A Comanche Moon

“It was a moon just like this. Big as heaven, brighter than the sun.”

“It weren’t no brighter than the sun. It was nighttime. It couldn’t of been brighter than the sun. Ya crackpot!”

“You know what I’m sayin’ Babs. Big. Beautiful. It’s my favorite evenin’s here, lookin’ out over our patch of the world.” He breathed a sigh of gratification, and let that last thought sweep into the panorama of the Mojave in its best glory. They rocked in unison, mostly in quiet, but for Carson... and now.

“It got to be called the Comanche Moon, for its brightness… like ridin’ horses in the middle of the day.” More of those noises born of his dreamy mind.

“A-huh, I know, Carson.” He wasn’t hearing Babs.

“The Comanches would gather their warriors on a night like this, Babs…” his wife nodded, in that redundant acknowledgement, “…and they would make raids into all parts of Texas, Oklahoma, into Mexican territories…” more nodding from Babs. “They were ferocious people, Babs… you know their’ name meant “the People””… he was streaming, like a lecturer who didn’t care if the student body fell asleep, he had something to tell them that was too important. Babs, with an exaggerated nod. Carson kept on.

“Other tribes called them “Kitmanji”, or some such; meant “enemy,” because the Comanche warred on everyone, other tribes, the settlers… everyone…” and a critical detail he had not yet mentioned, except for the 100 other times he held his soliloquys on the Comanche Nation while they rocked in the bright light of a great big moon. “And they were the very first tribe to take to horseback… it was their great advantage, and why they were so successful… Most people think the horse tribe was the Apache. But they’d be wrong.” He sighed in some fearsome reverence to the plains Indians who did their worst bit of business on a night that looked a lot like this one.

“You know the Comanche chased the Apache from their territories?” A rhetorical question alone. “And the Apache had a reputation that scared a white man whiter. But the Comanche…” more of that funny fade of infatuation.

“Carson, you tell me the story of the Comanche Moon pert near every time we sit out on a big moon. Wouldn’t you think I would’ve taken it all to memory by now?” It was as much in fun, but more interruption… she wanted to hear nothing more about the Comanche raids. It was horrible cruelty.

Carson chuckled, “Yea, course I know you heard it. I’m the one that told it.” A fuller chuckle, “Maybe too damned often.” He reached over and pinched Babs’ arm and tittered like a schoolchild. Babs just swung at his hand and laughed with him.

“I’m beginnin’ to get worried about you, old man.”

In faux outrage, “Me? You ain’t got to worry ‘bout me! You ain’t changin’ my drawers after I soil myself, ol’ Florence Nightingale!” Another pinch of the long-married love.

“Worse, you old pitchman! You won’t shut up about them Comanche… and you told me the entire history every dern time we got a big moon. And we’re 500 miles or more from the Comanche territories… crazy mutt!” She swatted at her provocateur husband who was only looking to pester his wife now.

Then a set of headlights turned up their very long drive… and another set followed.

Carson stopped giggling and stared over the distance, completely forgetting about the Comanches. “Two vehicles on a Sunday night.” His was a measured tone. “Might be your visitor, plus some…” straining to see if there was a Jeep Grand Cherokee… “Don’t let ‘em get close, Babs. Go get our visitor, and get ‘im to the shelter. Quick.”

Babs didn’t wonder about these decisions. They say, if you remain married long enough you begin to take on physical characteristics of one another… certainly common behaviors. Babs took on Carson’s keen eye for fucking trouble. She didn’t hesitate, leaving him some directions. “Git yer belts on and the shotgun. Not the twin-barrel, get the Remington. Stick an extra magazine in your belt. You’ll have 12 shots that’ll kill a dinosaur.”

“I will; you do the same sweetheart. Get goin’, but bring the Savage with you and some extra rounds. You’ll know if you need ‘em.” Babs was just about to burst back into the house and Carson reached out and grabbed her hand, “Before you go, sweetheart.” He pulled her to him and kissed her with a warmth of commitment, assurance, devotion… “You’re the best girl, and if I was ever offered two others, I woulda said no thanks!”

“Now don’t go gettin’ goofy. You got to aim straight…” she looked to the house, then back at her husband of 51 years, “I woulda brained ya if you had. But I love ya most cuz ya never woulda.”

“I’m good, dear girl. Now get our visitor to the shelter.”

********************

“They see we’re coming, Leonard.”

“I know that. I can see. It’s night and we got headlights on.”

“Maybe we should turn ‘em off.”

Leonard looked at the thug riding shotgun in disbelief. “They already seen us if they seen us. Jesus Christ.” The thug said no more.

*******************

Babs grabbed the Savage Trophy Hunter, a .30-06, high-power rifle with long range gifts of death. It was accurate to six or seven-hundred yards, and it had the scope for the job. The perfect weapon for bringing down big game on their hunts. She slung it over her shoulder and then took her Colt, belt and holster and started down the stairs to the canning basement. She knocked on the door like a chambermaid.

“Mr. Yankovich? Can I come in?”

Donnie was flipping playing cards on the cot in a rousing game of solitaire, and suddenly was warmed at the idea of company.

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m squared away here.”

The lock rattled and Babs entered. “I hate to bother you, but we gotta get you hid!”

It was her alarm that struck him, not as much the words, because he thought he was already hid. “What? What do you mean?”

“Carson and me didn’t want to get you worried, so we didn’t say nothin’, but someone came by mid-day askin’ ‘bout you. A little photo from a driver license or some silly shit, sayin’ he was from the Sheriff’s Office… and he weren’t, I knew that certain. So, we gotta get you hid.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“That boy is back, and he brought friends.” As she said this she was moving to the canning cupboard on the wall adjacent to the cot, and she set her guns down. “Help me here, will ya?”

Donnie knew the look and smell of battle readiness, something a soldier never forgets. He jumped up, but didn’t know the reason.

“We got to pull this cupboard aside… there’s a door. We don’t open this much, so might need your brawn.” She was to the open end of the room, with her hands on the frame of the cupboard, leaning back with a hearty tug… and the thing moved. “Pull this, will ya?”

Donnie got his hands on the frame in the same manner, Babs was shouldering the Savage sniper rifle, and buckled her gun belt on; he pulled, and the muffled squeal of wheels called out there disuse.

“Over here. Get in, quick. We got another hundred yards or so to go.” Donnie just followed her into the darkened space that had opened beside the cupboard. Babs hit a switch and the corridor’s light assembly hanging along the ceiling lit up, with a couple bulbs dead in the distance. “That handle right behind you, Mr. Yankovich. Just pull it closed.” He grabbed ahold of the handle and pulled, it giving way much easier, without the vocal complaint of the first effort. He put it into its seat, the first part of their escape done.

“Follow me. Do you know how to shoot?” She asked the marksman from the Marine Corps.

*********************

Both vehicles pulled up on an angle, giving the driver’s side the blind’s protection. They sat still for a couple moments, Carson stood on his porch with the Remington shotgun in his left hand, near to ready, a magazine sticking out the bottom… it was no lizard-shooting weapon. Carson stayed quiet, but had the butt of his own Colt sitting in his warm right palm, still in the holster, but promising it’s coming out party if needed.

All eight doors opened at the same time, and from each a figure emerged in a fair light of the moon and the Brubaker’s front porch. In the penumbra they were too far for him to make hide nor hair of their identities. But he already knew it was a showdown.

“You boys needin’ directions or trouble?”

“Old man, I came asking about a bad man that the sheriff is interested in arresting. I talked to your wife, I guess.”

“I’m familiar. She did the right thing and chased you off our prahpety. An’ it looks like you intend on makin’ me do the same.”

“No need for that, old man. I’d rather just talk to you, negotiate instead of shootin’ up your place. It’s a nice home. Don’t particularly want to ruin your night.”

“You already done that. I was enjoyin’ a big Comanche moon, an’ now I got to deal with you boys.” Carson could see a few of them bending into the vehicles, no doubt pulling firepower out… he figured he’d given Babs and Donnie enough time. He knew where this was really going… and there wasn’t an ounce of intended negotiations, so he started the fun…

*********************

It was a long straight haul, relatively speaking, because as one dug out the tunnel, there was obviously just enough looking back to keep you sort-of on your line. As completed, there was a slight curvature to the shaft, but it had heavy struts and paneled walls, and a no-skid rubber matting the entire length. It was a work of smalltown brilliance, and Donnie didn’t need to ask why… It was the stalwart souls of hearty Americans who firmly believed in their country and their freedoms… and this tunnel was one of those personal assurances that the Brubaker’s had developed plans if they ever needed to either defend that freedom or secure their safety.

They reached the end with the tunnel opening up to an irregularly shaped room, as much designed for effective storage, and an area with folded cots stacked against the wall. Donnie realized what were unnamed crates in the tunnel were undoubtedly supplies, as these quarters were stacked on two walls with the same crates. He was struck by the industriousness of these good people.

“You’re loaded for bear, ain’t ya?”

“Maybe so, but it ain’t bear this time.” Babs wasted no time, running to the knee-wall on the left foreside of the room. It looked like a makeshift bed, but the feisty woman crawled up and grabbed at a metal plate against the wall, and she slid it open with a little handle; he could see past the woman, there was a slat that looked out over the ranch, and particularly over the front porch and driveway to the home. He hadn’t realized the tunnel was on a gentle upgrade, for moisture infiltration would slide down the shaft. But the peep hole, that told him this was a bunker, and that was its firing position!

Just then, she heard the familiar crack of a Colt, being fired in quick bursts! If a rattlesnake were a gun!

**********************

The rational shooter always played his best odds, and the nearest guns being drawn were also his greatest worry. Carson quickly drew his Colt and fired at the thug who was passenger-side, just lifting the nearest gun, and he hit him with two slugs. He heard the man squeal, as he slammed back against the Jeep and slip to the ground.

Carson was now in a ducked position, stepping sideways, slow and poised, foot over foot, never losing his bead. He pivoted to the gunman at the back door of the Jeep, still pulling out from the backseat, and the old man let go three more reports… pow, pow, pow! The man recoiled at the door, back still to Carson, lifted high then fell straight to his knees, and tumbled over into the red dirt.

He then saw massive flashes from the backside of the second car, letting a fusillade of bullets biting into the wood siding, snapping at the rocking chairs as Carson ran the last couple steps and jumped in through the open front door, feeling like he got bit in the ankle.

He rolled himself up, his old bones barking, if not breaking. He lifted himself from prone and huddled against the wall, realizing he had only one bullet left in the revolver. He quickly spun open the cylinder, thumb over the good bullet and tipped the empty shells out; he then popped five fresh ones quickly into place and clapped the cylinder closed before he heard the first rifle-shot from afar.

**********************

Her haste was what may have saved Carson, as she poked the .30-06 through the firing hole, and dialed the scope a miniscule twist for optics. She saw Carson ducking back in through the front door, sparking muzzles chasing her husband for his life. She could see Carson had killed or disabled two of the thugs already down in the sand, and she whispered, “Attaboy, sweetie!”

She had had the profile of the two riders sighted in the foreground of the second vehicle; they had both been in a kneeling position firing their machineguns at the house – at her Carson. With Carson’s retreat and the intruders without their target, she saw the four from the backside of the cars started walking around, and spreading out. She would send a message and end one more threat.

She let go a slug at 2,500 feet per second, and in 1/10th of a second her first target flopped sideways with a spray given gory theater in the light of the front porch. He lay unmoving… the other five froze, and dipped into a crouch, not knowing where the assassin’s bullet came from.

“I gotcha ya, you little fucker.” She spoke quietly, hit her bolt and ejected the shell and chambered the next .223 caliber round. Deliberately, unwavering she sighted down on the next nearest trouble to her dear Carson. The killers were cocking their heads, left and right, and just as she squeezed the trigger, her target darted to the front of the porch for nearest cover. Her round flew into space, but the crack of her sniper rifle would give them a general location, somewhere up towards the scrub of Saguaro and Creosote past the fencerow of the little ranch. Each of the killers repositioned themselves, now taking cover from the southward position of the shooter.

“Damn! Missed.” She chambered the next bullet with a swift bolt action, but the killers had found cover. She was a capable shooter, but given teacup sized targets, she felt of futile help to her Carson.

*********************

The surprise blast had completely ended the man’s life, with a fog of pink spray.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Leonard sat down in the dirt by the front left fender of his Jeep, hugging against the vehicle. Two of his partners were down, and now Rodney had his brains coloring the stepping stones to the front door. “Did you see anything?”

“No… no idea.” They had lost interest in the old man as someone with talent and a heavy weapon was now sighting down on them. Rollo realized he had his partner’s blood on his shirt and the slick spray he could feel on his face; he decided to get out of plain sight and darted to the footer boards of the porch for some cover… just as another shot rang out. Leonard stood and flashed a stream of bullets into the scrub of the sniper’s general location, hoping to hit with quantity if not quality. The bushes frittered and flipped, butchered and pieced… but no howls for mercy.

“Bondo, go around the left and get a look over there.”

“You go look over there. I came for two old people in a house… for a fucking shitty $200 bucks. I ain’t gonna take on no heroes in the dark.”

Rollo and his two other mates from the second car got on the blind side of the porch, fully opposite from the shooter’s location and the right side of the house. They would find another entry point.

***********************

“Mr. Yankovich… can you shoot good? We got two or three boys moving on the far side of the house now out of my sight… I couldn’t get a shot off in time.” There was remorse in her voice for what it might mean.

“Yes, Ma’am. Gimme the gun.” Babs quickly switched out. “I got 4 left in the mag?”

“Yessir, it was a full six on my first shot.”

Donnie used the scope to surveil the scene, and he saw the last flash of a shirt moving beyond the far corner of the house… no shot to be had. “I still have two hunkered down at the Jeep…” he went quiet… “I can get this one…” he spoke slowly, and squeezed the trigger.

**********************

Bondo had just objected to running into the open terrain, never mind it being night… it was the meager $200 dollars that forced him to decline… and the fear of a sniper’s bullet. But his head had just enough shine from the porch light, and a Comanche Moon, beyond the left rear panel of the Jeep, he snugging up to it tight.

“CRACK!” Leonard heard the whizz of the bullet and then heard a “fwump” and a squeak of a bird – a dead bird - Bondo fell in a heap. Leonard being in front of Bondo, but prone, was preserved that fatal bullet. He immediately darted to the back of the Jeep, now the full vehicle was his protection from a sniper… but still profile to the front door.

The old man had poked around the doorjamb with the Remington and let off a loud blast, made intensely louder by the shattering of glass and pinging of shot off of metal, at the back of the Grand Cherokee. Leonard fell to the ground and opened up at the house with his AK-47, rattling chairs and pots and shattering the window panes… the old man ducked back inside.

Big Sal’s righthand man knew they had fucked up this mission royal already… but he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

***********************

Carson had chased the killer into the shadows with the Remington, not sure if he hit the target… no screams, and a distant enough shotgun blast, it was probably more noise than real damage. He pumped in a new shell, whipped around the corner again, seeing the rogue running from the rearward car to Carson’s left hoping to reach the blind side of the house. He levelled the Remington and fired, taking a heavy chunk out of one of the stepping stones, spraying gravel… but the thug kept running.

There was now only quiet in response… and seeing three that lay dead in the immediate light between the cars and the front porch, he imagined they had killed or subdued the assault. Sure one of the kills came from the bunker. It was the first that he realized he had been shot in his ankle… Then he heard a rattle of machinegun fire within the home from beyond the kitchen. But it wasn’t really beyond the kitchen… it was from about 20 feet away from him, and he felt any number of those slugs as they tore into him, causing him to buckle, and collapse, as much to dodge the fusillade as it was to die.

**********************

“Fucker! Damn stupid old man! That’s what you get for fuckin’ with Leonard!” He kicked the old gunslinger… the man grunted, his chest heaving low but fast… holes were burping out blood in clots… no words.

“Okay, find the dude! Kill anyone else you got to!”

*********************

“There’s no sign of anyone. If they got by Carson and are around the house…” he didn’t dare look at Babs while saying this, “… they could be in the house.”

Babs drew her Colt, “I’m goin’ to help Carson.”

“I’m comin’.”

“Not with that. That ain’t gonna do any good in small space…” She tossed the lid on one of the crates, and pulled at some packing straw, then pulled out a submachine gun and handed it to him. “There’s mags here too. Load up and let’s go.”

Donnie just reacted, but almost wanting to laugh at the irony… this 70-something woman of the earth, spouting off in a lethal language that half of the military never even has the chance to do. Then he realized the weapon he held, “A Heckler & Koch UMP?” He shook his head in stunned certainty, these folks were armed as well as most Seal assault teams. The UMP was a Universal Machine Pistol made in Germany. Light and extremely mobile with a body no more than 27 inches long… and lethal, bullet spray, medium recoil and .45 cal rounds. It screamed of death for the wannabe killers.

“Let’s go save your husband.” He slammed the mag into place.

***********************

It was an easy search as the ranch style home was only a two-bedroom with a small living room and family room off of the kitchen. They swung every door in a matter of five-minutes with four killers ranging through the house. Then the last door.

“Basement steps. Right here.”

Leonard and Rollo stood at the top of the stairs and let loose a stream of aimless bullets looking to cause death, or fear enough the evaders would at least surrender… and being there was no military treaties presiding over killers in a desert, the prisoners would be immediately killed.

“Come out with your hands up. You’re cornered… Come out or we’ll burn the house down… And we’ll go find whoever was doin’ the shootin’ outside and kill him next.” Leonard was about ready to set the home alight, and he heard the old woman…

***********************

“We give up. Just don’t hurt my Carson. We’ll come up… but we’re afraid you’ll just gun us down.”

“We won’t gun you down! We didn’t kill the old man, so that should be proof.” He was smiling at his comrades… he was feeling like all would come together after all… “I got two comin’ down to get you, so put your guns down. Toss ‘em to the floor in front of the stairs, so I can see ‘em.”

The Colt flipped into view and came to a rest, still shining like new platinum. Then the sniper rifle slid across the floor, ending in a half twist, scope and all.

“You were the fucking sniper! You got the army man with ya?”

Donnie shouted back, “Yea, I’m with Mrs. Brubaker.”

Leonard felt the job was done. “Okay, Rollo and Anson are comin’ down. They’ll zip tie ya and bring ya up.” He waved the two down the stairs. The two lowly paid, drug-addled ex-cons started down, with their machineguns leading the way.

As they reached the bottom, they kicked the weapons further to the far side of the room, over by what was an empty cot. They turned to face the surrendering victims, and all they saw was a canning cupboard… but it was a little off kilter… something odd as it jutted out from the wall two or three feet.

Just then Donnie sprung from around a dark corner at the other end of the cupboard with the full allegiance of the Heckler & Koch UMP, and he levelled into the surprised killers, putting blood and bone matter to the test as bullets shredded the two before any itchy trigger finger had a chance to move. Nothing but abrupt screams and just as abrupt silence… and in the distance of maybe 10 feet, Donnie had only a small handful of bullets that missed their mark. The room stunk of cordite. His next step would be more difficult because there was no level of surprise to use against the thugs… and the stairs would be a funnel into death… but Donnie would not leave Carson’s and Babs’ fate to these mongrels… He would go into that bottle of war again, and hope he came out the right side.

But as he was running flashcards of scenarios in his head, any small thing to gain a slightest of advantage – at least a fighting death… he heard feet pounding on the floor above, and then quiet… then the distant sound of a vehicle starting… Donnie blitzed up the stairs, “They’re runnin’ Babs!”

************************

Babs lay on the floor beside her husband, tears running sideways, off her cheek, across her nose and to the wood plank floor. She would not move him… Would allow no one to touch him… She held his hand and whispered kindnesses to him.

“Sweet boy… my sweet boy…” she patted his cheek, a bullet hole ignored. “You stirred my heart the minute I saw you, my sweet, sweet boy… we danced and danced, and I never stopped dancing you sweet, funny boy… the gift of three children and three grandchildren… you have filled my life… my sweet boy…”

Sheriff Coyle and three patrolmen were there, still teary from their discovery, being debriefed by the newly found marine and murder suspect, between his own heavy tears… as he reached to rub comfort between the shoulder blades of Babs Brubaker… it went unnoticed, as it should have. She was engaged in a moment between heaven and hell. It took all of her. There was nothing of her in this presence all others lived. Hers was alone.

Donnie agreed to be taken to jail, any other thought was foolish dreamscape. But he needed to take care of Babs…

“I’ll take care of Babs, Mr. Yankovich. Don’t worry about her. I already got phone calls out to her kids. One’s only eight-hours away, and she’s coming right away. And I have a prescription ordered for some help with sleeping. Detective Bunting is gonna pick it up. Don’t worry. But I gotta get you in a cell. As much for your own good.”

Donnie was rubbing tears away, thumb and finger in each eye trying to stanch this severely bleeding wound… blood tears. “This is all my fault…” his chest was heaving… “I killed that good man…”

Sheriff Coyle wasn’t about to argue him, or console him… not interested in absolving the mischievous who have now brought death to her friend. She waved her patrolman over, “Skip the cuffs. Go easy on him. Just get him comfortable in his cell and I’ll be back as soon as Babs’ family arrives.”

“Yes Sheriff.”

“Give me one second with him before you take him.” Her patrolman nodded and stepped away in wait. She turned to the marine, “Mr. Yankovich, your buddies have been here for the last couple days…” Donnie looked up, “Cliff, Johnny? Art? They’re here?”

“Yes, they’re in a hotel, but I had my detective call and tell them we found you… and he briefed them on the…” how to put it to words? “… the circumstances. They agreed to meet at the station, so you can reunion there. It’ll help me and my force as we work through this crime scene.”

“I’ll cooperate fully.”

“I know you will. Your mates have helped my office with a lot… a whole lot. So, what I’m gonna tell ya, you can’t say to any other soul, you got me?”

Donnie couldn’t stop looking at Babs Brubaker talking sweetly to her husband of 51 years as if he might just whisper back in her ear, wishing it so.

“Do you hear me, Donald? You can’t repeat any part of it.”

“I hear you, Sheriff. I’ll support anything.”

“I’m gonna cut you and your boys loose… to run holy hell on any of these people who did this to my friends… my friends…” Sheriff Darlene Coyle was in full tears. “And I am turning a blind eye to whatever you need to do to fix all this. You hear?” She bowed her head, and called her man over, “Okay, take the prisoner to the jail. Let him get rested up. And let his mates in to see him soon as they arrive.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

*************************

The first shot hadn’t yet been fired at the Brubaker ranch… but soon. She would only know when the rest of Pahrump did.

Susie 2-cents had identified the Chevy Malibu the veterans had been driving after prowling the city, hitting every hotel/motel around. She sat outside in the parking lot just waiting, overly conscious of her thick mascara ghosting on her cheeks from tears. She was unable to quell her mind, maybe her soul, knowing she had virtually abandoned it when she agreed to the “big money” in the schemes Big Sal ran. All of the girls who sold their souls now quivered over what might come next. It was the blood transaction that just never played in their conscience in advance, too in love with the endless cash it promised. They had to get bit to understand the sepsis of their actions. It wasn’t entirely a transformed conscience now, either. It was more that Big Sal got to sending too many “messages” with Ginny… others… but Susie, kneeling in the blackness of a cloudy night in the desert, chopping heads and hands off… and the thought that she is only one swing away from being the next Ginny…

A door opened, and one of the vets walked out with an ice bucket. The invitation might never come again, and if it ever did, would Susie be here to act on it? She got out and took an angled approach to meet at the ice machine.

“Hey, mister?”

Johnny looked over, instantly interpreting a working girl, and he shook his head slightly, contemptuously. “Not interested, dear. But thanks for thinking of me.”

“But I’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Johnny stood straight up, forgetting about ice or the tequila and vodka and his friends back in the room. “But you see how this works? I haven’t been looking for you! Now fuck off!”

“No, not that, sir. Just…” words… words… she was usually full of them, but in recent days, she felt like words might be bullets, knives… machetes. “I got something to tell you and your friends, is all.”

**************************