Rose Nelson showed up after school that day. This was the seventh
violent episode Reason had had since school started in September.
It was now mid-October, and at this rate, if something wasn’t done about
Reason’s outbursts, he would have to be sent to a behavior modification
school on the other side of town. Rose sat in conference with Beef Tory,
resource officer of Havelock school. A slender lady with cascades of
wild raven hair, she was dressed in faded blue jeans and tie-dyed T-shirt.

At thirty years-old, Rose gave off the impression that she was still deeply
entrenched in the biker culture. Rose could tell that Beef’s smiles were
condescending, and that he wanted to place the blame for Reason’s
outrageous behavior on her.

Beef said, “Diagnosed with ADHD and Oppositional Defiance Disorder,
Reason might be Bi-polar.”

Rose blurted, “Bi-what? It seems you’ve about run out of disorders
to place on him, because now you’re coming up with ones I’ve never
even heard of.”

Beef said, “We’re just trying to ascertain where this aggression is
coming from. He does take his medication daily, correct?”

Rose nodded. “When he doesn’t fight. Of course, for his impulse
control, he takes those meds at night when he’s not so cranky. Mornings
are different. I let him and Boone fight it out over him taking his doses
after breakfast. I tried repeatedly to enforce the taking of his meds, but
he fights me defiantly, until Boone steps in and gives him an ultimatum.”

“Which is?” Beef asked, curiously. “Violence?”

“No,” Rose said. “Boone has never struck Reason. Boone has this
thing he does which drives Reason nuts. He goes silent on him for hours
at time. He refuses to acknowledge him. This seems to work, too. Because
Reason is really afraid of being left out of his brother’s life.”

“So,” Beef said, “he has abandonment issues, too? We’re just tryin
to stay on the same page, Rose. I assure you, we all want what’s best
for Reason. His episodes here at school have escalated. Any particular
reason why?”

Rose sighed. “Not a clue. We ground him each time he has a bad
day here, but that doesn’t seem to have much impact on him. He just
goes into one of his tantrums. I ground him then process with him about
why he’s landed in trouble.”

Beef said, “Reason just doesn’t seem to get it, does he? We have
nearly exhausted our behavior modification techniques. Have you considered institutionalizing him for an evaluation? Any chance he’s dryfiring his meds?”

Rose said, “I suppose he could be spitting the pills out after his brother
stands there and watches him take them. Reason still objects to taking
his meds. Of course, that probably comes from him hearing me say that
some doctor is not going to practice on my son like a guinea pig. I’ve
adjusted my thinking now, though. Now that I’ve seen the calming effect
some of the meds have had on him. Reason says they make him sleepy.”

Beef shrugged. “Perhaps a med adjustment is needed. Perhaps after
being on the ones he’s been on for the past several months, he’s become
tolerant and immune to their desired effect. Without the meds, we’d
be fighting a losing battle. You have a very challenging boy, Rose. He’s
a little ringmaster who manages to run the show when ever he gets the
chance, but we need to stay on top of him, so that he doesn’t spoil the
circus, for us or for himself.”

***
Reason had been mouthing off all the way home, working himself
up about being grounded again for no apparent reason. Which was
his usual argument. Reason was in complete denial about blowing up
in school. In complete denial that he called his teacher a hag, that he
deserved being locked in the Quiet Room. Denial that he was the worst
kid at Havelock school.

Boone simply snapped his fingers and pointed at the porch.
Reason snapped his own fingers, mocking him. He snapped his fingers
again, raising his hand up to Boone’s face. At which point, Boone latched
onto his skinny little arm, and placed Reason in a wrist lock, something
that his sensei had shown him. When Reason became angry, he would
throw himself around, not hurting anyone but himself. But lately, his
aggressive outbursts included throwing punches at anyone who got within
range. Boone enlisted the help of his martial arts sensei to show him
how to handle him safely. At the detention center, he had watched the
staff there apply restraint techniques to handle some of the violent young
clients. And Reason was no exception.

Sometimes dealing with him was like trying to hold onto a greased
eel. Boone had learned how to move offline when it came to a frontal
attack by a raging little whirlwind. Because with Reason, he always
took a cheap shot and tried to knee Boone in the groin to inflict critical
damage. Thanks to his martial arts training, Boone had saved himself
from taking one of Reason’s upraised knees to his privates many times
during their altercations, and with the wrist lock, he’d learned to take
control of the ranting bundle of sticks and bones.

Twisting around like an eel on steroids, Reason proceeded to plant
his teeth in Boone’s forearm. Teeth scraped tender flesh, but Boone
yanked his arm back out of range, and in the process he lost his firm
hold he had Reason in. Sensing the weakness in his brother’s wrist lock,
Reason turned completely around, and threw himself bodily against
him. Off balance, Boone toppled over backwards and sprawled on his
back, cushioning Reason’s fall. Giving an animalistic snarl, Reason
planted his teeth in Boone’s chest and bit down hard, his jaws closing
like a bear trap just below his left nipple. He managed to free himself
from the painful bite and turn Reason so that he was facing forward.

He then sprang up and looped an arm about his neck, swung one arm
behind his back, and placed him in another restraint hold, forcing Reason’s
arm up between them and putting pressure just below his jaw
line on a nerve that instantly got results. Boone hauled him up off the
ground and firmly planted him on the porch. “Reason?” came a voice
from just inside the house.

There, standing beyond the screen door, was nine-year-old Collin
Young. His white-blond hair hung just below his ears while his scraggly
bangs dangled into his cat-like green eyes. Collin was a permanent fixture
around the Nelson house, especially since his own home was in constant
chaos due to his older brother’s delinquent behavior. Logan’s recent
citations included minor in possession, trespassing, shoplifting, and
despite, a dozen truancy referrals, Logan hadn’t been to a full day of
school since he started tenth grade two months ago. Collin’s parents
enlisted the help of Boone to keep Logan in line. Therefore, Collin
retreated to the Nelson house. At least there, during his episodes with
Reason, Boone never lost his cool, unlike his own parents who lacked
the parenting skills to deal with their older son.

The first time his dad slapped Logan, Collin had just stood there,
weeping. But over the past few months, he’d threatened to call Social
Services on his dad. Which got him a slap to the side of his own head.

At least at the Nelson house, no one ever punched or slapped him.
Reason grimaced, twisting his head around and snapping at his arm.
Boone simply did a leg sweep on him, promptly taking him down on
the porch, and planting his butt down beside the door. Reason snapped,
“He thinks because our dad got killed in that stupid motorcycle wreck
he’s got to be like a stupid dad!”

Collin said, “You’re lucky. Me? I got a brother who’s always so
busy keeping himself in trouble, he never has time to keep me in line.
I wish Boone was my brother. Boone? Don’t you wish we could push
a button on Reason to get him to act better?”

After a long pause, Collin asked, “Did you hear about the Oddballs?
Someone spray-painted them with blue paint. It was in the newspaper!
And Crime Stoppers is willing to pay a reward for information leading
to the arrest of whoever would be cruel enough to spray paint mentally
handicapped folk like the Oddballs. I talked to Vince about that and
about that little girl who got shot. Ever heard of Crime Stoppers? There’s
a big difference in being a narc or a snitch when it comes to helping
cops solve a murder, Reason.”

Silence reigned on the porch as a black Pontiac pulled up in front
of the house. The huge guy driving the car, was bald with the dark green
image of a dragon tat dominating his skull. He was dressed in a sleeveless
black vest and wore an assortment of gold chains around his neck. His
lower chin was covered by a thin beard, and he had cold dark eyes like
a shark. The man climbed out of his Pontiac. He climbed up two porch
steps, placing himself eye-level with Boone. “Which one is Reason?”

Reason folded his thin arms before his chest, trying to look tough,
although his stomach felt like a million butterflies were flapping their
wings inside of him. Boone moved to block his path to his brother. The
man said, “I’m Jack Holland, representing the Viking Kings. HVK stands
for Hell’s Viking Kings. My son, Nate, told me you did the tagging.”

Reason snapped, “HVK is ours!”

Whap! filled Reason’s ears, and a second later, tears filled his eyes
as a result of the stinging slap delivered by Jack. He reached down and
latched onto Reason’s throat. “In two days time, I want all the HVK’s
removed from the thirty places you tagged, got it?”

Just when he thought he might pass out, Reason looked past Jack
to see fifteen-year-old Logan Young standing beside the Pontiac in front
of the house. Logan’s long, black hair blew over his shoulders in the
slight breeze. He offered Jack a big grin. He ran the lock-blade he held
down from his temple, combing through strands of his wild raven hair.

Logan leaned down beside his Pontiac and jabbed at his right rear tire
with his knife. There came a garbled curse from Jack. Logan laughed
and zigzagged his way down the street and directly into the nearest alley.

Nate struck Reason in the center of his chest. Reason doubled over,
gasping in pain, his dark hair falling down into his tear-filled eyes.
“And if you talk to anyone about this, I’ll come and put bullets in you!
It’ll be your funeral they’ll be holding down at Saint Pat’s! Understand?”

Reason held his arm and nodded sullenly. He stood there watching
helplessly as Nate kicked Vince in the legs, sweeping them out from
under him, sprawling him flat on the ground there on the playground
of Havelock Park. Nate said, “None of this would have happened if
you would have went and tagged the Emerald!”

Tall, blond-haired Randy Farnbrook, vice president of the HVK
gang, said, “My mom keeps talking about Crime Stoppers, saying a
person could remain anonymous—” Nate hauled off and smacked Randy
on the left cheek. “Quit talking about Crime Stoppers! Ain’t no one
gonna call in behind my back! If they do, I swear when I get out on bail,
I’ll come hunt them down!”

Nate gestured at the backpack on Dan Colvert’s broad back. He used
one meaty hand to reach deep into Dan’s pack and pulled out two cans
of blue spray paint. “Okay, Reason? Vince? Go down to the Emerald
and spray HVK in big, bold letters.”

“But,” Vince protested, “what if old man Connors finds out it was
us? That old Irishman is a mean SOB!”

Nate ripped the lid off of the second can of paint. He then grabbed
a handful of Vince’s black hooded sweatshirt and held the can up. “Do
as I say, Vincent, or I’ll spray-paint your face!”

Nate held the spray pain can within inches of Vince’s face. He grinned
wickedly at Randy and the Colvert twins. “Come on, guys, we’re gonna
climb up on the building across the street from the Emerald, where we’ll
have a good view of these two idiots tagging the old man’s place in
the name of HVK!”

Vince allowed Reason to spray a big capital H on the white bricks
of the Emerald. When he was finished, Vince sprayed the V, then waited
impatiently for Reason to finish with the K. When they were done, the
three letters were two feet tall and covered a four-foot wide area on
the front of the Havelock pub.

Reason said, “It is rumored that Billy Connors, a tough-as-nails Irishman
was a gunrunner for the IRA and that he had all sorts of underground
connections. I once tried to sneak into the pub to get a look at
the award hanging above the Emerald’s fireplace. Boone told me about
it, and swore it came straight from the Irish Republican Army given
to Billy Connors for him sending them guns to support their cause.”

Tonight, both boys knew they had crossed a line. If Billy Connors
ever learned that they had dared to tag his place, they were dead. Both
young boys cringed when they turned and found themselves facing four
of Havelock’s Misfits ambling down the sidewalk toward the Emerald.
Newt, with his flashy suits and his gaudy hats, had once been in a car
accident that had forever altered his life, and his brain. He made loud
train whistle sounds up and down Have-Ave, and oftentimes went to
the Ballard ball games and made loud farting noises with his mouth.
Of the Oddballs who wandered the suburb, Newt was king.
Behind him, shuffling along rather than walking, came Franco, an
Italian man who scrounged in garbage cans and snagged the stubs of
cigarettes left behind in sand traps of butt-cans lining the business district.
Franco had been exiled from Italy due to the fact that he came home
from the war to find his wife sleeping with another man. He stabbed
them both to death with a butcher knife, and ended up exiled to America,
where he ended up in the small suburb of Havelock.
Coming up behind Newt and Franco were two dwarfs known as
George and Louie, though the kids of Havelock commonly called them
Opey and Dopey. The two small men, one plump and hefty, the other
skinny as a rail, lived above the mortuary, and on most days they could
be seen standing on the corner across from the Joyo theater, watching
cars go by. All day long. It was obvious that the four odd men noticed
the boys’ handiwork, for they stopped and gawked at it, muttering to
themselves. Nate came running up. He snatched a paint can out of Reason’s
hand and began to spray the four men with wild raking motions.

George tried to hide behind Louie, and Newt backed up against the freshly
painted front of the Emerald and ended up with paint up and down his
backside. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” gasped Franco. The two dwarfs
cringed in terror behind Newt. But little old Franco glared defiantly
at Nate. “What’s a wrong with you, boy?”

Nate took offence. “What do you mean, what’s wrong with me? You
saying, I’m disturbed? You think I’m psycho! I’m nuts!”

****
The next day at Havelock elementary school, Reason blew up. He
tossed over his desk, threw a chair across the room, and proceeded
to pummel a girl classmate senseless for making fun of his drawing.
By the time he’d landed his third punch, Miss Taylor, his fourth grade
teacher led him away to the Quiet Room.

Reason resisted, going completely ape. “Damn you!” he yelled. “You
hag! You’re a real stinky hag, Miss Taylor!”

He lashed out with tiny, tightly-balled fists, trying to land a punch
on Miss Taylor. “Reason?” came a voice from down the hall behind
them. Miss Taylor looked back at Boone striding down the hall. Boone
had grown up on the mean streets of Havelock, and while most of his
friends were getting high, he volunteered his time at juvenile court.
He not only dealt with his little brother’s problem behaviors, he had
been assigned five other adolescents who were struggling with their
own behavioral issues, including drug addictions. Boone served as a
truancy tracker to these five problem teens. He also spent time working
at Outreach down at the local detention center.

He was a controversial figure, with his long, dark shoulder-length
hair and his uncanny ways of dealing with some of the more troubled
kids. Rose, the mother of both boys, who ran her own drug and alcohol
group at Saint Pat’s church, once told Reason, “Boone is like that horse whisperer, who knows how to tame even the wildest horses. Only Boone is the kid-whisperer, because he knows how to get through to some
of the most hard-core kids.”

Lately, due to Reason’s increased aggression at school, Boone had
been doing his volunteer work for the court at Reason’s school. Teacher
welcomed his intervention when the Typhoon Kid went out of control.
And Boone, a three-year student in the Sho Rei Khan dojo, was able
to apply all the martial arts restraint moves he could muster to keep
Reason from hurting himself.

“Go to hell, Boone!” ranted Reason, breaking free of Miss Taylor’
grasp. Boone knew better than to leave himself open to a free shot by
the cussing, spitting, raging kid. When Reason swung at him with his
right fist, Boone latched onto his wrist, waiting for the left to come flying
at him. When it did, he moved with the grace of a martial artist, and
latched onto this wrist, as well. “Got him now,” Boone said. “You can
return to class.” Miss Taylor smiled gratefully and moved toward her
classroom. By the time they reached the door to the Quiet Room, Boone
had Reason in a basket hold, his arms drawn tight against his chest.

The only thing Reason could do is head-butt him. But Boone leaned
into him, keeping his arms pulled tightly against his sides, using the
side of his body to absorb the impact of his striking head. Boone then
used his left leg to sweep Reason’s legs out from under him, taking
him down to the floor on his rump. He came crashing down too stunned
to realize Boone had swiftly removed his tennis shoes.

Tossing the shoes outside the Quiet Room, Boone shoved Reason
forward, exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him. Ka-wham!
Ka-thud! Bang! Thud! Thud! Reason was on the closed door within
seconds, venting his rage on the solid wood with his fists and knees.
He had already broken one toe earlier that year when he’d kicked it
sock-footed. So he knew better than to rail at the barrier with his feet.
After a fair amount of pounding with his fists, he then planted his butt
against the door and reared back into it. Until he smacked his head so
hard he saw double for several long seconds.

All the while, Boone stood just outside the door, silently listening.
It took another thirty minutes for Reason to wind down. By then, he
was exhausted from keeping up a constant barrage on the door. Boone
opened the Quiet Room door to find Reason sprawled on the floor. “This
ain’t right,” he muttered.

Boone held out his hand. Swatting his hand aside, Reason skulked
down the hall in front of his brother. Before entering the classroom,
he sullenly took back his shoes from him and slipped them on. Reason
joined the circle of kids seated on the reading area rug. He acted as if
nothing had even happened earlier, while his classmates risked quick,
nervous glances at him. It never occurred to Reason that they feared
him, or that they sat around the dinner table in their homes, relating
the violent episodes of the whacked-out kid in their classroom. It never
dawned on him that his behavior was anything out of the ordinary.

Five years later
****
Reason Nelson was nine going on ten when Nate Holland shoved a gun in his face. Nate, who stood two heads taller than scrawny Reason, outweighed him by at least ninety pounds. One punch would level him. Reason kept his arms crossed in front of his chest. Nate offer him a wicked grin. He yanked a .22 pistol from the waistband of his jeans. Cocking the Ruger with one thick thumb, Nate planted its muzzle beneath Reason’s chin. “Know what a .22 slug does,” he growled, “once it enters your head? It bounces around through the brain!”

Scrawny little Reason’s defiance disorder kicked in. He snarled, “Do it! Shoot me, Nate!”

Vince, seated on his bike nearby, said, “I’ll do it. Just let Reason go, and I’ll go tag the Emerald Pub, okay?”

Nine-year old Vince had tried to get Reason to tell Boone about Nate’s threat, but Reason knew that nothing he did would eliminate the threat
Nate posed. Not until he did as Nate commanded him to in order to
join his small mob of wanna-be-gangsters. Nate was the president of
the little thugs who called Havelock home. His dad’s reputation as a
skin-head was well-known. His legendary beating of a black drug dealer
in T-town had sent Jack Holland to prison for a second time. At thirteen,
Nate, was brawny like a bear. When he landed a punch, it carried a lot
of muscle behind it. Small, shaggy-haired Reason had suffered Nate’s
punishment, especially since his mouth usually got him punched on
a weekly basis. He obstinately defied Nate every chance he had. It wasn’t
in his nature to follow the leader on account of his defiance disorder,
which he was taking meds for. But all the meds in the world could not
fix nine-year-old Reason’s problem when it came to his mouth.

Vince looked over to the playground sixty feet away. A dozen little
kids from Saint Pat’s elementary school had all stopped playing. Tiny
eyes were now locked on the scene taking place before them. Their
teacher, Sister Valerie, did not witness what happened next. Reason
hissed, “Take this damned gun off my face, lunatic!”

The collision of two human disorders could only result in one outcome.
Neither boy was wired right. During conception, both had been
rendered a few genes short of the normal structure in their DNA. Reason’s
defiance disorder had caused him plenty of trouble through his earlier
years. It didn’t help that he also had ADHD to jump-start his bad behavior.
But with Nate’s sadistic nature keeping his rage in overdrive, he and Reason were bound to clash. And despite the fact that Nate was two times as big as wispy Reason, it didn’t keep Reason from sticking to his obstinate nature. The bullet exploded from the muzzle of the gun, passed over Vince’s head, zipped past two kids from Saint Pat’s, then plowed into little Katie Brant’s chest, killing her instantly.

In the sudden silence that followed, Sister Valerie started freaking
out. Screaming at the kids she was in charge of. Screaming at Nate who
stood there frozen. Screaming at Reason and Vince, who stood there,
staring down in horror at the fatally wounded Katie. Screaming at God,
who seemed to be a million miles away.

Reason and Vince rode double on Vince’s moto-cross bike to the
Nelson house, four blocks from the park. As they pulled up next
to the front porch, Vince skidded to a halt, dumping Reason off the
handlebars. A few seconds later, Reason’s sixteen-year-old brother,
Boone, stepped out onto the porch. “What are those sirens about?” he
said, puzzled by the distant echo of the sirens. Boone, tall and dark-haired,
was a good kid, and unlike most of his peers there in Havelock,
he’d never been in trouble with the law and he didn’t do drugs. Although
he was just 16, he had become a father-figure to Reason since their father
had been killed in a motorcycle accident five years ago. If he wasn’t
playing the heavy when it came to Reason’s problem behavior in school,
he was keeping him in line when it came to taking his meds.

Boone said, “Those sirens are coming from the park. Do you guys
wanna head down there and check it out?”

“No!” Reason and Vince answered simultaneously.

Boone started down the sidewalk, but Reason and Vince remained
rooted to the yard. They knew Boone would grill them when he returned
from the park, and while Reason could lie his way out of anything, Vince
wasn’t wired like that. No, three minutes into Boone’s grilling, Vince
would spill his guts. An hour later, a police cruiser pulled up to the Nelso
house. Inside it was Officer Tory. Beef was tall, broad-shouldered,
and had thick, sandy hair. He was a cop that most kids in the small suburb
of Havelock liked fairly well. Reason knew that Beef once rode with
the Outlaws, the biker club his dad had started. He also knew that Beef
had a falling out with his dad for some unknown reason. Instead of riding
with the club, he had joined the Lincoln Police force.

Beef guided both boys over to the porch swing. “There was shooting
at the park. A little girl was killed there on the playground. The eyewitness
said that a red-haired boy was trying to shoot a skinny, little
scarecrow of a kid with wild strands of shaggy hair. Who does that sound
like to you, Reason?”

Reason said, “Is this legal? Don’t you need permission from Mom?”

Beef said, “Out of courtesy, I stopped by Saint Pat’s for your mom’s
permission. This doesn’t have anything to do with this HVK thing that
Nate Holland has been recruiting for, does it?”

Reason snorted, “Nate’s nothing but a schoolyard bully, which is
what most cops were when they were kids! You think we ran from the
park because we saw some stupid girl get shot!”

Beef quietly said, “I didn’t mention you two running from the park.”

Reason glared at Officer Tory. It usually worked, too. If he found
himself boxed in by his mom, his older brother, teachers, or even cops,
he could throw a road-block of anger in their path and divert their attention
if he could put them off their game by defying them with a snidely
outburst. He had learned how to manipulate his way out of some tight
spots in the past. But Beef Tory was no rookie. Five years on the force
working at Youth Aid had taught him how to shift his way past the scams
some of the slickest, deviant delinquents tried to pull on him. Beef said,
“I can see your code of silence is kicking in. If one of you gets a conscience,
you could call Crime Stoppers to solve this little girl’s murder.”

The two boys watched him walk slowly back to his cruiser.

As he drove away, Reason said, “That was easy.”

Vince muttered, “He’ll be back.”
26

Four massive Harley Davidsons rolled off the highway and came
up the street leading to the General Store. Rain said, “Jessie? Run
home! Ferg, Truck, and Big Mo were there working on bikes an hour
ago. Better go get them!”

Jessie darted away up the alley, cradling his cast against his chest
as he ran. Rain and Beef tried to act casual as they seated themselves
on the bench situated against the front wall of the old store. They both
wanted to be at eye level, instead of forced to look up at Daws and his
three club members. The four bikers of the Elder’s Den pulled up in
front of the store and killed their engines. While the three motley bikers
glared at the two boys before them, Daws climbed off of his bike and
put the big stand down on it, before mounting the porch steps. The big
biker president then peered intently at Rain. “Because of you, my boy
may go to prison. For that, you are going to suffer. It’s gonna hit you
when you least expect it, too. Your little brother will hurt too. It’s so
sad to be an orphan in this world. Jack lost something the day of that
bus crash. Do you have what I’m looking for? If so, I might show mercy
when it comes to you boys and postpone the day of reckoning.”

Rain sat there, trembling as he faced the biker. “Don’t have a clue
what you’re talking about, Daws,” he said, pleased that his voice didn’t
crack halfway through his sentence.

Daws said, “On October 7, 1876, a buffalo hunter named J. Wright
Mooar killed a white buffalo in Texas. He kept the hide his entire life,
despite Teddy Roosevelt offering him $5000 for it. Big Medicine was
born on Montana’s Flathead Indian rez. The name Big Medicine was
chosen due to the sacred power attributed to white bison. Following
its death in 1959, its body is now displayed at the Montana Historical
Society. Miracle was born at a farm in Wisconsin. Medicine Wheel
was born on May 9 on Pine Ridge. Medicine Wheel escaped his pasture
and was shot by a tribal police officer. Spirit Mountain Ranch donated
a herd of white buffalo to the Sacred World Peace Church, and has bred
six generations of white buffalo. Their herd includes 17 white buffalo. I suppose someone could take one of these hides and fabricate that peace
treaty that the Cheyenne marked on that white buffalo robe in 1833,
but that would be a fraud. No, what I want is the real deal, boys, the
white buffalo robe of the Cheyenne—”

Before Daws could finish, Jessie came out of the nearby alley, stumbling
as he sprang onto the porch of the store. He flailed clumsily with
his cast and drove it directly into his brother’s belly, knocking the air
out of him. “Dad’s coming!” Jessie gasped breathlessly.

At a signal from Daws, the Den members started their bikes and
all four of them went roaring down the street and out of town. Seconds
later, Chase and four Outlaws went thundering past the general store,
revving their own monster machines as they pursued the Elder’s Den
down the nearby highway.

It was the next day that Rain found Chase sprawled on their front porch
with a long-bladed hunting knife driven into the center of his chest.
It appeared he’d just sat down, his chin resting on his chest, his eyes
closed as if he were fast asleep.

“Dad?” Jessie heard his brother cry. “Dad?”

He burst through the screen door and stood there staring for long
moments at Rain kneeling down next to their dead father. He reached
out and stopped him from pulling the knife out of Chase’s chest. He
had to latch onto his brother’s wrist to keep him from drawing that knife
out of the bloody wound. Tears streaming down his face, Rain glanced
back at Jessie, at last giving up on trying to remove the knife. Both
brothers then broke down, sorrow overwhelming them as they kneeled
beside each other inches away from Chase’s prone form.

Beef discovered them there, so grief stricken that neither could talk.
Jessie bawled openly while Rain sobbed quietly. Unable to console
the two brothers, Beef ran down the street to get Pops. Big Mike Tory,
a brawny man with a Marine-style buzz cut, ambled onto the Nelson
porch like a bear, his large, meaty hands lifting the two distraught brothers
onto their feet. Mike called the sheriff’s department in Crete and reported
that Chase had been murdered. Sheriff Baxster spent one week on the investigation and yet, he never connected the dots that would lead him
to the murderer.

Days after Chase was killed, Mike took the two boys into his home and to remove them from the Outlaw culture, he moved them and his
son, Beef, into Havelock, an Irish Catholic suburb of Lincoln, Nebraska.
Despite all of Mike’s efforts to keep the three boys from reconnecting
with the club, Rain at the age of 17, formed his own chapter. Jessie
became VP. Beef served as warlord. The three of them signed on with
the notorious Irishman Billy Connors, who owned the Emerald Pub
in Havelock. During the Vietnam war, Billy had been a gun-runner,
supporting IRA patriots back in Ireland. But when the war ended, he
tragically lost his wife to a drunk driver. Her death changed the Irishman.
He not only ceased his gun-running, he took a hardline to those bringing
drugs into Havelock, and he paid the Outlaws to enforce that.

It was the map, however, that led to tragic events that Rain could
not help but stumble his way into. After his dad’s murder, he’d kept
that metal cigar tube in a drawer in his bedroom. Rain opened it quite
often, to study the drawing and try to decipher exactly where the map
would lead him. It haunted him that his last words with Ben Black Bull
had been in reference to the map. He wished many times over that he’d
just told Ben the truth about discovering it. He knew he was playing
with fire when it came to Native relics, figuring if Indians did have gods
of any kind, they were going to see to it that Rain reaped what he’d
sowed by wanting to discover the treasure himself.

He married Rose, Billy Connor’s daughter, and had two sons, Boone
and Reason. On the night of his twenty-sixth Birthday, Rain rode out
to Quarry Oaks outside of Lincoln. It was riddled with underground
tunnels with openings surrounding the blue waters of the pond at the
center of the quarry. Rain found the tunnel designated by the map. Five
minutes after he entered the dark mine shaft, he found himself staring
down the barrel of a double-barrel shotgun. “I’ll take that map, now,”
Daws said.

Keeping the gun trained on him, Daws said, “I sent Black Bull on
his way to his happy hunting ground. So, don’t let his death be in vain.
Let’s recover those relics. Whoever claims them is gonna be a rich man.”

Rain harshly whispered, “You killed Ben?”

“Daws Holland is a fool,” said the tall man with twin stags tattooed
on his face, stepping out of the shadows of a side shaft. The man wearing
a long, black duster and a black bandana over his head, raised his silenced
pistol. The Nomad then aimed his pistol at Daws. “Lower that shotgun.”

Daws nodded silently, his eyes darting to the dark shaft connecting
with the one they were all standing in. “What game are you playing?”
The Nomad grinned. “Your life is needed to negate the curse.”

Daws asked, “What’s this gibberish? What do you mean, you need
my life to negate this curse? Any one ever tell you, you’re just weird?”

The Nomad said, “Once the blood price is paid, they can be sold
at auction and I will inherit the benefits of that act of contrition.”

It was then, Sheriff Baxster, who had accompanied Daws into the
quarry as backup, appeared there in the dark shaft. A second later, Beef,
who had ridden out to the quarry with Jessie as backup for the Outlaws,
stepped out of the shadows behind Baxster, placing the muzzle of his
pistol against the back of his head. Beef smiled, then turned his gun
on the Nomad standing across the corridor from them. “Now, you.”

The Nomad raised his gun and fired.

The shoot-out that followed left Sheriff Baxster and Daws Holland
dead. The Nomad managed to escape. Even as bullets flew down the
tunnel, he raced away into the inky blackness of the mine shaft. With
sirens in the distance, Jessie argued against running from the scene of
the shooting. Beef had already mounted his bike and started it, so that
over the roar of his engine, Rain could barely be heard holding a heated
debate with his brother. Jessie latched onto the front of Rain’s jacket.

“We’ll get Pops to testify how crooked Baxster was! Remember how he covered for the Hollands when Ben was being charged with motor
vehicle homicide? Big Mike will be the key to a self-defense plea!”

“If not,” Rain said, sadly. “Look after my boys for me, will you?”

Silently then, he started his machine and steering out around Beef,
he ripped at his throttle and went roaring out of the quarry.

Ten minutes later, Rain Nelson rode his Harley at 60MPH directly
into the police roadblock he didn’t see until it was too late.

By the end of that week, Sheriff Baxster was forced to arrest Jack Holland. Judge Riley, overseeing the investigation, called for a special session with all the students involved in the crash. Chase made sure Judge Riley knew that Rain and Jessie appeared as hostile witnesses, but from everything they told the judge it was quite obvious Jack Holland had veered in front of the bus and caused the wreck. Although the Morris family, who had lost their son, still blamed Ben for being intoxicated, the court of law there in Crete dismissed all charges against the Lakota man. As a stipulation of the dismissal, Ben quit his job as a bus driver. Rumor was, he was going to move his base of operations and devote himself full-time to the rescue of large breed dogs. Before he left, he asked Chase to allow him to say a proper good-bye to his two sons.

Rain and Jessie approached Ben’s geodesic dome home, which sat on his ranch near the kennels of the dogs they worked with. Each triangular
piece making up the forty-feet in diameter dome was painted with colorful images of dogs and horses, dominated by the skull of a buffalo, hanging above the doorway. As the boys reached the steps, two children emerged from inside the dome. The first was a young Native boy of
ten, his long black hair finely braided and hanging down his slim back.

He said, “Welcome to my father’s home. I am Benjy Black Bull.”

Jessie shifted his cast about awkwardly so that he could shake the
boy’s hand. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Jessie Dalton and this is my brother—”
“We know who you are,” the 13-year-old raven-haired girl said. “I
am the Black Rose, daughter of the Irish Godfather of Havelock. He
tricked Ben into championing his cause. My father is a trickster worse
than the Coyote. His ancestors hail from the Emerald Isle, but Billy
Connors is the Devil dressed in white. He’s garnered a vow from Ben
to serve as my protector.”

Having no idea who this Billy Connors was, Rain said, “Our dad told us Ben wanted to meet with us before he left. So, here we are.”

Benjy smiled. “Despite biker protocol to never talk to cops, you sure
did help clear my dad of serious charges. For that, I thank you.”

Jessie said, “We just told Judge Riley the truth.”

Rose said, “Ben needs to ask you guys a favor. He’s leaving here at the end of the week to a new rescue ranch outside of Havelock. The
place has an appropriate name, Wounded Arrow, since Ben’s going
to be rescuing some of the most angry dogs on the planet. In the 1800’s
there was a Lakota camp there. One of the braves rode to steal horses
from the nearby Pawnee. When he returned to the Lakota camp, he fell
dead at his mother’s feet, riddled with many arrows. In memory of her
son, this mother insisted the camp be called, ‘Wounded with Many
Arrows.’ It is there that Ben shall rescue many dogs. What he wants
from you boys is to take care of the twenty dogs already housed here
for at least two more weeks until he can transport them to Havelock.”

“Sure,” Rain said. “We would be glad to.”

Rose and Benjy followed the boys inside the dome. Ben was seated across from them at a wood stove in the center of the floor. He pointed at a pile of thick buffalo hides, indicating that they should seat themselves before the stove. Sitting there on a small stool, Ben said, “What comes to your mind when I say ancient relics?”

Rain said, “King Arthur’s Excalibur—”

“The Spear of Longinus,” Rose said, interrupting Rain. “The Shroud of Turin. Longinus was the Roman soldier who pierced the side of Jesus
with a spear called the Holy Lance when he hung on the cross. The
Shroud of Turin is the cloth Jesus’s body was wrapped in when he was
removed from the cross. It’s stored in the Vatican, with the images of
his face, body and hands on it created by his blood—”

“But,” Rain said, smirking at Rose, “You mean Indian relics, right?”

Nodding, Ben said, “One of the greatest meteor storms ever seen
took place over the United States on Nov. 13, 1833. The skies were
lit up by thousands of shooting stars every minute for four hours. It was
marked by several nations of Native Americans: the Cheyenne established
a peace treaty and the Lakota calendar was reset. Harriet Tubman and
Frederick Douglass noted it. The New York Post ran stories on it. Abe
Lincoln spoke of it years later. Founder of the Mormons, Joseph Smith,
believed the falling stars were a sign that Christ was coming back. In
other words, it was big medicine. The Night the Stars fell from the Sky
a band of Cheyenne marked a peace treaty on a white buffalo robe. Some
say the Treaty of 1833 marked on this robe was a turning point for the
Cheyenne. My people, the Lakota, joined them during Red Cloud’s
War. The Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache became allies of the Cheyenne
at the end of the Indian wars on the plains. When such fierce enemies
suddenly find peace it is also big medicine.

“To find such a robe after all of these years would be a significant
thing. When I went to the Hollands’ last week to get Molly and her pups
out of the hands of the Den, the Nomad was there at their fight barn.
Daws claims he’s an enforcer, who carries out contracts for the Memphis
mob. A Creole Indian who came to the Elder’s Den with the map placed
in a cigar tube. He gave it to Daws, saying a geis had been placed on
this treasure. He claims it is cursed. The Nomad told Daws he would
negate the curse if he retrieved it for him. Curses are known to be placed
on pirate treasure. Black Beard’s curse. William Kidd’s curse.”

Rain asked, “How could this white buffalo robe be cursed?”

Ben said, “It’s two other items that are cursed by wanagi, a spirit
among my people. The Lakota are of the Seven Council Fires, the tribes
of First Nations people. The term ‘Sioux’ is a racist term meaning ‘Snake’
and is derogatory towards the Nation, who live on reservations, Rosebud,
Pine Ridge, Cheyenne River, Standing Rock. One of those cursed items
is a .50 caliber Sharps rifle used by Buffalo Billy Cody when he killed
4000 buffalo in a two-year period. The other is a Colt .45 pistol used
by Custer when he shot himself at the Little Big Horn. During the Battle
of the Rosebud, the Cheyenne and Lakota led by Crazy Horse, retreated,
leaving behind the wounded Chief Comes in Sight on the battlefield.
It was a 15-year-old Cheyenne girl, Buffalo Calf Road Woman who
rode out onto the battlefield, grabbed up her brother, carrying him to
safety. She also fought at the Battle of Little Bighorn. During that fight,
Custer was shot in the chest by White Bull and knocked off his horse.
He remounted and rode to get away when Buffalo Calf Road Woman
rose up out of the grass and struck the blow that knocked Custer off
his horse. Seconds later, fearing a gruesome death by torture, Custer
used his pistol to shoot himself in the temple. The girl’s war-club makes
the fourth ancient relic hidden in this treasure trove. If only I had that
map, I could return the buffalo robe and the war-club to Pine Ridge.”

Rain asked, “What would you do with the rifle and the pistol?”

“Destroy them,” Ben said. “Despite the fact that the last Colt pistol
recovered from the Little Big Horn sold for $275,000, and the Sharps
would bring in three times as much at auction, both need to be released
from the evil forces that inhabit them. Yes, Bill Cody was good friends
with Sitting Bull, but he also slaughtered 4,000 of our buffalo brothers.
The instrument of that senseless slaughter needs to be destroyed.”

“What about the robe?” Jessie asked. “How much would it be worth?”

Ben said, “Doesn’t matter. If I reclaim it, the buffalo robe would be returned to the Cheyenne.”

Rain said, “How much, Ben?”

Ben said, “Ten million for the robe. Another three for the war-club.”

****
“Why didn’t you hand this over to Ben?” Jessie asked in astonishment
as he sat there on the porch of the general store, looking wide-eyed
at the cigar tube he held in his hand.

Beef said, “Because your brother has himself a case of gold digger’s
fever and it’s gonna eat him up until he seeks out that treasure.”
Jessie held the tube up, saying, “But it’s not right to claim Native
artifacts. They are religious and sacred. It would be like trying to make
money on the crown of Christ or trying to get rich off of that Shroud
of Turin that Rose was talking to Ben about.”

Rain snorted, “Quarry Oaks is what is written on this section of the
map. Beef, you even said the quarry is outside of Lincoln. All we gotta
do is find out which tunnel the stuff is hidden in.”
Jessie removed the rolled up slip of paper from the tube, being careful
not to rip it as he spread it out on the floorboards beside him. “But look
at these arrows. They fade away and then stop halfway down this page.
You can even see where the last arrow is supposed to meet up with
another one, like maybe there’s another section. Let’s just turn this over
to Ben and help him recover those artifacts.”

“Gold fever,” Beef said,“won’t let him. He won’t be free of that fever
until he finds those relics. And when he retrieves those two cursed guns,
a demon will take over him and he’ll be royally screwed.”

Rain said, “Demons? Ghosts? Geis? Curse? Get real, Beef. How can an object be possessed by an evil spirit?”

Jessie shared a worried look with Beef. “I don’t know, but Ben was dead serious about this wanagi. I’d never want to release an evil force
into the world. And it sounded like he was way more than serious about
this Sharps rifle that was used to kill four-thousand bison. And this
pistol? If it was used in Custer’s suicide, don’t you think it might be
loaded with evil spirits?”

At the sound of Harleys rumbling along on the highway a block away
from the porch, Rain scrambled to his feet. Snatching the map out of
Jessie’s grasp, he replaced it in the cigar tube, then stuffed the tube into
the top of his left boot.
Four massive Harley Davidsons rolled off the highway and came
up the street leading to the General Store. Rain said, “Jessie? Run
home! Ferg, Truck, and Big Mo were there working on bikes an hour
ago. Better go get them!”
Jessie darted away up the alley, cradling his cast against his chest
as he ran. Rain and Beef tried to act casual as they seated themselves
on the bench situated against the front wall of the old store. They both
wanted to be at eye level, instead of forced to look up at Daws and his
three club members. The four bikers of the Elder’s Den pulled up in
front of the store and killed their engines. While the three motley bikers
glared at the two boys before them, Daws climbed off of his bike and
put the big stand down on it, before mounting the porch steps. The big
biker president then peered intently at Rain. “Because of you, my boy
may go to prison. For that, you are going to suffer. It’s gonna hit you
when you least expect it, too. Your little brother will hurt too. It’s so
sad to be an orphan in this world. Jack lost something the day of that
bus crash. Do you have what I’m looking for? If so, I might show mercy
when it comes to you boys and postpone the day of reckoning.”
Rain sat there, trembling as he faced the biker. “Don’t have a clue
what you’re talking about, Daws,” he said, pleased that his voice didn’t
crack halfway through his sentence.
Daws said, “On October 7, 1876, a buffalo hunter named J. Wright
Mooar killed a white buffalo in Texas. He kept the hide his entire life,
despite Teddy Roosevelt offering him $5000 for it. Big Medicine was
born on Montana’s Flathead Indian rez. The name Big Medicine was
chosen due to the sacred power attributed to white bison. Following
its death in 1959, its body is now displayed at the Montana Historical
Society. Miracle was born at a farm in Wisconsin. Medicine Wheel
was born on May 9 on Pine Ridge. Medicine Wheel escaped his pasture
and was shot by a tribal police officer. Spirit Mountain Ranch donated
a herd of white buffalo to the Sacred World Peace Church, and has bred
six generations of white buffalo. Their herd includes 17 white buffalo.
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