways and locked the brakes. Upon opening the door, and looking both ways, I saw, fortunately, that it was clear, and made my way to the scene. I saw a face in the driver's window, full of fear. There was nothing I could do; there was no way in hell I could get to the cab without risking life and limb. Then an idea came to mind: I always extra carry ropes and chains; at times, it is necessary to re-secure a load. Grabbing a length of rope from my truck, I headed back to the driver in trouble. It took some creative work, on my part, but I finally secured the rope to a solid post in the guardrail. I gave myself thirty feet of slack tied around my waist. With ten feet of loose rope hanging from my waist area, I carefully edged my way down the side of the truck, using the handles on the cab, and worked my way to the driver's door. All this time the driver was watching my every move. Finally, when I reached the driver's door, he opened it.

"Undo your seat belt, and tie this rope around your waist. Carefully!"

He looked like he was about to toss his cookies, but he fought the urge and did what he was told.

"Slowly get out of the truck cab, and watch my hand and foot holds. When I remove my hand or foot from a hold position, you put your hand or foot there; don't look down, just look at me."

Just then, I felt a slight tremor run through my body; the tractor had moved, ever so slightly, not a good sign. Our shifting weight could have had something to do with it. Moving slowly, I watched as the rescued driver grabbed each handhold that my hand had left. Finally, we were behind the cab, but we weren't out of the woods yet. We had ten more feet to go until we reached the roadway. The trailer had a wide lip at the bottom and metal reinforcing straps running from front to back. As I slowly moved my feet down to the lower lip of the trailer, closely shadowed by the recued driver, I jumped to the roadway, immediately followed by my rescued friend. Then we heard it: the tearing of metal as gravity had its way with the tractor; the kingpin and the fifth wheel parted. There was a helluva snap as the kingpin surrendered; then, a sickening 'whoosh' as the tractor fell into the abyss of the valley below. Both the driver and I watched as the tractor bounced off the rock face, tearing it apart. Finally, at the bottom, the diesel fuel started to burn; no explosion yet, but when it heats the reserve tanks to boiling and the pressure splits the metal tanks, there will be a bloom of flames.

That is how I met Ennis Rogers.

Ennis and I became good friends; we stayed in contact, via email and text. When our paths crossed, we would arrange to stay over at the same truck stop and have a meal together. Each time he would thank me, on behalf of himself and family, for saving his life and swore he would be at my side if I ever needed anything. It was actually embarrassing, at times; I never considered it anything heroic; in his case, I just did what had to be done!

My name is Don Cassidy, 'Cowboy, ' as in 'Hopalong Cassidy.' At age thirty-seven, I am still single; I have never been married and I have no desire to get married. I've had a few female friends, but it never developed into anything serious. One of my driver friends, Madison Greer, usually provides both of us an opportunity to blow off some steam when we meet at a truck stop; we get relief with no commitment. I have no family living locally, and have not seen or heard from any of them in years. Hell, I don't even know if they are still alive!

When I do get an infrequent couple of days off, I prospect. I'm a very unsuccessful prospector. I pan for gold; I have, over the last four years, accumulated twelve noticeable flakes of gold, which I keep in a used prescription container. I won't even guess what it has cost me to recover those flakes, but I enjoy the solitude that the hills and mountains give me. I use my truck as a base and then tromp around known gold bearing areas. When I say known, they are areas that have been mined, many times, and are now open to the public.

As a broker, I have my name, and type of truck I own, listed with a number of dispatching firms. Most of my jobs are a result of Reo Dispatching; one of the dispatchers, Nick Adams, and I hit it off when I received the first load via his firm. For whatever the reason, he keeps tabs on my truck, the deliveries, etc. Usually, within three hours of unloading, Nick would contact me with an offer of another load close by. As all owner/operators know, an empty trailer is a losing trip. Many of my loads were what I call 'extra hazard;' that, in turn, increased my rate. Loads that are a bit off balance, due to the item being hauled; extra-long loads, with an item protruding fifteen feet or more from the back of the trailer; that type of load wasn't welcomed by many drivers, but I would take them and charge accordingly. In some cases, I would charge a combination of hourly rate plus mileage. If the client said no, his load would be somebody else's problem. I owed very little on my rig, so that gave me some latitude. In three cases, over the last three months, Nick called me and asked if I would reconsider doing a load which the consignor had rejected my original fee. I would counter but my fee was automatically fifty percent higher than the original quote. Not all brokers were interested in irregular loads.

Over the last couple of months, many of my loads were liquor from the various distilleries in the area. These loads paid well, with many of them escorted; I couldn't leave the truck under any circumstances and could only stop for fuel, if needed. Fortunately, I had great bladder control. On occasion, my services were contracted by unsavoury types. The only good thing is they paid my very large fee, on time, and usually in cash. Those loads were few and far between.

Over the years, I've met many other drivers, usually at truck stops. I got to know many by their first name, nickname or their CB handle. Many of the conversations centered about personal security, as a number of the drivers had been hi-jacked or someone had tried to force their trucks off the road when they were carrying booze or high tech equipment, usually loads that can be disposed of very quickly.

At a truck stop, just north of Knoxville, I spotted a rig driven by Jake Chambers; he, like me, enjoys the outdoors. He likes to fish, while I like prospecting; he likely does a helluva lot better fishing than I do prospecting. After picking up a large platter of heart attack food, I located him at a table.

"Hi, Jake! How they hanging?"

"Hi, Dipshit, what are you doing in this part of the country?"

"I have a load of motor oil, for a drop tomorrow morning. I saw your rig and wondered where are you headed?"

"To pick up a load in Huntsville, AL ... auto parts."

Our conversation was of nothing important, but it got both of us through the evening. Then, out of nowhere, the subject of self-preservation came up.

"Don, are you carrying?"

I looked at him wondering what the hell he was talking about. He gathered, by my stupid look, that I didn't have a clue.

"Do you carry a weapon in your cab?"

"Just my iron bar to check tires."

"I can assure you that won't help against a perp who is carrying a Glock or a shotgun."

"So, what are you suggesting?"

"When I was in the services, the powers to be thought it would be wise to train me in the use of an AA-12 combat shotgun using FRAG-12 ammo. It can empty a 20 round drum of 12ga shells in 4 seconds. I carry one behind my seat with two extra drums of ammo."

"Shit! What the hell are you expecting?"

"Whatever it is, they are in for one helluva surprise when that AA-12 starts answering the perp that attempts to pull me over."

"Where in the hell would you get one of those? Are they legal?"

"Currently they are only available for sale to Law Enforcement Agencies and Combat Pistol Instructors, but one of my army buddies has access to them. If you are interested, I will give him a call."

"Do that Jake! As much as I was hoping I wouldn't have any more need for any ordnance since leaving the service, I keep hearing more and more horror stories of trucks getting accosted by hijackers. A number of drivers are carrying double barrel shot guns in holsters between the seats, easily accessible to point out the driver's window. Where are the crazies coming from?"

"With the value of some of the loads we are carrying, especially electronics, booze and cigarettes, they are attractive targets, easily flipped for cash. You were in the forces?"

"Yes, for three years, I learned very quickly I didn't like taking orders, so I got out as soon as I was able."

"What type of training did you get?"

"Ordnances, mostly, and then I went through sniper school."

"Didn't you like it?"

"I liked it fine; my problem was with the officers. We never did get along."

"I know that feeling!"

I didn't hear from Jake for nearly three weeks; then, one evening, I got a text from him. 'got what we were talking about 4 u. When can we meet?' He has the shotgun. In two more texts, we arrange to meet at a truck stop just outside of Columbia on #65. I had just dropped a load of tomato juice after a twelve-hour journey of very shitty traffic punctuated by three serious accidents, each one taking up precious unremunerated time.

There was a space beside Jake's rig. The cab was dark, so he was either stuffing his face or in the shower. I need both. Gathering my bag with clean tighty-whities, I head for the showers. I will track Jake down later. The shower is a welcome diversion. My shoulders start to loosen with the warm water. Later, dry and dressed, I felt like a new man.

Jake is in the restaurant, shooting the shit with a group of other drivers. These sessions provide relief for the drivers, just the fact you are talking to others, face to face, without a microphone in your hand. Jake spots me and gives the high sign. He breaks off from the group and heads my way.

"I've been watching for you, Don. How was your trip?"

"Don't ask. It was nothing but shitty weather and accidents, lost nearly five hours idling, eating up my fuel. How about you? What you been hauling?"

"Just dropped off a load of packaged meats to a wholesale warehouse, it was a nice clean load. You get my text?"

"Yes, you have me curious. Where in the hell did you get one of those? I did a web search, and they are not for sale to the public."

"Let's just say it fell out of the sky ... for eighteen hundred dollars. It has four extra magazine drums as well."

"I read a bit about them, can we try it out?"

"Do you know of the gravel pit off the road about ten miles north?"

"All too well, lost a drive tire and had to wait there for nearly four hours for a replacement. I know it well."

"What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

"I don't have a pickup till late in the afternoon, about an hour from here."

"Meet at the pit at, say, ten."

"Will do!"

For the balance of the evening, I joined a group of drivers that were telling dirty jokes. I hit my sleeper shortly after eleven. After breakfast, I topped my tanks and left the truck stop. I pulled into the gravel pit entrance just before ten, as the bush opened up at the actually pit, Jake was waving at me to park beside his rig.

There were two large cardboard boxes in front of his rig. For some reason, Jake has a full-face grin.

"Don, you aren't going to believe what this unit can do."

The drama unfolds as he opens one box and pulls out, what I assume is, the AA-12: it is a formable looking weapon; then, he retrieves one of the drums of ammo and attaches it to the shotgun.

"This is the beast, Don. There is nothing I know of that can touch it or defend against it. There are no hijackers with anything like this; it is portable and light enough to carry. Here, take it and feel the balance."

I had to admit, it felt great! In the pit, in front of our rigs, was an old abandoned oil drum laying on its side. It has likely been part of the pit since the last time it was used.

"Don, there is a very slight recoil; tuck it into your shoulder, and fire one shell. Just squeeze and let go. If you hold the trigger, it will fire until the ammo drum is empty."

Lining up the sights, I squeezed the trigger. The barrel now has a very noticeable hole in it. The force of the shot actually moved the barrel upwards about six inches, then it fell back to its former resting place.

"It has a nice feel to it, Jake. Eighteen hundred, you mentioned?"

"Yes, that is what I paid for it. If you didn't want it I would have kept it for myself, but I really don't need two of them."

The shotgun came with a case and, sort of, a knapsack large enough to conceal four ammo drums, plus a case of eighty extra shells. Since I seldom have a co-pilot, I put the extra drums and ammo in front of the passenger seat. For the shotgun, I will pick up a rack at one of the truck stops that caters to hunters.

Over the next couple of months, work is steady, just the way I like it. Every two weeks, I don't schedule any jobs for three days. That is when I do my short sabbatical enjoying the outdoors and pretending I am a prospector. Over the last couple of panning locations, I have used the internet to locate possible creeks where I can hike and pretend I know what I am doing. As in the past, I usually manage to find one more flake to add to my growing collection. This trip takes me to an area off Witt Road in the Cataska Mountain foothills; there is a so-called road, the map didn't disclose its true nature. A road it ain't! A path that three goats and a rabbit took once would aptly describe it. Fortunately, in bull low, my rig made its way up the incline. After travelling nearly two miles, as declared by the odometer, what surprised me was a structure in the middle of nowhere and people were actually living there. Smoke was coming up from the chimney. The sound of the engine had to be a novelty to the folks in the cabin. The family consisted of seven. Ma, Pa and five kids, in varying heights; three boys and two girls, all dressed in a real hodgepodge of clothing. Nothing matched; I wonder if the kids actually went to school.

Dismounting the rig, I walked toward the group.

"Hello, my name is Don Cassidy, but everybody calls me Cowboy."

"Hi stranger, I am George Pratt and this is my wife, Annie. These are my boys, Robert, Charles and Billy; my girls, Sarah, the small one, and the tall one is Jayden. Are you lost?"

"No, I found this road on the internet and I am headed to Runabout Creek, which I believe is another couple of miles up this trail."

"There is nothing up at Runabout Creek, maybe some trout. Are you a fisherman?"

"No, I am a weekend prospector."

With that, George and his wife burst out laughing! Obviously, they don't get many prospectors in these parts.

"Mister, there is no gold in those hills; many have searched but all they managed to do is callus their hands. I heard once of a guy finding a nugget, but it was only one."

"It sounds like many other places I have been. I love the outdoors and really don't expect much."

"Well, you won't be disappointed! There are a couple of funny dips in the trail, where you could go off on an adventure, and you won't be happy trying to turn your truck around. It can be a long way back in reverse."

Now that is something I don't want; I am here for the relaxation and rest, not frustration.

"Tell you what, if you don't minds some company, Jayden, here, would love to ride in your truck and she knows how to get to Runaround Creek. Jayden, have him park in the little meadow, it will be easier for him to turn around."

"That is very kind of you, but I don't want to take up your daughter's time."

Jayden is looking at her pa and then at me; her eyes are full of excitement.

"But I would like to, Mr. Cassidy! I have never ridden in a big truck like yours!"

"Well, Jayden, I would love the company, and I don't want to get lost."

Jayden is tall and as skinny as a rail. She has a beautiful face with large, deep blue, inquiring eyes. I am lost at estimating her age. Her clothing is clean, but terrible. Nothing fits her thin, young body and, if it wasn't for a leather belt, her grey pants would be at her ankles; actually, they must be boy's pants. Her shoes are also hand-me-downs, a leather oxford type I hadn't seen in years!

Jayden lets me help her to the passenger side door, swinging her thin, but interesting, bottom in my face.

She is very light and gives me the impression that her body is a flexible reed, covered with a thin layer of baby fat. Her hair is a mess. It's clean, but there is evidence it has been hacked off while someone tried to trim it. With her now in the seat, I had to struggle to move the knapsack containing the AA-12 ammo. My hand accidently ran over her thin chest; no breasts, to speak of, but two very hard nipples. For some reason, John Thomas gets a twinge. Now in the cab, I start moving up the trail, very slowly.

"Do you go to school, Jayden?"

"Not a real school: ma does the schooling for us. She graduated grade nine. She knows a lot of stuff. We get books in the mail, usually some new ones every time Cousin Russ brings pa to town."

Home schooled? Well, that is better than no schooling.

"How old are you, Jayden?"

She has a nervous look on her face, then a blush; hell, I haven't done anything ... yet!

"I turned fifteen ... two months ago."

For some reason, she is nervous telling me that.

"How old are you, Mr. Cassidy?"

"I am thirty-seven."

"You got a woman?"

Now there is a question I would never have expected her to ask! Why in the hell is she curious about the nut in a big truck, prospecting for gold in an area known for no gold traces?

"No, no woman. Why do you ask?"

I am sure I saw Jayden's facial expression change as a result of my answer. Hell, she does have a devastating smile!

"I figured a guy like you, with a big truck like yours, would have a woman by now."

"By now?"

"Yes, all the men I know was married young and have kids, lots of kids."

"Do you want lots of kids?"

By the new expression on her face, having lots of kids isn't on her menu. Perhaps she is longing for a change. I can't fault her for wanting to get up from under the cycle of life she and her family have been living in. I have no idea what her pa does for a living. As Jayden mentioned, he depends on her cousin Russ.

We continued to climb for another ten minutes and then came to a clearing where another house sits in a flat area. It's about fifty yards from the goat trail. A homemade sign on a post declared it was 'For Sale.'

"Who lived here, Jayden?"

"It was the Wrights, their daddy died and the ma and the kids moved to a cousin's house on the other side of the mountain."

"Can we stop and look at it?"

"Sure, pa has the key. He has been trying to sell it for the Wrights for nearly a year, but nobody ever comes up here."

The house is a rough affair, but shows lots of promise; roughly, I am guessing it is thirty feet by twenty-five feet. Walking around the unit confirms that all of the windows are intact. An outhouse is off to the left. Over to the right is a narrow ribbon of running water, the flow is consistent; it is source water from a spring in the rocks, nature does mysterious things.

There is a large pile of wood at the back door, a good indication it has a wood stove for heating and, likely, cooking. There are power wires to a meter on the building; so, my assumption is there is electric power. This could be my 'home away from home' that I have been imagining for a couple of years. Here, in the middle of nowhere, close to a creek that has no gold! It's my hope there will be at least a trace of gold in the area.

"Can we get inside?"

"Yes, I know where pa hides the key."

Inside consists of one large room: a massive stone fireplace nearly takes up one outside wall. There is a large iron wood burning cook stove in the eating area, and a heavy wooden table with four mismatched chairs. Two roughly built homemade beds take up another wall. The balance of the open area has a couple of very old, well-worn, sofa chairs.

There are pegs on the outer walls everywhere to hang clothing, etc., there is nothing resembling a clothes closet. The lighting consists of one low wattage blub in the center of the ceiling. The power box on the wall is large enough to accommodate many more lines, but it only has one in use at the present.

With a little work, this could be my escape from the world. Perhaps Jayden's pa has the purchase details. But, first, I have to complete my trip to Runaround Creek to seek the possibility of gold.

Jayden's pa was correct. The creek is running slowly, winding its way towards the bottom of the mountain. However, the area I am in consists of a mud bottom and the banks are grown in with bull rushes. Not the sandy, rocky bottom that, at least, gives the promise of a bit of gold.

Now my problem is Jayden. I can't let her walk back to their cabin while I confirm what is apparent: gold there is not! She looks so vulnerable; I will drive her back to her home. I can inquire about the Wright's property while I am there.

The trip down seems a lot easier than going up. Pulling up to the Pratt's home, and engaging the air brakes, brings the family out to greet us.

"That was quick, no gold?"

He knew the answer to that question and the smile on his face told me I didn't need to answer. Sarah, Jayden's sister, looks different; then I realize she has applied just a touch of lip gloss. She has very full kissable lips. What the hell is wrong with me? John Thomas reminds me with a twitch, of his problem: he has had no exercise for nearly a month! I digress.

"Mr. Pratt, Jayden tells me that you are trying to sell the Wright's house. What are they asking for it?"

"You's interested?"

"Could be; as I mentioned, I am a very unsuccessful prospector and the house is in the middle of nowhere, I love peace and quiet."

"They's askin' seven thousand, it has ninety acres of bush and rocks. Ground ain't good for anything. You could offer lower."

Seven thousand wouldn't cause me any pain; and it would give me a permanent home. My mind is envisioning the place with a few additions and repairs. Then, Jayden's movements bring me back to the present. She is leaving the cab. Her loose fitting pants are now pulled tight in the crack of her small, well-shaped bottom; two beautiful handfuls of warm flesh. Now John Thomas is really interested! Sarah comes running towards Jayden. She is about two inches shorter than Jayden and has the same featureless body, but her lips ... oh her lips. Shit! I have to get out of here before I do something stupid!

"I am interested in the property. Do you think I could rent it for a couple of months to get a feel of it?"

"Not a problem! You's the first one that has taken any interest in it since the Wright's moved. When would you like to move in?"

Now both Jayden and Sarah are staring at me, as if I am a hunk of desirable meat. To make matters worse, Sarah purses her lips like she is going for a kiss. Hell, this is not going as I had planned. I am starting to feel uncomfortable, considering the ungentlemanly thoughts I am having about Sarah's kissable lips and Jayden's to die for bottom!

"The next time I will have a break, in between my trips, is in about two weeks; that is the first part of May. Would that be okay?"

"I will get in touch with the Wright's and let them know you are interested."

"Do you have a phone number so I can call you?"

"Jayden, give Mr. Cassidy your number; she has one of those funny new phones."

The funny new phone is a pay as you go unit. I get the number and give Jayden my cell number. Then I am heading to the highway. The vision of Jayden and her sister Sarah won't leave my mind; just the thought of the girls has me trembling. It is actually crazy!

Over the next two weeks, my rig is moving during all my legal hours and during a couple that weren't. Within the first week, I decided I would buy the Wright's property, and in the second week my mind was remodeling the space, and I did that with no actual measurements. During that second week, I filled my sleeper with items I knew I would need. Soap, a broom, wiring; then, thinking about my visit to the house with Jayden, I remember that there was no refrigerator. I am going to need one of those, but that can only happen with more wiring. I am going to need an electrician!

Two weeks later, my rig and I are slowly moving up the trail towards my new rental; actually, I will make a firm offer to Mr. Pratt for the Wright's property. My offer will start at six thousand, but I am more than willing to pay the seven starting price. The sound of the giant engine in the Kenworth can be heard for miles in the crisp mountain air.

By the time I am at the Pratt's homestead, all of the family is outside waiting. Jayden and Sarah are off to one side; both are sporting combed hair, spiffy clean faces and both have traces of lip-gloss. John Thomas has a mind of his own, and is really interested in one, or both, of them. Young girls have never been of a great interest to me. I see many on my travels; but, my thoughts usually have been, 'Wow! Those girls are going to be man killers at eighteen!' Not so with Jayden and Sarah. Maybe it is the mountain air as my mind is reckoning them as man killers now!

"How's you, Mr. Cassidy? I done talked to Mrs. Wright on Jayden's funny phone yesterday and she wants to sell; she and her kids could use the money."

"I had planned to stop and tell you I would like to buy the place. In the short time I was on your mountain last time, it really felt good to me. Would she consider six thousand dollars?"

"I can gives her a call and ask."

"If you have her number, you can use my phone; that way you won't be using any of Jayden's minutes."

I think I lost Mr. Pratt with that comment. Jayden and Sarah are giggling; they understood.

"Your daughter has to buy minutes of time to use her phone. With my cell phone, I have a plan that has lots of minutes because I need a cell phone for my job."

"I guess ... I am not up with those things. I give the girls fifteen dollars a month from my government check to buys things theys need."

Government check could be welfare, child supplement supports, perhaps a Vets pension, but it is not my business to ask. However, it does help explain the girl's horrible wardrobe. They are both string beans in shapes, but current style clothing would likely do both a world of difference. Again, my mind takes off on a tangent.

"Jayden, yous gots the Wright's number?"

"Yes, pa."

"Jayden, please use my cell to dial the number and let your daddy talk to Mrs. Wright."

Despite her horrible wardrobe, Jayden, followed by Sarah, flows toward me like one of those thin fashion models I see on television. With the proper makeup and clothes, both could pass for paid models. John Thomas wants to be next to the runway to watch and, maybe, get a chance to look up their skirts. Shit! I have to get my mind on track!

Now beside me, Jayden takes my cell and compares the weight of it to her pay as you go flip cell, there is a major difference; mine has everything on it but the kitchen sink, which I hate. I've been hoping I would meet a driver with the knowledge to get rid of all that shit. All I want is it to ring, when I am called, and buzz, when I get a text; those are the only two applications I need for my business. The rest are a waste of space.