Chapter 9

“So what do I do?”

<Get back to your aircraft and get out.>

“Give up?”

<We didn’t say that. Get out of town ... before you have an Accident>

I could see the capital A in my head. “Where should I go?”

<Go see Karen.>

“Ranchester?”

<Yes. Wanna buy a Lottery Ticket?>

“NO!”

<Just checking.>

A chuckle or a giggle in ones brain tickles. The belly laugh almost ran me off the road.

I gassed up, ran my list ... filed for SHR (Sheridan County Airport), chatted with LWT (Lewistown Municipal) about the winds and weather, was cleared and switched to Billings Logan International (BLI) and asked to hold for a bit. Cleared, I moved on to the main runway and read the TAKEOFF list and was gone.

The area between the training base and Lewistown is bespattered with mountains ... the Highwoods, a range dead east of the runway sports at least one hundred B-17s crash sites and a few of the 23,000 aircrew who died learning to fly in the USA during the war.

For every 11 aircrew who died in the European Theater three more crew died in training crashes before they ever got overseas. Directly south of Lewistown are the two divisions of Snowy Mountains. West are the Little Belts and the Big Belts.

The 18H wasn’t equipped with oxygen ... well ... it was but I don’t like to fly that high ... the mask makes me claustrophobic ... so ... I don’t. My route took me through Judith Gap ... between the west end of the Big Snowys and the east end of the Little Belts.

Then it was the Bulls, the Pryors, the Big Horns and the Wolf Mountains. I was never farther away from nasty big rocks than fifty miles.

Flying in high winds, fifty miles is a horseshoe leaner. In overcast it’s damn near a ringer. I didn’t want any ringers. Montana makes it hard to fly around the rocks ... the damn things are everywhere.

I made it.

I called the ranch ... laughingly. In Wyoming 600 acres is a piddling city block. Ranches aren’t ranches until they’re 20 thousand acres. Then it’s a small spread. A big place has a driveway at least ten miles long.

She wasn’t answering. Heck and shuckydarn!

I didn’t want to rent a car. I called Davy.

Davy Martin.

Karma ... his youngest said he was out, but she’d tell him I called ... and hung up.

I’d like to be a fly on the wall when she mentions I called.

I gave tours of the Beech until seven in the evening ... Davy doesn’t miss many meals ... he would surly be home for dinner.

He was.

“Martins”

“Davy?”

“Hairy!!”

“I need a ride.”

“Call Karen.”

“She’s not home.”

“I know ... she’s sitting across from me. Well she was ... now she’s trying to pry my fingers off the phone.”

“Gimmie that!” Karen said.

“Stand up, Davy ... she’s short,” I laughed.

The next voice I heard was gasping and really hoarse.

I didn’t understand a word ... but I could guess. Ouch!

In the middle of it all, I heard Karma say, “Oh, Daddy ... Hairy called.”

I was amazed by how much I enjoyed hearing Karen’s voice. “Where are you?” she asked.

“At the airport ... pick me up?”

“In Sheridan?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Davy! Get out of my way.”

I heard chairs falling and dishes crashing. I heard Davy’s wife Mandy shout OW! ... but more than anything I heard Davy say to Karma, “When did he call?”

And her answer.

“About five minutes before you got home.”

If she wasn’t so cute I’d kill that kid.

Instead, I bought her a pony. Poor Davy.