West Kids - Frank and Chief Part Two

A lot had gone wrong to result in Chief and Frank being out at night. Riding down Broadway without a patch or an Implement of any kind was not in the plans. There were basically three hiccups that put them where they were now, the first two of which might have been bearable, but the third was near crippling. For anyone but Chief, it would surely have meant Spikes. Which was why Frank was so Spooked.

The first hiccup was at the dump. The dump could be a trove of useful items for Cowboys. In it were scraps of endless potential, especially in the hands of Wrench. Large items could be salvaged for raw use back at the Pond like lumber, shopping carts, corrugated metal, and plastic bags. The fabric from old sofas could be reused to make clothes. Screws, nails, washers, nuts and bolts were always worth taking. The massive container on the Dumpster was created out of an old oil drum. Chief and Wrench had towed it back by first skewering it with a long shaft of rebar, then connecting rope from each end to their seat posts and rolling it along. They muffled the booming by stuffing seat cushions through a hold in the side. It was still a noisy ride, and asking for trouble, but at least then it had been daytime.

The bad part about the Dump, where you could find unexpected treasures, was that sometimes you found unexpected trouble. Riding through the dump was a great way to get a flat. Broken glass, goatheads, and nails littered the ground. Gremlins knew that the West Kids frequented the dump, and so haunted the hills of garbage on occasion. There were rats. And consequently snakes and cats. And consequently dogs.

Chief was working on an old wheelbarrow, trying to loosen the rusted nut around the hub to get at the bearings inside when Frank came sprinting out from behind another hill on his Rock Hopper, the pit bull right behind. He rode toward Chief, looked him the eye, and then turned quickly around another hill. After him went a barking, snarling, enraged animal utterly intent on Franks destruction.

Chief didn’t move until the dog was past, not wanting to draw it’s attention off of Frank, then ran down the heap he was perched on and pulled his Implement off the top tube of the Titus. The tool, to be used only for defense, was sliced steeply and cleanly on one end to create a sharp point suitable for poking holes in threatening things like Gremlins and pit bulls. The other end had its own uses. Chief took the handlebars and crouched at the base of the heap, waiting for Frank to make another pass. Hopefully the dog would just give up and run off before Frank came around again. This one was awfully skinny. Chief thought there was a chance it would wear itself out soon and leave, but was wrong. A wheel skidded a hundred yards off as Frank took a tight turn and pointed his bike back toward Chief. The pit bull slipped trying to change direction, but was up again and frothing after Frank.

Many Cowboys had successfully pulled off this maneuver before. It was standard practice for ferocious dogs when they couldn’t simply be outrun or otherwise discouraged. As Frank got closer, Chief gripped the handlebars tight and prepared to impale the pit bull, ideally in the trachea. It was the quickest way to bring it down, and Chief wanted it to be quick. Stabbing the dog would be brutal enough without having to hear it suffer. It was important that Chief not become the target though, so he waited motionlessly for the right moment.

Hiccup.

Frank had his head down. He was way out of his saddle, with all his weight over the front wheel, slamming the pedals for all he was worth to stay ahead of the teeth behind him when his chain stretched itself past its limit, and ripped apart. Franks right foot dropped out from under him as the resistance in the cranks when to zero, and his body fell to one side. There was no chance of him maintaining control of his mount with so much of his weight shifted forward, and after one huge over-correction, Frank bit the dirt hard grinding his shoulder into all the shards of trash awaiting him on the bed of the dump.

He slid several yards before the bike stopped, and by that time Chief was already up and running out to meet the dog, now gripping the handlebars like a night stick in his right hand. The dog was faster though, and Frank was struggling with a bloody palm to get his leg out from under the Rock Hopper when it got to him. It had a chance to sink its teeth in deep before Chief slammed it in the mouth with the handle bars. It let go immediately and backed up thirty feet where it growled at its attacker. Chief positioned himself between the dog and Frank, and held the handlebars in two hands now, ready to swing again. Blood glistened on the lip of the bull where Chief had hit him, and its left eye was squinted. Frank looked up from the ground at the pair, both rigid in face-off. He expected the dog to charge again, this time going for Chief, but it just stood and growled. A handful of seconds passed, and nothing changed. Then, from nowhere, the dog silenced. A moment later it turned and bolted away in the opposite direction.

Frank righted himself and his mount and began to evaluate the damage. He was bleeding from a huge scrape across his shoulder. One palm was bloodied from bracing himself on impact, and the same wrist was probably sprained. The side of his right shin was scraped up just like his shoulder, but it felt fine to put weight on it. Nothing broken.

He put his hands on the grips, and lifted up the front wheel, then slammed it down on the dirt again to signal to Chief that he was able to ride. He ignored the shooting pain in his wrist, and kept a strong face. Chief looked at him expressionless for a couple seconds, then shook his head. Frank hadn’t noticed where the dog’s teeth had punctured. He picked up his wheel and slammed it again, harder this time to reassure Chief that he felt good enough to saddle up. Again Chief shook his head. This time Frank stamped each foot once before again signaling his strength. Now Chief walked closer to Frank and reached toward his left leg, just above and behind the knee. Frank followed Chief’s hand and saw what he hadn’t noticed during the commotion of the wreck and fight. Along wall of the tire, on both sides, were several severe gashes reaching all the way through the tire and into the tube.

The tube was ruined. Unpatchable. So in would go Frank’s spare. That was too bad, to lose an inner tube. But much worse was the state of the tire. They couldn’t simply re-inflate the new tube, which would push its way through the holes torn by the pit bull and burst with the necessary 45 lbs of pressure. Frank needed a new tire, and they did not carry a spare of those.

Frank let out a signal originally created by Spade. It was, in Chief’s opinion, entirely useless as it only communicated known information, and didn’t help anything, but was nevertheless a common part of the Desert vernacular. It consisted of clamping ones teeth together, and demonstrating a feeling of utter pissedoffedness via two isolated middle fingers, in this case pointed in the direction of the pit bull’s recent exit.

West Kids - Frank and Chief Part One

Frank and the Chief were alone. They crouched off of Broadway, several miles deep into the Desert. They were trying to keep invisible, while staying near enough to a lone street lamp to see the patch Chief was hastily applying to his rear wheel's inner tube. Of course flats in the Desert were always in the rear. Broken spokes were always in the rear wheel, always on the drive side, and the bent derailleur, for those that had them, was always the rear one. It just figured that the most complicated problems were the ones that befell victims in the Desert.

Frank was keeping watch, but looking from the light into the dark made his vision short. He was frustrated with the tiny radius visible to him. He Signaled as much to Chief, but Chief didn't look up from his rear wheel. He was working intentionally, and quickly, his fingers prying the bead of the tire out like steel levers. A jar of rubber cement sat next to his ankle, and a single orange patch next to that. The last one. Chief preferred not to think about that. Either this one got them home or it didn't. If it didn't, well they would have to deal with that situation. But he hoped they wouldn't. A night in the Desert could be the end for a Cowboy.

Frank was edgy. His head swiveled left and right. He was clearly unsatisfied with the pair's position, which Chief knew was very exposed. Chief had wrestled with the decision to borrow light from the lamp, and finally decided the risk outweighed the danger of a misplaced patch. Frank might not have made the same call, but of course he deferred to Chief. It went without argument. Now the two sat without speaking, trying to blend completely into the dusty night. The need for silence was understood.

Chief had only been working for a minute when Frank made the sign. He plucked a spoke to alert Chief, who looked him in the eye to get the message. Frank's eyes looked left, and then the Chief's did too. He saw nothing, but that didn't mean nothing was there. He returned his gaze to Frank, looking for confirmation, but Frank was now looking right. Chief looked too, but again saw nothing. He was irritated with Frank. What had he seen? Was it a dog? A snake? Or something real. Frank's glance was moving all over now. His feet were shuffling and making noise with the effort it took him to try and see in all directions at once. Chief looked down and found the puncture, put his thumb down on it, and made the move back toward their rides. Good enough, he could finish in the dark. Frank followed, eyes still searching behind him. They reached the bikes and the darkness but Frank was still unsettled. It didn’t matter much that they were concealed now if they’d been spotted under the light.

Chief decided not to pay any more attention to Frank. He was clearly shook pretty bad, and Chief needed a mount he could ride if there really were Gremlins around. Now he couldn’t see the puncture, so he had to trust his finger’s placement when he painted on the cement, blew on it, and then the patch.

It took Chief less than a minute to have an inflated wheel back in the dropouts, but it was an eternity to Frank, who was still desperately scanning the horizon. Chief took up the lead, knowing Frank was a liability at this point. He’d seen rangers like Frank before, when their heads weren’t on straight. Frank probably didn’t even know which direction the Pond was in. What he needed Frank to do now, was ride fast and quiet. He’d have time to calm down back in the Pond.

The problem was, they were still twenty miles from the Pond. Chief set a quick pace, which was riskier than he would have liked to be, cause they were more likely to run into an ambush or a booby trap. It got their heart rates up though, and the energy it took to keep up seemed to direct Frank’s adrenaline and settle him down. They stayed on Broadway, another risky move as it made them visible and their route predictable, but this also was faster, and the asphalt was more likely clear of debris. It would be easier to spot glass and mesquite thorns too.

About ten miles from the Pond, Frank seemed almost normal. Half an hour of trouble-free riding, and two tired legs had settled him a little, helped along by fatigue from the pace they kept. Chief, however, was not relaxed. He was watching the Desert around them hard, and had good reason to expect a problem. Though he hadn’t shared the information with Frank, too concerned that he might still be shook, he’d noticed two other riders out on the trails, and they were definitely following them.

One rode a heavy department store mount, and Chief was positive that even with packs loaded with supplies, and tired legs, both he and Frank could win a race back to the Pond. But the second was on a little racing ten-speed, and while he would never beat a rested Chief in any distance, the current circumstances were different. Chief rode on without showing his tired state, and waited for the pursuers to make a move. They had been following for over three miles on parallel neighborhood roads, staying far enough behind that Frank didn’t notice.

Chief knew his own reputation in the Desert, and that his blue Titus was well known. Of course the two Gremlins were aware of who he was, and that was keeping them back for now. But the Gremlins had a powerful tool, one that Chief was supremely jealous of: a Talker. The Gremlin’s device allowed one person to talk into a box, and for another person miles away to hear it. They had only one pair as far as the Chief knew, so it was rare to see it used, but Chief was certain he’d seen the rider of the ten-speed speak into one of the talkers when they first began tailing the cowboys.