Chapter 22

I opened my big mouth.

“What?” I said. “You don’t trust your son?”

And Johnny looked at his dad with new eyes.

“Yeah, Dad. What about it?”

“Oh my God ... I didn’t say that,” he said, “Did I?”

We both nodded.

And I opened it again.

“Personal experience, Mr. Q?” I asked. “Who did you screw?”

Rather than discuss it further, Mr. Q said, “Get out! Don’t come back.”

I made a face and left. I had already put the basses in the Dodge. I climbed the running board and slammed the door.

Johnny came out and tried to give me the change from the strap. I refused.

“John ... if I took that now ... I’d be agreeing with your dad. Keep it. Karen might need something.

I sat ... with the 340 idling listening to the carbs suck down gallons per second and I steamed. Finally ... I put the New Process truck transmission in gear and let out the clutch.

The only way I was going to calm down was a mountain run.

Fifth to Soldier Creek to Dayton to 14 and up. I was doing 80 past Sand Turn and the hang gliders. As fascinating as hang gliding was ... I didn’t stop. I took 14 south to Greybull and had a snack at Mama Z’s Pizza ... if plowing through the Lunch Buffet is a snack. North I stopped at Hawkins and Powers Aviation, got permission to go through the Boneyard and examined about a million wrecked OH-6 ... the Loach ... also referred to as Target. These choppers looked like targets ... and more than once.

“We use those for spot control. They don’t carry much.” The mechanic said. “Gimmie fifty bucks and I’ll stick a complete set of controls in the back of your Van.”

If COURSE I did!. I might find a use someday.

A guy needs to be able to pat his head with one hand, rub circles on his tummy with the other and twist his wrist at the same time while hopping from one foot to the other on demand to fly one ... and they still crash at the rate of one a day somewhere in the world.

The B-17’s were gone and their PB4Y-2 replacements were in the Modification stage. The C119 Flying Boxcars ... with the single jet engine on top of the fuselage and a pair of recips on the wings were getting some use. I wouldn’t want to do what they do during fire season. Too low ... too slow. But they had interesting trash. Next I drove to Thermopolis and entered the drawing for the thinning of the herd shoot. Fifty bucks a chance ... I bought two.

North out of Thermop and up to Worland. well ... after I scooped a couple of five gallon buckets full of sulfur from the piles around the abandoned sulfur reduction plant, The oil around Worland is high in s2o and the price of gas was 75 cents a gallon. The plant was a government pilot project that failed. Taxpayers money squandered ... again. East up Ten Sleep Canyon and southish to Meadowlark Lake. I spent the night in the van ... after I set the buckets outside.

In the morning, I was awakened by the BLM Rangers.

“David Austin?”

“Yeah.”

“Go home. Your daughter is worried about you.”

“Heading that way, Officer. I’ll be home tonight.”

“We’ll let her know.”

Daughter?

<Karen.>

Where have you guys been?

<Roaming about the world. We do that.>

Great. I could have used you a day or two ago. I’m going through Hazel Park and east to the Stagecoach wheel. Scout for me.

<Sure.>

I came down out of the Big Horns and past the Equestrian Center sporting a six foot wheel tied to my front bumper. I took 335 to 330 and Fifth Street to home.

Karen came running out of the house ... saw the wheel and skidded to a stop.

“Where did you get that?”

“Between Story and Big Horn ... neat ain’t it.”

Then she got too close...”Umh ... Hairy ... where have you been?”

I mentioned that I had told her.

“After a shower you can tell me all about it.”

I do admit I was easier to live with after clean clothes.

Dishes done, stokers filled, doors and windows checked, I snuggled in my own bed. I patted my pillows... “Missed you guys,” I said.

And then Karen climbed into bed with me.