The fuckers thought that because I was trying to avoid a fight, I was a coward, that my truck was old and beat up, that it wouldn’t run over rough country. They were wrong on both counts.
It began at the Silver City Post Office with the seven Christian motorcycle gang members roaring up on me. I had finished putting papers in the paper box when they tried to corner me to finish the business they started last summer during the camel races.
Much to their surprise, I was ready for exactly such an ambush. I threw my truck in reverse, knocking over two of them as I backed onto Route 342.
Slamming my stick shift into first and pulling for second gear before I had reached five miles an hour was the trick. I was in third and fourth before they could react, speeding nearly seventy down the hill.
They fired shots at me, and I could feel them strike the rear end of my truck. Because of the curves and the speed, they could not get a bead on me or my back window.
I knew that would not be the case when we hit straight away at the bottom of the hill leading to Highway 50.
It was not my intention to go that far. Instead, I broke hard around the bent going up the hill and did the same on the other side and the long lefthand curve before I dropped off the asphalt and onto the dirt road leading east. The rough road made it more difficult for them to shoot at me with their handguns.
Still, they came on behind me as I led them to a trap I had selected for such a purpose. A quarter mile more in this 15-mile run, and I would spring it on them as we slipped between two steep hills.
As we cleared the hillocks, one rider came racing up on my right side. I stepped on the brakes, and he shot forward, and I ran him down. His bike fell on its left, and he caught beneath it while I drove up and over both.
High-centered on the bike and the man trapped under my truck, I got out and picked up the fallen biker’s pistol. With two having come to a stop, I dropped and rolled as the other four overshot me.
I fired as I tumbled, striking the lead biker, causing him and following the bike to crash. The first biker was dead, a bullet in his head, and I wasted no time doing the same with the second one.
Two dead, one injured. I could hear the screaming of the biker still trapped beneath my truck.
With two at the rear of my truck and one in front, I decided to retrieve my secret weapon from the cab, my 30-30. With a shell already in the breach, I opened the passenger side door, climbed out, and walked down the slope into the sagebrush.
“Where’d the mother fucker go?” I heard the one that overshot me call out.
Using his voice and a locator beacon, I stood up and fired. His head exploded in a pink mist, and he slowly fell to the right, bike sliding into the ditch, taking him with it.
Behind me, I heard the roar of both bikes, so I turned. One of the two that had stopped giving chase came racing at me while the other turned around and started back to the paved road.
Ignoring the bullets dancing off the rocks around me and the biker speeding directly at me, I fired. The biker running away jumped slightly in the seat, then the biker and the bike toppled down the slope from the road.
Then I swung around to my right, placed my site on the remaining biker, and squeezed off a single round. The pair disappeared from the road and into the ditch adjacent to my truck.
Double-checking the Glock I had removed from the trapped biker and tucked in my beltline, I walked back to my truck, climbed in after my rifle, started the engine, and began getting myself unstuck. The bastard beneath me, screaming and crying for mercy, but I had nothing for him, felt nothing for him.
After a few minutes of grinding and spinning wheels, my truck came loose, and I backed off the bike. The biker lay still, faking death.
As soon as I started to get out of my truck, he sprang to his feet, screaming and cussing, running at me. I slipped the pistol from my waistband and fired two rounds, without aiming, into the biker’s chest.
Now he was dead. And so were his compadres.
I backed up to a point where I safely turned around and headed back to Route 342, leaving the bodies and the machines for someone else to find and clean up.
The Old Blog in the Desert 